Translator: CinderTL
Deep within the eastern Rocky Mountains, the Stonemason Clan's grand hall lay hidden in the heart of the range. Hundreds of bronze oil lamps hung from the massive granite dome, bathing the entire chamber in a dim crimson glow. On the exquisitely carved stone pillars, bas-reliefs of ancestral figures seemed to come alive in the flickering light, their stern gazes fixed upon their descendants below.
Imar, now the Clan Chief, tapped his obsidian throne, the sound echoing through the vast cavern. "Bring out the oldest ale from the cellar! And slaughter ten Snow Mountain Antelope!"
He was busy hosting his ally, Great Chieftain Abal of the Orc Warchief Tent. It was with Abal's help that Imar had overthrown the "traitor" who had usurped his chieftainship and reclaimed his rule over the Stonemason Clan.
Imar felt deeply grateful—at least for now.
"Clan Chief," a scarred dwarf warrior stepped forward, his iron boots clanging on the stone floor. "Scouts report that the Orcs have suffered a crushing defeat in the Human World to the south. They're no better than a pack of stray dogs now. Why waste such lavish hospitality on them?"
"Silence, Mogdin!" Imar roared, leaping to his feet. His stocky frame cast a distorted shadow across the throne. "If it weren't for the warriors of the White Wolf Clan, you'd still be toiling in the mines, exploited by those traitors!"
The crystal veins embedded in the rock walls trembled with his fury, sending fine quartz sand cascading from the vaulted ceiling.
Mogdin kicked a stone aside in defiance. "Those cowards even lost their War Banner! I heard the human cannons—"
"Precisely why we must extend them hospitality!" Imar suddenly lowered his voice, his brass earrings swaying in the firelight. "Isn't this the perfect opportunity to demonstrate our friendship?"
The crimson glow of the furnace illuminated a sea of shifting expressions. His subordinates exchanged puzzled glances, bewildered by their Clan Chief's eagerness to curry favor with the Orcs.
"Friendship? Clan Chief!" Brum, the clan's chief blacksmith, protested. "Is that truly what exists between us and the Orcs? They seized our richest gold mines in the Eastern District and even stole our ancestral Star Iron forging formulas!"
Finance Manager Tolkien, his graying beard trembling, unfurled a ledger. "Last year, we surrendered enough weapons to arm a five-thousand-strong army, yet all we received in return were a few cartloads of tattered beast hides!"
Imar's knuckles turned white as he listened to his subordinates. He glanced nervously toward the hall's entrance, where two Orc guards stood—a gift from Great Chieftain Abal to protect him from potential assassination attempts by remnants of the deposed faction.
He signaled to his subordinates with a meaningful look, warning them that now wasn't the time for such blunt talk.
"Without Great Chieftain Abal, I would still be an exile," Imar murmured, his voice strained, though his eyes betrayed his wavering resolve.
"But now he's nothing but a stray dog!" Mogdin stamped his foot in frustration. "His army was supposed to be invincible, yet they lost even the heavily fortified Watchers Fortress to the humans. How can he possibly protect us now?"
The fire in the hearth suddenly flared brighter, illuminating the internal conflict etched on Imar's face. He recalled the day he seized power, how Abal's warriors had plucked every hair from former Clan Chief Mallory's beard, one by one. If he betrayed them now, would the Orcs subject him to the same brutality?
Imar's deep-seated fear of the Orcs was well-founded. As part of the agreement he'd made with them before reclaiming the Clan Chief's throne, all strategic positions within the Stonemason Clan's territory had been opened to Orcs. The Stonemason Clan was less an ally and more a vassal state firmly under Orc control.
But now that everyone had spoken so boldly, how could he possibly avoid challenging the Orcs? If he didn't, his subordinates would surely lose all respect for him.
"In that case," Imar suddenly ordered, "let's scale back the banquet. Replace the Snow Mountain Antelope with ordinary Rock Sheep." He rubbed the armrest of his throne, casting a tentative glance at his subordinates. "I've decided to tell Abal that starting this year, weapons will be traded at prices we set."
His subordinates exchanged glances. Well, at least the Clan Chief is finally taking the first step.
"Exactly! That's the spirit!" Thorin encouraged him. "At the very least, we should strive for equal footing with the Orcs."
Servants carried massive barrels of ale through the hall, their surfaces still damp from the subterranean lake. Imar grabbed a freshly poured cup. Within the amber liquid swam glittering particles of precious minerals—a dwarf's most prized treasure.
He drained his mug of ale, the alcohol fueling his confidence. For the first time, he felt his shadow tower over those of the two Orc guards.
Imar slammed the bronze mug onto the stone table. "You're right," he growled. "When Abal arrives, I'll make him understand who truly rules this land."
The next morning, as dawn broke, the sentries of the Stonemason Clan blew a deep, mournful note on their mountain goat horns.
Imar stood on the observation platform, carved with ancestral reliefs. As the morning mist gradually revealed the Orc army arrayed below, his fingers dug deep into the stone railing.
Abal's White Wolf War Banner still flew high. Row upon row of elite warriors marched in perfect unison through the canyon. Though their armor bore the marks of battle, their metal helmets gleamed brightly in the rising sun, the steel forest of their spears glinting coldly in the dawn light. The heavily wounded were positioned at the center of the formation, while the lightly wounded led the vanguard—an Orc tradition to showcase valor.
"Didn't you say... the returning Orcs were just a ragged band of stragglers?" Imar's voice rasped like rusty gears.
Mogdin's axe handle scraped against the stone floor with a grating sound. "My scouts clearly reported—" His words trailed off abruptly.
Twenty shamans emerged from beside Abal. As their bone staves struck the ground in unison, a mystical mist rose from the valley floor. Enshrouded in this arcane fog, the Orc army's presence seemed even more imposing, enough to deter any who harbored treacherous intentions.
The scar over Abal's single eye glowed crimson. His forehead bore the honor marks of a mighty warrior, painted with the blood of slain enemies. In his right hand, he held a mastiff the size of a small calf, which gnawed on the bones of an unidentified creature, its crunching echoing sharply through the silent valley.
"Prepare the finest magma wine," Imar suddenly declared, turning abruptly. His copper-ringed belt clattered against a stone pillar. "Bring out that vintage I've been saving in the deepest part of the cellar—the one reserved for special occasions."
The Clan Elders exchanged glances, silently tucking away the draft of the equality treaty they had prepared the night before.
As Abal's war boots stepped onto the red carpet of Stonemason Hall, every dwarf noticed it: beneath the Orc Chieftain's cloak, the bloodstained corner of a human military banner peeked out ominously, a silent testament to his brutal conquests in the Human World.
(End of the Chapter)
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