Shadow's Embrace - Chapter 13 P1

Chapter 13 – Trick of the Light

Wild water rushed around him, salty waves smacked into his face, foamed over him and pushed him beneath the surface. As he furiously tried to swim and gasp for air, the surface above him lit up, and he couldn’t close his eyes even as the salt stung them. The thunder of cannon fire rippled through the ocean.
Why does it sting my eyes? I learned to cope with this on Maesmaer.
As soon as Estell thought this, he felt the water calm and he regained much of his control. He ascended to the surface. Only it wasn’t glowing anymore... before his eyes the water darkened, all light vanished, and the water grew icy cold. Then he drifted over an edge that hadn’t been there before, and he was suddenly in free fall, in a frigid waterfall, milling for something to grab on to. A startled cry escaped him, and then fear gripped his heart, because there was no water’s surface beneath him… only fire, devouring fire, eternal fire.
Before he could even get close to that, however, something in the air swept him up, and he soared through the dark uncontrollably before a new waterfall loomed up before him. This one was darker than the first, and only trickling slowly over the rock… bloody. He looked up at the source.
A familiar clawed hand hung over a stone edge above him. Dark blood dripped into the glowing abyss.
Estell floated up further and lightly landed on the prow platform. He was breathing heavily. The dreams were still irregular, but normally quite a bit calmer than this.
Before him Gnarl looked down at his dead Mistress. “…You had to fight and die like all those numbskulls before you, you had to be more Overlord than Minion in the end after all…”
“Gnarl,” the Overlord spoke. “I wish you could tell me why I keep having these dreams. I can see a bit further every time, and sometimes they hold prophetic visions, but I always end up…” He stepped towards Jinx and gazed over her body. “…here…” He staggered and sank to one knee; a rumble had coursed through the rock and the Tower, and a glance at the abyss revealed the orange mists there were swirling around wildly. Lighter spots appeared in the fiery glow, like eyes.
Then a voice thundered through the Netherworld, deep and dark, fearsome and familiar. “Not necessarily,” it resounded. On the platform Gnarl jolted and flattened his ears, and he opened his mouth to say something, but the voice spoke again before he could do so. “She’s not necessarily more Overlord than Minion.”
As one, Gnarl and Estell looked back at Jinx, and the Overlord felt almost drawn forward, drawn in by the liquid golden glow of her eyes. Her head lay angled slightly upward on the black rock, and she was looking right at him, through him, staring, unseeing, dead.
And then her eyes focused, and she blinked. And suddenly a crippling fear ripped through Estell’s body and mind.
He jolted awake panting wildly, and couldn’t fall asleep again.

A pale sun rose over Stodir and its fertile valleys.
Almost horizontal beams of daylight fell into the barns where the brown Minions slept, and where one Minion was already awake. The largest and strongest of them had barely slept. Kniff lifted his head to see the sky; their work on the fields would begin again soon.
The question was, for how long.
He felt so unsure; it was almost like being a lower-ranking horde member again. He’d felt weak and useless for as long as he’d been in Stodir, not worthy of being the brown leader, but now he really didn’t know what to do at all. There was an elf somewhere in Stodir who wanted to get them out of here, Hive and all, and that elf had blue Minions at her command… it was a possibility to do what he wanted most of all, to escape and kill as many dwarves as he could while doing so, but what were the chances of success? It was far more probable it’d go horribly wrong and something would happen to the Hive, all the truly battle-ready browns would die and everything he’d held back for for two years would be lost.
He fidgeted with a loose end of rope. He’d have to decide soon. Maybe the horde wouldn’t even listen to him; it surprised him they’d done so this far.
Then a strange sensation shot through his heart. Something within him suddenly seemed to glow… he widened his eyes as he recognized the feeling.
Kniff looked up at the sky again, and the mountain largely darkening that sky. Somewhere up there… the amber gem was shining.
Then the glowing feeling abruptly fell away, and the Minion was left with a hammering heart, amidst his waking horde members.

The pulse died away. Estell knew every Minion in Stodir was aware of his presence now, and he grinned; he couldn’t be happier to see the jewel fully obedient and capable of these calls. “That’ll be the jewel’s job, for now,” the Overlord uttered, opening the gauntlet’s buckles with his teeth. “Gnarl, I’ll speak to you as we get to the second part.” He was glad the flower gate they’d opened here during their first terrible visit was still here; he’d have had a serious problem otherwise. By the looks of it, the flower had dug itself in and only emerged again now, reacting to his will. He just caught Gnarl’s voice. “Good luck, Master.”
“Master?” He looked around. Blue Minions streamed from the flower gate behind him, all glowing like blue lanterns. A few of them sputtered and flickered between tangible and intangible, and he approached these Minions comfortingly. “You can do this. Keep close to me if you can.” He handed the gauntlet to Drip, and nodded in content as the Minion buckled it onto his back and the artifact blinked with him. “If you do lose me in a few, go to the fortress. There’s tunnels leading inside everywhere… stay invisible.” He wouldn’t be able to issue any mental commands without the gem, but until he’d be able to wear it again their tasks were rather simple.
He looked back to the gate. Now the dwarves were coming through, the huge gilded chests with their decorated clasps on their shoulders. He grinned. Nephren and Synn had had good taste… a taste he was sure the dwarven king could share.
And now Ructa came through, the young plant singer with the silvery hair and the sea-green eyes, her jaws set in determination. In her arms she carried the little blue pohea Estell had come to see as his personal messenger. She put something in its pincers, sang to it briefly, and then released the little flyer. Estell nodded at her encouragingly. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” She’d changed, these past few days; Isil’s death had hardened her, and he had every bit of faith that she’d save his life today… all their lives. “I have all my seeds, my voice is stronger than ever, this is going to work.” She looked up at the sky; the first airships swarming around the mountain had already spotted them. Well, not all of them… just two elves and a group of dwarves carrying the chests. With a dull thrumming two approached them, and now Ructa did back away; the memory of her capture on Maesmaer was all too fresh in her memory. Estell gently squeezed her shoulder. “I have faith in us. Let’s go greet them.” He stepped forward and raised his arms. He already thought to hear the first laughter; his missing hand was all too clear now. “Gentlemen!” he shouted. The airships remained hovering before them, and a few dwarves appeared on deck. “Good morning!”
“Who’s this outfit?” The pilots beheld him and especially his dwarves curiously, all the more as one of them stepped forward in his turn.
“This is Lord Estell Greenhaze of Kadath, and he requests an audience with the king,” his dominated servant called out.
“Har!” One of the pilots mockingly slapped his belly. “This is the Overlord? Who do you take us for, he’s on Maesmaer, and probably stone dead by now.”
“We are from Ruvalk.” This silenced the pilot. “Lord Estell came to us with a very fair offer, and now he wants to make a similar deal with the king.”
Fervent discussions aboard the airship, inaudible to Estell over the thrum of the propellers. “Very well then,” the pilot shouted, uncertainty to his voice. “We’ll take you up, but I can’t guarantee you’ll get an audience… elf…” A gangplank outstretched to them, and as soon as they could the blue Minions sprinted aboard. Estell calmly stepped through them, Ructa beside him and the dwarves carrying the chests behind them. The Minions streamed with them until the very last possible moment, but still quite a few remained on the mountain slope. Estell briefly looked back at them. Be careful.
Then the airship ascended along the mountainside, and slowly the crater came into view, the fortress a black, angular crown that could very well serve as an Overlord’s bastion. Estell smiled slightly. I wonder what Gnarl would have to say about a ruler with three seats of power…
They approached a carven alcove in the black crown, and the fortress slowly blocked out all sunlight as the mountain’s utter summit towered over them. Estell felt intimidated, until he told himself it was hard to overshadow a shadow. He briefly looked down. His counterpart followed him, flat at his feet.
The airship steamed into the alcove and docked, and the gangplank outstretched again. Estell, Ructa and their mixed entourage stepped onto the top of Stodir.
The pilots took them towards the mountain itself and up a series of steep, black stairs, and as they got higher Estell felt the wind pull on him more and more forcefully. Eventually one of them halted the group. “Wait here. We will inform the Datan Dur… we’ll see if you get in, ‘Lord’.”
Estell smiled politely. “We shall.” He held on to his mild expression as the dwarves hurried off, and then turned to Ructa. “We’re alive.”
“This is the easy part,” she muttered.
“Perceived weakness is a strength,” Shadow spoke from beneath Estell’s feet. “They think he’s missing a hand…”
“I am,” Estell grinned.
“…you know what I mean… and that we have no magic… and no Minions…”
Estell turned his back to the crater and stepped across the flat top of the gargantuan fortress encircling the mountain. A little further away was an angular black balustrade, flanked by massive dwarven statues, all beards and helmets and mighty weaponry. A few blue Minions ran forward in curiosity, and Shadow also slid across the dark rock sly and inconspicuous to admire the view, but then remained hovering just outside the wall in bafflement. The same happened to Estell as he looked out from the mountain’s summit, across the lands beyond it.
The wind snatched and tugged on his hair and clothes, but he scarcely felt it. He’d seen the view from Kadath’s top a few times now, but this… the endless valleys, farmland, hills and villages beneath shrouds of mist and beyond rolling clouds, an entire world beneath a wide sky… For a moment he felt as though he could just reach out and grab it all.
“Well, this is the view of an Overlord,” he remarked, briefly lamenting the fact he’d never have a domain above ground. “I could get used to this.”
“…Lord?” it then resounded behind them in a deep, gravelly voice, with an undertone of uncertainty delicious to Estell. He turned, almost certain of the dwarf’s thoughts; he was an elf, so not worthy of any respect, especially seeing what’d happened last time… but he was also a possible Overlord, and a guest the king wanted to make time for in any case… and also clad head to heel in karuskar.
The dwarf was clad in a red tunic with robust pieces of gleaming black armour, and golden details everywhere. Estell now knew these were the colours of clan Datan Dur… this was a direct envoy from the king. “Am I invited?” he inquired politely.
“You are summoned before the king. You and all these dwarves.” The envoy suspiciously looked over Estell’s dwarves, but it was quite clear the chests wouldn’t be left here.
“And my companion?” Estell placed a hand on Ructa’s shoulder. The plant singer briefly tensed up. “She’s here to learn about dwarven language and culture. She’s a translator, aren’t you, Ructa? We greatly value knowledge of all realms.”
“Aiwa,” the girl nodded, Ruborian for ‘yes’. “Uhibbu an ata’alama.” I’d like to learn.
The dwarf brushed this off. “Yes, yes. Fine. Come on.” He led them away, and one level lower an entire honour guard joined them. Again, Estell briefly felt intimidated, but then thought of what he and Shadow could do to them, what they’d already done to dwarves just like them. No armour could stand before their magic. He had a good blue horde that could create a healing shield and mend any wound if anything were to go awry. And on his back, hidden in a groove in his light armour and covered with the hood hanging loose on his back, he also carried his spear with him; the dwarves in Kadath had forged him a retractable shaft of Ruborian steel, so the weapon was both stronger and easily hidden when not in use. He was far from helpless this time…
The stairs led down to a broad terrace, the balustrades richly decorated with gold and widely spaced but enormous rubies, gleaming like heavy drops of blood in the dull sunlight. On both sides giant replicas of a crowned dwarf towered over them, his hands resting on an axe as wide as his body. Estell assumed this to be Thorlond. The crown and axe were plated with gold, or – more probable – completely made of solid gold; the king’s deep, flaming eyes were the largest rubies of all. The only sound here was the wind howling through the deeper reaches of the fortress, but Estell could almost hear battle’s terrible music as he stared up at the statues. Then the envoys led them into the fortress, and darkness swallowed them as a visual counterpart to the clash of weaponry and the deep drums the Overlord imagined he could hear.

Now he was certain they were trying to impress him with their chosen route. He was led through giant hallways, with walls of veined black marble, illuminated by huge fire bowls along the walls. As they went on the colour of the flames gradually changed from regular orange to a deep, flickering red, and his entire surroundings reddened with them. As they came closer to the heart of the fortress the walls were decorated increasingly opulently, with solid golden reliefs in the angular dwarven style; the chronicles of Thorlond’s crushing victories against men, elves, the Emperor – his father – and Overlady Jinx. Estell briefly shivered seeing Emperor Sayron on his knees, and Jinx riddled with three long arrows, falling back and dying. It was exceptionally clear to him why they took this route. But where the dwarves hoped to discourage him, he realized the depictions had the opposite effect on him. He was proud of his heritage by now. How dared they depict his father like that? And he’d looked into Jinx’ eyes and failed to find fear there; she’d been braver than Thorlond could ever hope to be.
The reliefs grew to monstrous sizes as the hallways gradually widened and the ceilings vanished in darkness. Eventually they arrived in a huge eight-sided chamber, six other halls emerging on both sides; straight ahead two deep crimson doors rose up, decorated with golden runes. Between them and the gateway lay a broad, low fountain foaming so much Estell knew it to be beer at once, even in the strange red light hiding its golden hue. There were other baths along the walls, however, filled with crystal clear water. This was where the dwarves of Datan Dur left them. “Wait here,” one of them rumbled. Another handed them mugs of ale from the fountain, the largest to Estell. “Drink these while you wait.” Then they vanished through the doors, and the Overlord was left behind.
He walked over to one of the baths and sat down at the edge. Ructa joined him, and the majority of the blues dove over the edge immediately. Estell looked around. “What do you think, Ructa, are they overdoing it or is it just right?”
The plant singer shivered. “I feel small.”
“Exactly what the dwarves want. Don’t forget both of us are taller than the king.”
She giggled at this. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She glanced at the mug in her hand, then took a small sip. “Ugh…”
Estell dared tasting his. The beer foamed into his face, but beneath the pale layer it was cool and ridiculously bitter. The aftertaste had him shivering. Then a warm, almost numb sensation spread through his fingertips, his arms… “Wow,” he uttered. “This is very strong. They clearly aim to knock me out beforehand…” A broad, half-drunk smile spread across his face. “Are we this intimidating?” He took another sip and shivered as he felt it burn in his throat.
“They have no idea,” Shadow spoke from the black wall.
Drip came closer from the bath, the gauntlet bearing the amber gem still on this back. “Master, shall I?”
Estell laughed. “Alright.” He took the webbed hand and felt a coolness pass through him, driving out the alcoholic warmth. A few moments later he felt completely sober again. “I understand what they’re trying to do, but I do think I want to face Thorlond with a clear head.”
They waited in the eight-sided atrium for a while, as the dwarves drank their beer and Estell and Ructa gave theirs to the Minions. Gnarl had told him Minions only fought more fiercely when drunk. As they waited, all Minions they’d left on the mountainside reached them again, and Estell sent out two-thirds of his horde. “Trickle, take your group into the fortress, and then go to the cooks, tamers and brewers. Leaky, you’ll go to the slave market, the forges, the engineers and the army. Tell all Minions you meet to go to the forges on my command, if they can. Use the commotion that’s to come.” The horde was already dividing. “You have plenty of time, I’ll make sure of that. Drip, you and yours stay with me.” The blue field leader nodded. “Of course, Master.” The other Minions grinned and hurried off.
Estell chuckled and leant back. “Thorlond and I will both give you plenty of time, by the looks of it.” But he hadn’t even said it as the huge red doors swung open again, and another group of Datan Dur than before approached them. “The king will receive you now,” it resounded through the atrium.
Estell rose. “Ah, good.” Ructa, the dwarves and his smaller, invisible horde followed him. Together they stepped through the doors, to the heart of the fortress.

Trickle had already split off from Leaky; where he hurried down to the mountain’s fourth level she still had business in the fortress. She and her part of the horde shot through thick, dark walls and pillars, searched every chamber for Minions, and found them; small reds and browns, clearly born and bred here, used for simple tasks for their dwarven masters. There were candle keepers, mug bearers and cleaners, and even a few looking after dwarven pets; small, multicoloured slugs, some kept on cushions or in gilded cages. Trickle and her group were stared at with large eyes, and then one of the browns said something surprising. “Is already starting?”
“What… were you expecting us? That can’t be.”
“Yes! Blues would come!”
Trickle looked back in confusion. “I’m glad you had faith in us. Wait for the command!” Then she flashed off again.
And they started encountering the weapons.
They were everywhere, inexplicably hidden in the walls; daggers, short swords, axes, bows, cutlery, loose pieces of armour… stuffed in cavities in the volcanic basalt, hidden alcoves no one ever visited, between forgotten crossbeams… and then Trickle knew what was up. “We lost a few blues,” she realized. “They must’ve hoped for our return and took care of this…”
And so the group started removing the weapons and armour, to give it to the reds and browns if they could hide them from their masters. Most Minions seemed nervous, but enthusiastic to have these gifts. For the first time in their brief lives they were a horde.
It had begun.

And outside the city, where rocky plateaus sloped into a rocky shoreline, Estell’s pohea found a patch of fertile soil. The crab chittered and then obeyed the command in its little head by putting the little plant in its pincers into the ground.
Not much later, glistening, night-blue petals reached for the grey skies. And not long after that something came through the gate.

Estell and his entourage stepped into the royal council hall.
Like the atrium, this chamber was eight-sided, but quite a bit smaller, though just as imposing as the rest of the fortress or even the very mountain itself. If dwarves did anything, they did it well.
At the heart of the chamber was an immense eight-sided table of greenish-black stone, surrounded by eight seats, each filled by a dwarf he took to be one of the leaders of Stodir’s eight dwarf clans. Each of the walls behind them was hung with trophies and symbols referring to the clans; weapons, banners and engraved emblems, and the same went for the clan leaders themselves. They were clad in the hard colours of their banners, carried their characteristic weapons… the green and dark gold-clad leader of Ucat Zuden had already gone through three mugs of beer.
And there he was at last, king Thorlond… on an elevated seat of solid obsidian, inlaid with so much gold it hurt Estell’s eyes even in this muted light. The same was true for the king himself. He towered over the table, completely covered in golden armour full of reliefs of his clan’s sigil, the golden fist. Estell thought of the open black hand that was his own sigil now. He was ready for the blow that fist could deal him.
The king’s dark brown beard bore multiple rings and decorations of red gold and onyx, and he was crowned by the object Estell had seen outside on the statues, and which he’d wondered about already. The crown was strangely irregular in shape, especially in this perfectly eight-sided hall with its angular table, seats and huge four-sided chandelier. The crown was encircled by sharp nicks, as though shards were missing from its circumference.
The king was directly opposite him. Estell smiled as he stepped forward. It was clear to him the leaders had been gathered in a hurry; another sign they took him seriously, or at least didn’t know what to do with him. He bowed lightly. “Greetings, your majesty, honoured clan leaders.”
“Greetings, Lord Greenhaze,” the king rumbled from the other side of the chamber. There was no doubt or uncertainty in the king’s voice as he uttered the title. Then something else rumbled too, and the chamber’s floor shifted; an eight-sided piece of engraved stone fell away from the middle of the table, then the table itself split in two and shifted apart, along with the seats of the clan leaders on both sides. A simple black seat rose in the middle, facing the king, amidst the leaders. “If you would seat yourself.” It was no request.
Estell nodded and calmly did as he was bid. The table joined together again around him.
The golden armour now glistened at him from very close by, but the king’s eyes were deep and dark, and completely alien to him. Estell shifted on his chair. This was the dwarf who’d driven them from Evernight and caused the shipwreck that’d forced them into Ruboria. This was the dwarf who’d had him tortured and shipped off to Maesmaer. This might be his father’s killer, and Jinx’ beyond a doubt.
He smiled politely. “I’m glad you could receive us this quickly, your majesty.”
“Estell Greenhaze,” the king rumbled. He placed his hands on the table; broad, armoured in dark gold. “I take it you’re related to the old king, Oberon Greenhaze?”
“My grandfather,” the Overlord nodded. “As you can see I have his silver hair.” He alertly looked at the king; did he know he was Sayron’s son?
“Overlords rise in the most unexpected of places,” Thorlond then spoke. “Oberon’s grandson… well, no stranger than Jinx Angelica.”
Estell restrained himself to not show relief. He also knew very well Thorlond wouldn’t have shown it even if he had known the full extent of his heritage. He was nervous, despite his calm mask; his calmth hid a storm. He was very aware of the spear on his back, Shadow beneath his feet. But Kitava’s advice kept echoing through his head; never give everything too quickly. Never give everything too quickly. Shadow could take over the king here and now and cut his own throat with the axe on his belt, the weapon with which he was depicted so often… but Estell would set himself up for defeat in doing so, and only incite the election of a new dwarven king in Stodir. He was here for the Minions…
“I seem to recall you left our city a few months ago, never to return,” the king remarked. A few clan leaders around the table chuckled, and Estell realized he’d almost forgotten they were there; the king had filled his entire world. He looked around. “As you may know, I escaped from your Pit.”
“You elves are slippery,” Noth Bomrek’s clan leader grumbled, playing with the heavy gilded whip at his side.
Estell slightly bowed his head at him. “I reached one of the villages of the Zola, and they took me in. Later I came back into contact with Ruvalk, on much friendlier terms.” One of his own dwarves nodded. “Lord Estell was most generous.”
The Overlord looked back at the king. “Now I have convinced the Zola to enter a trading relation with you. I seem to recall,” he smiled, “that you were digging for karuskar in the Pit, but never found much…” His dwarves moved around the table, carrying the huge gilded Kadathian chests. Then they opened them. Cool, blue light flooded the council chamber and drowned out the glow of the fire bowls.
“Karuskar,” the leader of Kel Aval uttered. Briefly the entire chamber was stunned into silence, and Estell felt control stream back to him, along with the blue light. “This is my gift to you, a gesture of my good will.” He smiled as the dwarves stood up and approached the chests, and as the abyssilion reacted; he now knew which among them were nervous with his presence.
Thorlond’s eyes had fallen to the chests, and there was something in his eyes which Estell could only call hunger – hungry greed, almost lust. “You’ve seen their mines?”
“They have no mines, your majesty. But allow me to keep the precise information to myself for now.”
“What do you want in return?”
Estell took his stump into his left hand. He was very aware of Ructa staring at him to his right, beyond the great dark expanse of the table, but he didn’t look away from the king. “Peace. A place in the world. Trade with the greatest city that ever was or will be.” He echoed what Miruvor had gone on about for all those weeks, all those months, what they’d truly left the Sanctuary for. Talmar and Ramah had told him everything they knew, everything the crippled elf had blurted out before his death. He almost shivered uttering Miruvor’s words, certainly at Isil’s memory and what he’d died for, but he was curious to the king’s reaction to it.
“Hmm,” Thorlond murmured, his expression impossible to read. His eyes fell to Estell’s wrist, loosely resting on the green-black stone of the table now. “Your hands are interesting, Lord Greenhaze.”
“Are they?” He laughed softly. “I lost one on Maesmaer, I’m afraid. Nothing to be done.”
“That,” the king rumbled, “and I clearly remember having you tortured when you were here last. We flayed your hand. It is not exactly logical to approach us with such an offer after such a first visit.”
Estell spread his remaining hand. “Why not? It’s not as though I could attack you, your majesty. Stodir is unbreakable. That was rather clear to me after my first visit.”
Thorlond narrowed his eyes, and Estell could almost feel his gaze burn; the same burning feeling the beer had given him. He didn’t have to reach into the king’s head to know what he was thinking. The green Minions were there. Did you reach them? But the dwarf didn’t utter the question, and Estell realized, in turn, that the king assumed he’d lie anyway. But the greens were clearly not in this room; their stench would make them impossible to hide here. He didn’t dare look away to the blues he did have with him, but he saw Drip raise an encouraging fist from the corner of his eye.
“And then there is the matter of something that should be around your left hand, Lord Greenhaze,” the king spoke. “Where is the jewel?”
“Well, your majesty, I’m no Overlord. I never was,” the elf spoke calmly. “I am only the Lord of Kadath. It didn’t seem likely to me I could enter an alliance with you with Minions at my side.” He said it as carelessly as he could bear, and felt the pang in his heart. He’d really grown fond of the Minions. “I’ve cast off the gem, along with them.”
“Well, well. That was a wise decision.” The deep, dark eyes slid to the chests of abyssilion again, and Estell knew he’d won; the king’s greed was indeed boundless. His crown and armour glinted in the combined red and blue light, as a testament to the love he held for his riches. “Well, Lord Greenhaze,” the king spoke, reaching out with a broad hand, “I believe we can reach an agreement…”
And then the doors to the hall flew open, and one of the red-and-black-clad envoys that’d brought Estell in came storming into the chamber. “Your majesty,” he panted. “Clan leaders. We’re under attack from the harbour. They’re already coming in through Kel Udos –”
The king abruptly rose. “What?!”
“Hordes of Minions and elves,” the messenger uttered. “Zola of Maesmaer. Crabs, Sire, like you’ve never seen.”
Thorlond reached across the table and grasped Estell by the throat. “What do you think you’re doing?!”
Estell’s eyes were wide with fear. “Your majesty,” he rasped. “I assure you, this wasn’t…” The fist tightened, and he clawed at the golden fingers with his one hand, uselessly, an image of weakness.
The king flung him across the hall, towards the envoy. “Lock him up,” he roared, as the clan leaders all got to their feet and took up their weapons. “Him and the other elf, and all this scum from Ruvalk! Defend the harbour!”
And as Estell was dragged off he caught a last glimpse of all that abyssilion, chests and chests of the blue material sacred to the Zola, now in dwarven hands to do with as they pleased…

The harbours were indeed under attack, by everything Kadath had to offer. But they’d barely even entered the mountain before Stodir hit back with everything they had in store, and that was quite a bit.
The battle was in full swing by now; Estell’s army had very soon been spotted by the airships, and bombs had rained down in the volcanic city’s harbour, without too much care for their own docks or the domed, angular bastions locking in the bay. The pohea had been sent out, but these airships were a lot sturdier than those in Ruvalk, and they had closed cabins in many cases, preventing the crabs from getting to the pilots. Their claws scrambled across cold, merciless steel uselessly, and most airships also had controlled window wipers capable of crushing the small crabs instantly.
As this problem became apparent, Indil had sent out Kadath’s newest weapon; the bomber beetles. Just after the flower gate had opened, she’d hurried to a shallow cave close to the beach with the bomber queen and a group of blues, away from the harbour, and now she overlooked the aerial battle from there. She commanded the beetles via spoken words to the queen, and as Estell had assured her, this worked. The airships kept swarming in, however, and every bomb that hit the ground was one too many.
Added to this, the airships were not her true goal. She sent the majority of the beetle swarm into Stodir to block the flood now coming out. The harbours were connected to the engineer level via a huge carved tunnel, and the army’s level wasn’t far off either. This was no coincidence. They were busy emptying Stodir’s supply of war machines and soldiers, but this did mean they had a tough time now.
As soon as the airships and guard towers on the mountainside had spotted Kadath’s army they’d soon sent out their answer. Stodir hadn’t been attacked directly in centuries, but the initial dwarven reply was efficient and murderous; an interlocking formation of foot soldiers and bomb-throwing tanks to assist the airships, and crossbow archers halfway up the mountainside that fired with crushing accuracy even from that distance.
Kadath wasn’t helpless, however. Ariki and his fellow crabs thundered into the heavier machinery to the left and right, yanking the treads from underneath tanks, forcing open the hatches at the top or simply throwing over the entire machines like they would do a rival crab. The elves and Zola used the crabs to gain height and attack the foot soldiers from above, and both peoples were agile enough to dodge most crossbow bolts and bombs in their flight. Nyarai worked together with Turuva, one of the plant singers, and where she rapidly wove thorny walls and branches around her, Nyarai could use them to gain height and speed, at home in Maesmaer’s root forests as she was. This kind of cooperation arose in multiple spots in the battle, though the plants withered and burned wherever bombs descended. Soon the battle tightened to such extent that agile escape became increasingly difficult, even for the elves and Zola, and it was a good thing the blues were present to heal the wounded as fast as they could and bring back fallen Minions. Where enough blues gathered and could remain together, healing shields were raised, but they flickered beneath the pressure of battle; the Minions almost didn’t have time to form groups for long.
Their intangibility did come to good use now, however. Blues had run through the outside of tanks multiple times, and struggles had broken out within. Where it was won by the Minions, tanks came to a halt crashing into walls, exploding in the frontlines, or rolling off the docks into the sea. In the waves a few dwarves did manage to get away, but in water the blues were a great deal more mobile, and they could unhinge their jaws.
A little later, as Stodir had recovered from the initial surprise and really started warming up, the greens also got their time to shine. Now Nazush Neth started bringing out legions of flamethrowers from the depths of the mountain at regular intervals, one of their most devastating and unstoppable weapons; the machines belched forth an enormous jet of flame, and a legion of them meant a true firestorm even the blues’ healing shields could barely hold out against. But the greens, led by Whisper, Scythe and Ramul – who’d seen this before and feared almost nothing anymore – flashed between the flames in invisibility, latched on to the backs of the soldiers and clawed their fuel tanks open to the air. Soon the torrent of flame turned into a series of heavy explosions, every one of them setting off at least two more. With every bang multiple greens fell, but the majority was swift and agile enough to get away in time. The shadow weavers could not turn invisible, but they were just as fast as the other greens and created a bloodbath among foot soldiers and archers.
Thus far they’d succeeded at keeping the battle more or less level, using all their power. But where Stodir kept increasing their effort, Kadath’s troops were far more limited. And something else was coming through the harbour gate.
Nyarai looked back, hanging from her hands and Turuva’s growths halfway up a wall, ready to launch herself backwards to plunge herself into a ripped-open tank and her weapon into the chest of its driver. The light of an explosion reflected in her eyes, but that was not what had drawn her attention. She’d heard the pounding… not the crabs, not the airships. Louder, deeper.
Then the mechs appeared through the fire and the suffocating smoke now rising along the mountainside. Her own words to Estell shot through her head. Like the machines in the Pit, but bigger and more?
They were bigger, and with more. They effortlessly towered over Ariki, and their arms ended in downwards-pointing scythes. The first of them already plunged these claws through the armour of the camouflaged hiako-crabs, and the glinting metal sank through moss, chitin and flesh in one fell swoop. The Zola loosed war cries as they saw their crabs convulse and die and threw themselves at the mechs, but there turned out to be flamethrowers beneath the claws as well, and Nyarai’s people died screaming before anyone had the chance to react at all.
The mechs spread through the chaos evenly, soon gathering piles of bodies around them. Nyarai dropped to the ground in baffled desperation and unsheathed her weapon, but before she could attack the nearest mech, its raised scythe was grasped by a sky-blue claw in midair.
Ariki tightened his grip on the scythe from behind, and the tortured shrieks of bent metal echoed through the smoky air. Only then did Nyarai see the massive golden fist on the machine’s chest. These were the king’s personal troops. The king had joined the battle, could be watching them at this very moment from somewhere within the mountain.
The tide had turned; Estell had been captured. She could only hope this would end well. But at this moment she mainly worried about what was happening straight ahead; Ariki’s grip didn’t seem to be strong though, and the arm moved forward, trembling, creaking. Blue Minions tried to enter the mechs, but were forced to busy themselves more with the wounded and dead Minions; if they lost too many it’d be over. A new wave of flamethrowers streamed out of the mountain, and the greens turned invisible all around…
Then the mech’s arm shot from Ariki’s grip before Nyarai’s eyes, and the machine turned around. The entire arm rotated, and the scythe’s blade moved beneath the sky-blue pincers, under Ariki’s belly. Then the mech stabbed upwards, again and again…
Nyarai screamed, as if she could feel the crab’s agony. “Ariki!” Their mightiest ally, the living symbol of their strength…
Then she heard another, deeper voice utter the same cry, and from just behind the building she’d kept in her back Kaalu stormed forward. Before him Ariki collapsed, his magnificent armour covered in soot and scars, his body the center of a spreading pool of blue blood. Kaalu just ran beneath his convulsing legs, shot around the mech and jumped to its back via Ariki’s outstretched hind leg. There the chief rammed his bladed mace through the fuel tank of the mech’s double flamethrowers, jumping away as the hissing started. Nyarai’s eyes widened in admiration and hope, but the blooming explosion shattered that completely.
Kaalu wasn’t swift enough. The explosion was bigger than any of them could’ve foreseen, swallowing not only the mech but also the escaping chief and a large group of other warriors, just leaving them time for one last defiant cry… “Tupuhi!”
“No!” Nyarai ran forward, into the wreckage and the roaring flames, her mind a whirlwind of sorrow, panic and rage. Her chief… Katoa’s great father… and the father of the delta…
The moment she rejoined the restarting battle, so did Kitava, who’d always been Kaalu’s unofficial right hand. The warrior’s eyes burned from within a mask of ash, blood and crimson paint, and Nyarai knew Kitava had already succeeded the chief, heart and soul.
As they fought, rituals and prayers shot through the Zola’s head. They will return, but not as they were. Ariki, Kaalu, be reborn in the eyes of Atua. Blood sprayed into her face. Shadow, Estell, don’t leave us just yet, she then added.

Clang.
The cell door shut loudly, and Estell scrambled to his feet against the smooth, dark wall. He flew to the bars, but too late, far too late. “I swear to you, this isn’t what it looks like! Let me go so I can talk to them!”
“Not a chance, elf. You should’ve thought this one through a bit better.” The envoys of Datan Dur marched out of the dungeon and banged shut the door behind them, and Estell remained with three jailors staring at him intently, and Ructa in the cell next to him…
…and Shadow, coiling up against the wall, and a small horde of intangible blues, jumping with excitement by now.
Their Master was exactly where he wanted to be.
Estell dropped his fearful, helpless expression. In the blink of an eye he looked determined and sly, and the jailors frowned as he smiled at them. “What are you smiling at, elf?”
The Overlord reached back and pulled his spear off his back. He tossed it through the bars, a retracted steel shaft crowned by the wickedly barbed, radiantly blue tip. “At this. You forgot a piece of karuskar.”
The middle dwarf caught the weapon and looked it over, bushy eyebrows raised. Then something dark flowed into his body from the floor, and his eyes flared as blue as the spearhead. He jolted his hand and extended the shaft, a blue flash shot past the throat of his one companion and pierced the other’s breastplate… Then the dwarf pulled out his keys and freed Estell, before ramming the spear through his own chest and sinking to his knees gurgling. Black smoke rose above the body, chuckling, as the elf picked up the bloodied keys and let Ructa out of her cell. “That went well,” Shadow grinned as soon as he had a mouth again.
Drip solidified and handed Estell back his gauntlet. The Minions in the horde chuckled and nudged each other in elation, and Estell smiled as he heard what they were talking about. “When do you think they’ll find out those chests are full of painted iron?” he asked as he clumsily tried to put on his gauntlet, outstretching his hand as Ructa offered to help.
Her fingers danced around the buckles. “Hopefully they won’t do too much damage with the top layer.” There had to be a little bit of real abyssilion in Estell’s ‘gift’; the dwarves knew about the deforming effect. “And hopefully Fangatan’s paint really is that hard to get off.”
Estell rolled up his right sleeve as soon as the gauntlet was in place. A small red crescent moon was painted halfway up his arm, Nyarai’s little luck bringer. He rubbed it. “Very sturdy.” Then he clenched his fist and focused on the gem. A heartbeat later it flared, and a second pulse rolled through Stodir and its valleys; a pulse only he and his Minions could feel. Drip and his horde shivered briefly. “To the forge,” the blue leader spoke. “It has begun, Master.”
As the gem cooled, Gnarl’s voice creaked to life. “Sire? How are things there?”
“The battle’s started,” Estell spoke, as Ructa took off her cloak and handed it to him. The Overlord put it on over his armour and pulled the hood over his head. “We’ve seen the king; he let go of all suspicion as soon as he saw the treasure. Well, treasure…” He hummed. “I’m glad they were distracted, if he’d seen the iron he’d probably have killed me then and there.”
“Greed,” Gnarl agreed. “The disease of dwarf kings, it seems. Good to know, even though we won’t be able to pull this off a second time.”
They left the dungeon and stepped into one of the dark, vaulted hallways of the fortress. Estell pulled his cloak around him and just hoped he and Ructa could pass for slaves. Shadow gave him his hand and floated ahead as he walked. “I’m going to the harbour.”
“Alright. Meet us at the forge.” Estell grasped his shoulder. “Draw it out. Spare them as much as possible, Shadow.” He’d taken a great risk in throwing his troops squarely at the engineers and the army, he knew that very well. Shadow nodded silently.
Then they went their separate ways.

Ariki and Kaalu’s deaths initially had a devastating effect on the Zola and part of the elves, but it soon fanned their determination even further. Along with this, the Zola chief had also shown them the mechs’ weak spot. Now single greens leapt up all over the battlefield, sacrificing themselves as the rest of the warriors got away. The battlefield was dotted with black craters, but the mechs still standing defended themselves fiercely with sweeping strokes of their scythes. More crabs fell, but the exploding mechs also hit the dwarven foot soldiers hard. Tanks lost control on all sides and rolled to the death of their drivers… The battle seemed to be stabilizing itself again, especially now the mechs emerging from the mountain were detonated by the swift, invisible climbers and bomber beetles already at the tunnel’s exit. The mountain’s ceiling started to collapse, and the troops were slowed down further…
Then a shiver coursed through the battlefield the harbour had become. Chitlin, her claws buried between her gurgling victim’s helmet and gorget, looked up and felt her pupils dilate. It was happening atop one of the guard towers rising from the mountainside; something gargantuan came to light, rumbling as it turned onto the fort’s flat top from within the mountain itself, and she knew the distance was playing tricks on her eyes. It was a cannon, a monstrous cannon with a black-and-bronze barrel large enough to hold one of the royal mechs. It was the largest weapon the green leader had ever seen, and seeing it made her question everything that led her here.
The battle on the ground had slackened and ground to a halt in some places as Kadath’s troops stared up in awe, and the dwarves looked up at their trump card in content and respect. Slowly a deep, rumbling chant rose from the battlefield… “Indrathor! Indrathor!”
Chitlin jumped to the ground and looked around in desperation. She met Ramul’s eyes, a few feet away. He knew some dwarven terms. “Thunder god,” he translated, his ears flat against his head. Chitlin looked up again. Next to the cannon was a humble pile of projectiles; barbed bombs the size of boulders, clearly capable of demolishing Kadath’s entire army in one stroke.
The deafening blast of a horn resounded from deeper within the cannon’s fort. Then a voice followed. “Cease combat,” it said. “You do not stand a chance. Surrender and enter the mountain as captives, or subject yourselves to the mercy of the indrathor.”
Nex dropped down next to her, his face a mask of hissing rage, all his claws out. Then he saw how discouraged Chitlin was, and his ears shifted back. “Not afraid,” he spoke in his guttural voice.
“Should be,” Chitlin remarked quietly. She suddenly remembered how much younger than the shadow weavers and the three veterans she really was; she’d been born on Maesmaer, and Whisper, Ramul and Scythe had already been through so much, even when Nex and his kin had been young. She was the green leader because she’d done exceptionally well for herself on Maesmaer, and kept the clan alive and thriving there, but here…
Nex looked back at the mountain, but she still saw no fear in his eyes – and no surrender either.
Then a swarm of golden glistenings suddenly swept towards the cannon, and as they whirred past Chitlin recognized the bomber beetles. More rose from the battlefield and from the mountain itself, and she knew Indil was calling them to arms for this single purpose. They swarmed to the cannon and covered it, crept into the barrel… but they did not yet explode.
In her hideaway Indil smiled grimly, running a hand through her red hair. She’d heard the chants. She knew what indrathor meant. Dwarves didn’t have gods; they had cannons. She prayed to every god that might be listening that she’d gauged the situation correctly and the dwarves would now hold their fire… but there was nothing else they could do, even though they had won themselves some time. On the ground the dwarves still held the upper hand. If the beetles would destroy the cannon, they’d still lose.
Indil prayed harder.

Blue wisps had flashed down through the fortress crowning Stodir, to all of the mountain’s levels save the deepest; there were no Minions in the king’s palace.
Now, however, four more wisps shot through the darkened hallways, one carrying a shining golden sun in his arms.
Silt, Clam, Splash and Newt knew what was going on. Estell had returned, and they couldn’t be happier; he had however come too early. Sora’s plan wasn’t yet ready to be executed, but it’d just have to happen now. The four shot through walls, around corners, and then straight through the elf they were looking for. Silt slowed, turned and made himself visible. He could just hide his hands behind his back, but could barely conceal what he was holding. He managed a sheepish grin. “Sora! Hello…” He didn’t know how the elf would react to this morning’s developments, and was more than a little nervous to see that reaction. Even besides that, her appearance confused him greatly.
Sora was clad in Datan Dur’s colours, but no longer in the shape of her flowing slave’s garb. Now she wore a dark tunic and pants, with a breastplate, greaves and gauntlets of subtly golden leather, all inlaid with gleaming golden details. Her long blond hair streamed out from beneath a helmet of the same dully golden hue, and her belt bore a double-bladed axe. Uthred had done his best smuggling it all up to the fortress and readying her for this occasion. Silt had to admit that, if she’d also worn the amber gem, he really hadn’t known who to be loyal to.
Her green eyes almost glowed as she looked at the four Minions. “Is it true?” she asked. “Is he here?”
Silt hastily outstretched his hands. “Surprise!”
Her eyes widened as she realized what he was holding. She stepped forward and took it incredulously; her armoured hands almost lovingly caressed the huge, semicircular blade, the Ruborian engravings… “A qala-kizh,” she spoke. “Silt, how…”
“A few days ago,” he grinned. “I was saving it for when we… but…”
“But that’s today,” she nodded grimly. “Thank you.” She unsheathed her axe. “Two weapons are better than one…”
Then something new rushed into the hallway from behind Sora; a figure wearing a faded, hooded cloak, accompanied by a silver-haired girl… Sora turned, her two weapons in hand, and emerald eyes finally pierced deep blue, slightly glowing ones again, for the first time in months and months.
“Master!” Silt’s eyes lit up as he saw and recognized Estell. The four blues hurried towards him and his horde, but then hesitated.
They weren’t the only ones. Estell stumbled to a halt and threw off his hood, and briefly he was utterly stumped, too baffled for words. Then he found his voice. “…Sora?”
Sora twirled her axe around. “Estell. I see you survived.” She stepped forward, a burning sensation in her chest, toying with the thought of hitting him in the face – all those months, and she had no clue as to what she felt for him anymore, and he stole her chance to execute her plans…
Estell backed away, unable to believe his eyes. Nyarai had told him Sora was dead. She’d lied. Had she ever really had visions of truth at all? In an instant it occurred to him everything Nyarai had said and done had led to his transformation into a worthy Overlord… she’d forced him to let go of his old life… and she’d apparently held little regard for the actual truth while doing so.
Sora was alive… and she couldn’t be further from the queen in white silk and pearls he seemed to recall, here and now, clad in gleaming leather and holding giant weapons in both hands. She put away the axe and raised her hand, then lowered it again. Something strange sparked in her eyes. He felt like the elven boy he’d been in the desert, in Napata, always afraid of doing something wrong. Then he stepped forward and touched her cheek, where her helmet left it free. “I thought you were dead.” His voice was stable, but his emotions were clear to her. “Someone… someone told me they’d killed you. And I believed it.”
She jolted. Then her eyes softened, and she took his hand. “I was quite sure you were dead. Tortured, shipped off…”
“I survived it all… it seems we’re both more alive than ever.” He showed her his shadow hand. “And we’ve discovered new sides to ourselves.” He hesitated. “I’ve met someone… I love just as much as you.”
Sora blinked. “I’ve decided I want to take your position… or at least practice it alongside you.” She laid her gleaming weapon across her shoulder. “Much has changed, Estell.”
He fell silent. His eyes flickered. Then he looked up.
Behind Sora, a group of brown and red Minions came sprinting around the corner, clearly escaped from their roles as servants and candle keepers for the dwarves of the fortress; they were armed with dwarven blades and axes in a few cases, but also with cutlery, angular candelabras and bits of bronze pipeline. Behind them came a group of dwarves, properly armed.
As the Minions laid eyes on Estell, the amber gem flared so brightly it shone right through his concealing cloak, and the glowing eyes reacted. Gnarl uttered a strange little sound. “Boys!”
Before Estell knew what he was doing he’d rushed forward, his spear jumped into his hand, and he ran around the Minions to lunge at the dwarves. Briefly the Minions were as stumped as he’d been, but then they joined him, clearly inexperienced, far from sure of themselves, but determined to defend their Master. As he fell out to the first dwarf Estell saw them flash by, jumping on the enemies’ shoulders and stabbing at their eyes, pulling off helmets and slashing at throats, and he knew they were incomparable to the reds and browns he’d seen in the forge… but they were a horde, they were his horde, they were fighting for him, and together they stood a chance. Axes swung at him and bit through his cloak, but not through the armour beneath. As one of the dwarves came too close and threatened to slide an angular sword along his throat, two of the browns dragged him back, stabbing away with a fork and beating with a rolling pin.
A sudden whizzing sound told Estell there was an archer behind the other dwarves, and one of his rescuers fell back, a long burning arrow in his chest – but his reds were already lobbing sparks at the archer, and two blues took care of the victim. Not much later nothing remained of the group of dwarves but scorched corpses and pools of blood, and Estell and his horde tried to get a hold of their breathing.
Sora wiped clean her huge weapon a few feet away; she’d joined the fray, but Estell had scarcely realized. She grinned at him. “Much has changed…” She stepped towards him. The start of a smile appeared on Estell’s face as she laid a hand along his cheek in turn. “…but it seems you did become the Overlord I hoped you were.” She looked over his shoulder. The Minions chittered excitedly among themselves, showing off their weapons, introducing themselves to eachother and kicking the dwarven bodies. “I was planning to save them.”
“Now we can do it together,” Estell offered. “Did you arm them?”
“Silt here started it. He never stopped believing you’d come back…”
The Overlord looked down with great affection, and Silt grinned. “Thank you, Silt. You had more faith in me than I did myself.”
“…but I had them continue on a much larger scale. I’d planned a breakout, but I wasn’t completely ready yet. But now at least we can go somewhere.” Sora looked around, to where Ructa had kept out of the fight. “Are you the new plant singer?”
Ructa nodded. “When we’re done here, we can go home.”
“Home…” Sora grinned. “The brown Hive’s on the fields, but she won’t be extracted easily. I’ll be headed there ahead of you.”
Estell nodded. “I’m going after the red Hive, in the depths. After that I’ll be on the fields as fast as I can. My army will be there by that time, too.” He raised his arm, and the gem flared. “Minions!”
The Minions rallied behind him, brown, red and blue. He looked at them fondly. “Welcome.”
He jolted in surprise as Sora kissed his cheek. “See you there. Oyneng yar.” And before he knew it she was gone, a golden flash speeding away through the dark hallway.
Estell beamed. “See you soon!” Then he turned and led his horde away.

All over Stodir Minions broke out of the roles the dwarves had forced upon them. All of them felt the pulse glowing in their chests, like a second heartbeat synchronous with their own, and no matter how small or frightened they were, they could not ignore Estell’s command. Wherever they could they took up their weapons – brought to them by the blues, or improvised – and fought themselves past their guardians if they had them, and past those of other Minions if they had been able to escape.
In the fortress flames burst out of a few chambers adjacent to the royal council chamber, now abandoned by the king and clan leaders. Only two Minions regularly came there; Wick and Tallow, the two royal candle keepers responsible for the huge angular chandelier above the council table, and all the fire bowls in and around that chamber. They’d loyally gone about their tasks for their entire brief lives, always nervous and small, always afraid of being flung into the baths just outside the hall if they were to make a mistake. But now those days were over.
Wick and Tallow knew exactly where to find the fuels and powders that made the fire bowls of the fortress burn with all the harsh colours of the dwarven clans, and they’d distracted most of the dwarves nearby with the inferno in the royal chambers. Besides that, they’d stuffed their candle pouches full of the substances. Jugs of oil hung from their belts and shoulders, and as they encountered their first dwarves they initially did freeze up, but then they both lobbed their projectiles at the floor ahead of them, and hissed in hoarse excitement as the jets of flame leapt up in bright red, green and blue. The dwarves shouted and swore and tried to stomp out the flames, and in the meantime Wick and Tallow scrambled over their heads via the walls and ceiling, hurrying through the hallways. Finally they were going to leave the fortress…

At Deb Nar’s level, just below the fortress, serving Minions broke out of the kitchens carrying both swords and cutlery, and quite a few meat hooks on chains. Thud had looked around his kitchen in brief melancholy, and then grasped two huge cleavers, to burst through the door with a jiggling belly and fight his way out like a glistening whirlwind. He’d never learned to blink half as well as Silt and his group, and the Minions from Kadath were better at it too – but he didn’t need it. If the walls wouldn’t let him through, the dwarves would… He caught a glimpse of more Minions, both Trickle’s blinking blues and escaped brown kitchen servants and red pot warmers. He twirled his cleavers around in his webbed hands, the hands that’d been made to wield them, and grinned widely. “Where’s the meat?!” he bellowed.
The other Minions laughed as they recognized him and hurried to him, maiming dwarves to the left and right. “Everywhere!” was the cheering reply.