Arc VI- Chapter 11: Fractures

Arc VII – Chapter 1: Fractures

The Red Maw had won.

That did not mean it was at peace.

Harrowhall's forges burned day and night. Hammers rang through the mountain, their echoes mingling with the grinding of stone, the barking of orders, and the occasional roar of something that had no business being housed beneath the same roof as civilized folk.

Or what passed for civilized folk in the Red Maw.

Vris stood upon a balcony overlooking the lower assembly hall, his clawed hands resting against the stone railing. Below him, a column of trolls lumbered through the chamber carrying salvaged siege equipment. Stone-Eater dwarves directed them toward the western foundries, shouting corrections whenever one of the enormous creatures threatened to scrape a load against the ceiling.

The trolls did not appreciate being corrected.

The dwarves appreciated being ignored even less.

A troll shoved a dwarf aside.

Three Stone-Eaters immediately abandoned their work.

Vris sighed.

"Again?"

Beside him, Hadrik Veinborn folded his thick arms.

"Third time today."

"Third?"

"That I've been told about."

Below, the dwarf who had been shoved retrieved his hammer.

Vris raised two fingers.

One of the Hollowborn Royal Guards stationed behind him moved.

The creature descended the wall with a speed that seemed impossible for something so heavily armored. Black chitin scraped against stone as it landed between the arguing workers, its crimson-marked body towering over the dwarf and confronting the troll with absolute stillness.

The troll stopped shouting.

The dwarf lowered his hammer.

Neither appeared particularly eager to continue.

"Useful bastards," Hadrik muttered.

Vris watched the Hollowborn return to its position.

"That's what I keep telling everyone."

Hadrik grunted.

Below them, the work resumed.

It was a small victory.

Vris was beginning to understand that ruling involved an exhausting number of small victories.

The Red Maw had grown too quickly for its own good.

Goblins crowded chambers once reserved for dwarven craftsmen. Orcs occupied barracks beside Stone-Eater veterans. Ogre families had been given access to the wider halls, where the ceilings could accommodate their considerable size. Trolls required even greater space, and their appetites had already become a matter of considerable concern.

Then there were the Batkin, the surviving lizardfolk, Ravha's expanding brood, and the Hollowborn beneath the mountain.

Every people had its own customs.

Every people had its own grievances.

And nearly all of them believed their particular grievances deserved the Fanglord's immediate attention.

Vris looked toward the enormous inventory tablets being carried into the hall.

"How much grain?"

"Enough for the old population," Hadrik answered. "Not enough for the new one."

"Meat?"

"Worse."

"Water?"

"Plenty. Distribution's the problem."

"Forge capacity?"

"Better than before the siege. We've recovered most of the damaged equipment. Give my people another fortnight and we'll have the western forges working properly."

Vris nodded.

"And the walls?"

Hadrik's expression darkened.

"Standing. Barely, in places. Hammergate took a beating, and the western approaches need more than a few stones shoved back into place."

"Then we rebuild them properly."

"With what labor?"

Vris looked down at the trolls.

Hadrik followed his gaze.

A slow smile spread across the dwarf's face.

"Ah."

"Put their strength to work. They helped break our defenses. They can help restore them."

"And if they refuse?"

"Send them to me."

Hadrik chuckled.

"That's becoming a popular destination."

Vris did not smile.

He was looking beyond the workers now, toward the great gates leading out of Harrowhall.

Beyond those gates lay the world.

And somewhere in that world, people were learning what had happened here.

The Trollking had fallen.

The Red Maw had survived.

Sooner or later, someone would come to see whether the stories were true.

Vris intended to be ready.

The first serious incident occurred before midday.

It began with food.

Most wars did.

A group of Ulg's trolls had entered one of Harrowhall's eastern storehouses and demanded additional provisions. When the Stone-Eater quartermaster refused, the trolls had taken what they wanted.

An orc patrol intervened.

The trolls responded by breaking two of the patrolmen's arms.

By the time Maggra arrived, the situation had deteriorated considerably.

One troll was missing most of his teeth.

Another had been thrown through a storage partition.

A third lay unconscious beneath an overturned grain cart.

Maggra stood in the center of the destruction, her great staff planted against the floor.

Both of her heads looked thoroughly displeased.

"Little thieves," one growled.

"Big thieves," the other corrected.

A troll struggled to rise.

Maggra brought her staff down beside his head.

"Stay."

He stayed.

Ulg arrived shortly afterward.

The former Trollking filled the doorway, his bone-plated skull nearly brushing the upper frame. The jagged stalactite-like horns rising from his head cast long shadows across the chamber.

He surveyed the damage.

Then he laughed.

Maggra turned.

"Something funny?"

"Looks like my boys found trouble."

"Your boys found food that wasn't theirs."

Ulg shrugged.

"They were hungry."

"Then they should have asked."

"They did."

"And were told no."

"Seems they disagreed."

Maggra's first head bared its tusks.

Her second smiled.

Neither expression promised anything pleasant.

"Careful, troll."

Ulg's grin widened.

"Or what?"

A cold voice answered from the doorway.

"Or you'll both explain yourselves to me."

Vris entered with Dunzok, Hadrik, and his two Hollowborn guards.

The room fell silent.

Vris surveyed the broken shelves, spilled grain, injured orcs, and battered trolls.

His gaze settled on Ulg.

"Your people?"

"Aye."

"Did you order this?"

"No."

"Did they take food without permission?"

"Seems so."

"Did they injure my soldiers?"

Ulg glanced toward the orcs.

"Aye."

Vris nodded.

"Good. Then we understand what happened."

Ulg tilted his head.

"Good?"

"Good that I don't have to waste time arguing about it."

Vris approached the nearest troll.

The creature was enormous, scarred, and considerably larger than the Fanglord standing before him.

"Who told you that you could take whatever you wanted?"

The troll glanced toward Ulg.

Vris noticed.

"He's not the one asking."

The troll swallowed.

"We fought for the Trollking."

"And now?"

The creature hesitated.

Vris stepped closer.

"Now?"

"For the Red Maw."

"Then you'll learn how the Red Maw operates."

He turned toward Hadrik.

"Count everything taken. Every sack. Every broken shelf. Every injured worker."

Hadrik nodded.

"Already started."

"These trolls will repair the storehouse. They'll replace what they stole through labor, and they'll work on Hammergate until the damage is made good."

One troll opened his mouth.

Vris looked at him.

"Something to add?"

The mouth closed.

"Good."

He faced Ulg.

"Your warriors answer to the same laws as everyone else. Their hunger doesn't give them the right to steal from their own people."

Ulg studied him.

"You're going to make trolls haul stone?"

"Yes."

The former Trollking laughed.

"That'll be a sight."

Vris's expression hardened.

"You're going to supervise them."

Ulg stopped laughing.

Maggra's second head made a pleased noise.

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The first continued glaring.

Vris turned toward her.

"And you."

Both heads looked at him.

"Next time, send for me before you start dismantling my subjects."

"They were stealing!"

"I noticed."

"They broke your orcs!"

"I noticed that too."

Maggra's nostrils flared.

Vris lowered his voice.

"I need your strength for the next war, Maggra. Not for settling arguments in a storeroom."

For a moment, neither head answered.

Then one looked away.

The other grumbled.

"Fine."

Ulg chuckled.

Maggra rounded on him.

"Shut your great mouth!"

Vris closed his eyes.

He was going to need a larger throne room.

By evening, the summons had gone out.

Every general.

Every chieftain.

Every commander entrusted with warriors beneath the Red Maw's banner.

They gathered in Harrowhall's great throne chamber, a vast hall carved from the living mountain. Ancient dwarven pillars supported its vaulted ceiling, their surfaces decorated with generations of Stone-Eater victories.

At the far end stood the throne of Harrowhall.

It had once belonged exclusively to dwarven kings.

Vris had left it untouched until now.

The assembled leaders filled the chamber.

Dunzok Blackgrin stood among his orcs, his enormous axe resting across one shoulder. Hadrik occupied a place near the front with several Stone-Eater elders. Maggra and Grond stood together, the latter looming like a mountain of muscle and scarred flesh.

Shirae waited beside the Ethrani representatives, composed as ever.

Ulg stood apart from the others.

His trolls gathered behind him.

And along the chamber's outer walls stood creatures few among the assembled had seen in such numbers before.

Veilwalkers.

They moved with a quiet precision that made the restless trolls seem clumsy by comparison. Their upright forms were armored in dark chitin, their multiple arms folded or resting near curved blades.

At their head stood Eryss Quietfang.

Ravha's daughter.

Her long black hair spilled across her shoulders, darker than the shadows surrounding her. Crimson eyes regarded the chamber from a face that was neither wholly humanoid nor wholly arachnid. Four arms rested comfortably at her sides, one hand curled around the hilt of a black, curved blade.

She had inherited something of her mother's stillness.

But where Ravha's presence could feel ancient and enveloping, Eryss seemed sharper.

A blade concealed within silk.

Vris entered without ceremony.

His Hollowborn guards followed.

The gathered leaders quieted.

He stopped before the throne but did not sit.

"Look around."

Several commanders exchanged glances.

"Go on," Vris said. "Look."

They did.

"Orcs. Dwarves. Goblins. Ogres. Trolls. Ethrani. Veilwalkers. Peoples who would have killed one another without a second thought not so long ago."

Dunzok grunted.

"Some still might."

"That's the problem."

Vris turned toward Ulg.

"Come here."

The Trollking approached.

He looked amused.

That expression had become irritatingly familiar.

Vris regarded the towering creature.

"You yielded to me."

"Aye."

"Your people followed."

"They did."

"And yet some of them still behave as though they answer to no one but you."

Ulg's grin faded slightly.

"Old habits."

"Then we'll break them."

Vris raised a clawed hand.

"Lower your head."

A murmur passed through the chamber.

Ulg looked at him.

For a moment, the former Trollking did not move.

Then he laughed softly.

"Going to kill me after all?"

"No."

"Shame."

"Lower your head, Ulg."

The troll obeyed.

Vris examined the great horns jutting from the bone-plated skull. They were jagged, dark, and unmistakable, rising like the stalactites of some ancient cavern.

A symbol of the Trollking's power.

A symbol his followers had spent generations recognizing.

Vris drew Heartfang.

Several trolls shifted.

Dunzok's hand tightened around his axe.

The Hollowborn remained motionless.

Vris placed the blade against the base of the first horn.

"Hold still."

Ulg's eyes narrowed.

Then he understood.

His grin returned.

"Ah."

The blade moved.

Bone cracked.

The first horn came free.

Ulg grunted, his enormous hands clenching at his sides.

Vris took the second.

Another sharp crack echoed through the chamber.

Blood traced the edges of the broken bone plates.

Ulg remained kneeling.

Vris stepped away with both horns in his hands.

"These were the horns of a king," he said.

He looked toward the gathered trolls.

"Your king."

Then toward the rest of the chamber.

"But there will be no separate kings beneath my banner."

He placed the horns upon the stone table before the throne.

"Not anymore."

The crown was not made from gold.

Gold would have been easier.

Gold would have been meaningless.

Hadrik's smiths had prepared a blackened iron circlet, broad enough to rest securely upon Vris's brow. Its surface bore carvings of fangs, roots, claws, and broken chains.

The two horns taken from Ulg rose from its upper edge, forming jagged peaks.

But they were not its only trophies.

Warg fangs curved along its sides, offered from the packs that had followed Varkha into battle. Orc tusks formed smaller upward points, their surfaces darkened and polished. Ogre ivory strengthened the front, thick and pale against the black iron.

There was room for more.

That had been deliberate.

The Red Maw was not finished growing.

Vris lifted the crown.

For a moment, he studied it.

Then he placed it upon his head.

The weight surprised him.

Not because it was heavy.

Because of what it meant.

He turned toward his generals.

"Trolls cannot be the only ones to pay fealty."

The chamber grew still.

"I demand it from all of you."

Hadrik's expression changed.

"What?"

Vris looked at him.

The dwarf stepped forward.

"You'd have me kneel?"

"Yes."

A low murmur spread through the Stone-Eaters.

Hadrik's face reddened.

"My people fought beside yours before half these bastards even knew your name!"

"I know."

"We gave you our forges! Our warriors! Our halls!"

"I know that too."

"And now you'd treat us like conquered dogs?"

Vris descended the steps.

"No."

"Then what in the Deep are you doing?"

"Reminding you of your vow."

Hadrik went still.

Vris stopped before him.

"When Harrowhall fell, I gave your people a choice. I could have taken everything. Instead, I offered them a place in what I was building."

"You did."

"And what happened afterward?"

Hadrik's jaw tightened.

Vris continued.

"Your forges burn. Your children eat. Your people hold their own halls. Have I taken those things from you?"

"No."

"Have I broken my word?"

The dwarf looked away.

"No."

"Then don't mistake this for humiliation."

Vris turned, addressing the entire chamber.

"I cannot prepare this kingdom for war while every commander believes his own people answer to different laws."

His voice carried across the stone.

"When food is counted, it belongs to the Maw. When walls are defended, they are defended by the Maw. When one of our settlements is threatened, I will not have generals debating whether its people share their blood."

He looked back toward Hadrik.

"And when I give an order, I need to know it will be carried out."

Hadrik stared at him.

For a long moment, the dwarf said nothing.

Then he lowered himself onto one knee.

It was not graceful.

It was not cheerful.

But it was deliberate.

"My hammer is yours, Fanglord."

Vris nodded.

"And your people remain mine to protect."

Dunzok stepped forward next.

He planted his axe against the stone and knelt with considerably less hesitation.

"Blackgrin stands with the Maw."

Grond followed.

Then the other commanders.

Maggra remained standing.

Both heads watched Ulg.

The former Trollking knelt nearby, apparently enjoying himself.

One of Maggra's heads bared its teeth.

The other looked toward Vris.

Then she reached up, gripped one of her own tusks, and broke it.

The crack echoed through the chamber.

Several ogres flinched.

Maggra did not.

Blood ran down her jaw.

She stepped forward and placed the tusk at Vris's feet.

"Pride's a heavy thing," one head muttered.

"Not heavier than loyalty," said the other.

Then Maggra knelt.

Vris looked at the broken tusk.

He understood what it had cost her.

He picked it up.

"This belongs on the crown."

Maggra's first head blinked.

The second smiled.

Ulg chuckled.

Maggra turned toward him.

"One more sound, troll."

Vris sighed.

"Enough."

For once, they listened.

The throne had been altered.

Not destroyed.

Vris had forbidden that.

Harrowhall's history belonged to the Stone-Eaters, and he had no intention of erasing it.

Instead, the dwarven craftsmen had expanded the great seat, reinforcing its base and carving new scenes into the stone surrounding it.

The fall of the Southern Fang.

The joining of Blackgrin's orcs.

The battle for Harrowhall.

The Rootweb.

The siege.

The broken bridge where Ulg had yielded.

Each victory was carved beside those that had come before.

The throne no longer told the story of a single people.

It told the story of the Red Maw.

Vris climbed the steps.

He turned.

And sat.

For the first time, the assembled commanders saw him upon the throne of Harrowhall, wearing a crown fashioned from the teeth, tusks, and horns of the peoples gathered before him.

A goblin.

Not quite the goblin he had once been.

His evolution had changed him. His shoulders were broader, his limbs longer, his body approaching the height of a human. Yet his pointed ears, clawed hands, sharp teeth, and ash-gray skin remained unmistakable.

His long black hair fell beneath the crown.

Shadow red eyes surveyed the chamber.

He was still Vris.

But the starving runt who had once fought for scraps beneath the earth seemed very far away.

Eryss Quietfang spoke when the last of the commanders had risen.

"Fanglord."

Vris turned.

"Eryss."

She stepped forward, her movements almost soundless.

"I would ask something."

"Then ask."

Her many eyes shifted toward the two Hollowborn stationed beside the throne.

"Why do they remain?"

The chamber quieted again.

Vris followed her gaze.

"My guards?"

"The Queen's children."

There was no hostility in her voice.

Only precision.

"You have warriors who would die defending you. Your goblins. The orcs. The Stone-Eaters. My own Veilwalkers."

One of her lower hands rested against her curved blade.

"Yet you keep the Hollowborn beside you. And beneath this mountain, you continue your bond with their Queen."

Vris considered her.

"You're concerned."

"Yes."

"About the guards?"

"About what they represent."

Eryss glanced toward the chamber floor.

"The Hollowborn nearly consumed the Rootweb. They are not simply another people seeking shelter beneath your banner. Their Queen commands a hunger that does not recognize our boundaries."

Shirae's expression grew thoughtful.

Hadrik nodded faintly.

Vris leaned back.

"That's a fair concern."

Eryss tilted her head.

"You do not dispute it?"

"No."

The answer surprised several commanders.

Vris looked toward the Hollowborn.

"They're dangerous. Their Queen is dangerous. I know that better than most."

"Then why keep them?"

"Because danger can be useful when you understand it."

Eryss's expression remained unreadable.

Vris continued.

"The Queen has abilities none of us possess. Her brood can move through places our armies cannot reach. They can defend passages too narrow for ogres, too deep for wargs, and too dangerous for ordinary soldiers."

"And if she turns against us?"

"Then I'll have made a terrible mistake."

The blunt answer silenced the chamber.

Vris leaned forward.

"But I haven't forgotten what she is, Eryss. Nor have I forgotten what Ravha is. Or what Maggra can do with the dead. Or what Ulg was doing to this mountain a few weeks ago."

Ulg grinned.

Vris ignored him.

"Every one of you commands something dangerous."

He looked around the chamber.

"The difference is that I'm giving those dangers a purpose."

Eryss studied him.

"And what purpose do you intend for the Queen?"

"One that keeps her beneath the earth until I know her children can survive beyond it."

That drew Shirae's attention.

Vris continued.

"I'm not throwing the Hollowborn onto an open battlefield simply because I can command them. Nor am I dragging their Queen into danger to prove a point."

He looked toward Eryss.

"She's building something for us. Something that may matter when our enemies come."

"May?"

"Nothing is certain."

Eryss inclined her head slightly.

"Then you understand the risk."

"I do."

"And you accept it."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Vris rose from the throne.

"Because I have plans for the Red Maw that extend beyond Harrowhall."

He looked across his generals.

"I didn't bring you together merely to survive beneath these mountains. I won't spend the rest of my life fighting over scraps while humans and elves decide which of us deserves to exist."

His clawed hand rested upon the throne.

"We have the strength to become something more. But strength without preparation is just another way to die."

His gaze moved from Dunzok to Hadrik, from Maggra to Ulg, from Shirae to Eryss.

"Every one of you has something this kingdom needs."

Then his voice hardened.

"We shall carve our place into the bones of this world."

The words settled over the chamber.

Eryss regarded him for several heartbeats.

Then she bowed her head.

"Then I will watch the Queen's children carefully, Fanglord."

Vris smiled faintly.

"Good."

She looked up.

"Good?"

"Keep questioning what threatens us. I'd rather hear an uncomfortable truth now than bury another thousand warriors because nobody wanted to speak."

Eryss's mandibles shifted.

Something almost resembling a smile.

"As you command."

The next summons brought the goblins.

Not the generals.

Not the chieftains.

The goblins who had followed Vris before there had been a throne to claim.

Some were veterans of the earliest burrows. Others had joined during the wars that followed. Scarred, battered, and often overlooked beside the enormous creatures now serving the Red Maw, they gathered in the lower hall uncertain why their Fanglord had called them.

Vris stood before them.

He remembered what it was to be small.

To be hungry.

To look up at a world filled with creatures that could crush him without even noticing.

He remembered Grak.

The burrows.

The first desperate struggles.

And he remembered what he had promised himself.

Never again.

"You've followed me through everything," he told them.

Several goblins straightened.

"You fought when we had no walls. You marched when we had no army. You stood beside creatures twice your size and refused to run."

He looked across their faces.

"Some of you have been with me since the beginning."

A small goblin near the front grinned.

"Still here, Fanglord!"

A few others laughed.

Vris smiled.

"Yes. You are."

He stepped closer.

"And I'm going to make certain you can keep saying that."

The Shadow Marks along his arms stirred.

Darkness gathered around his clawed hands.

The goblins watched.

Vris had evolved before.

He had marked warriors.

Strengthened allies.

Changed the very nature of those who followed him.

But this was different.

He was not choosing a single champion.

He was choosing the foundation of something new.

The first goblin stepped forward.

Vris placed a hand against his chest.

Shadow spread across the smaller creature's body.

The goblin cried out.

His bones shifted.

Muscles thickened.

His spine straightened as his body grew taller, broader, denser. Dark markings traced themselves beneath his skin, and his crimson-lit eyes widened as the transformation settled.

When it ended, he stood nearly a head taller than before.

His hands had become larger.

His claws longer.

His shoulders broader.

He stared at himself.

Then at Vris.

"Fanglord…"

Vris nodded.

"How do you feel?"

The goblin flexed his fingers.

A grin spread across his face.

"Like I could punch an orc."

Dunzok, watching from the doorway, barked a laugh.

"Try it!"

"Don't," Vris said.

The goblin lowered his hands.

"Right."

More followed.

Not all changed in the same way.

Some grew heavily muscled, their bodies suited for holding a defensive line. Others became leaner and longer-limbed, their movements quicker and more precise. A few developed sharper senses, their ears lengthening and their eyes adapting to darkness.

Vris watched each transformation carefully.

He did not give them strength without purpose.

He was building guards.

Soldiers who could protect the halls.

Warriors who could stand between Maz and danger.

A cadre who would answer directly to the throne.

When the transformations ended, the newly evolved goblins knelt.

Vris regarded them.

"You will be the Fangguard."

The name passed through the chamber.

"You will protect Harrowhall. You will guard the royal chambers. You will defend our people when our armies march beyond these mountains."

He looked across their changed faces.

"And you will remember where you came from."

The first goblin nodded fiercely.

"We won't forget, Fanglord."

Vris believed him.

He hoped he was right.

The final council lasted until the braziers burned low.

Vris stood before a vast stone table covered in maps, supply tallies, and carved markers representing the Red Maw's forces.

His generals surrounded him.

This time, they were not arguing over pride.

They were discussing work.

"Hadrik."

The dwarf looked up.

"Hammergate comes first. Reinforce the approaches. Expand the storehouses. I want secondary gates, defensible passages, and escape routes that don't lead our people into dead ends."

Hadrik nodded.

"And the forges?"

"Keep them burning. Weapons, armor, tools. Whatever you need, tell me."

"Damn right I will."

"Dunzok."

The orc straightened.

"Your warriors will train the new recruits. Goblins, trolls, whoever can hold a weapon. I want mixed formations."

Dunzok frowned.

"Mixed?"

"Orcs beside goblins. Trolls supporting dwarven shield lines. Ogres where their strength matters."

"That'll be ugly."

"Better ugly in training than dead in battle."

Dunzok grinned.

"Fair."

"Maggra."

Both heads turned.

"I want your undead organized into separate formations. No more leaving them scattered wherever the fighting ended. Count them. Maintain them. Find out how many you can command without exhausting yourself."

One head nodded.

The other glanced toward Ulg.

"And if I find more trolls?"

"Living ones stay living."

Maggra grumbled.

Ulg laughed.

Vris pointed at him.

"Ulg."

The troll straightened.

"Your people will help rebuild Hammergate. After that, I want them trained to fight alongside the others. No more independent raids. No more taking supplies because you're hungry."

Ulg folded his arms.

"And if they don't like it?"

"Then remind them why you're still alive."

The Trollking's grin returned.

"Aye. That should do it."

"Shirae."

The Ethrani inclined her head.

"I need the Rootweb's help reinforcing the deeper passages. Living stone. Early warnings. Anything that tells us an enemy is approaching before they reach our gates."

"We can provide much of that," she answered. "But the Rootweb will need time to recover."

"Then take the time. I won't strip it bare to defend Harrowhall."

Shirae's expression softened slightly.

"Understood."

"Eryss."

The Veilwalker stepped forward.

"Your people know these tunnels better than most. I want scouts in every passage leading toward our territory. Watch the surface approaches. Watch the Hollowborn. Watch anything that moves where it shouldn't."

"And if we find something?"

"Report first. Kill if necessary."

She bowed.

"As you command."

Vris looked toward the remaining commanders.

"Food production. Water distribution. Housing. Medicine. I want numbers, not guesses. We have more mouths than ever, and I won't have us starving while we congratulate ourselves on winning a war."

Hadrik nodded approvingly.

"Finally, someone says it."

Vris placed both hands upon the table.

"The humans know something is happening beneath these mountains. The elves will hear soon enough. Brightharbor has fallen to the High Orcs, and that means the world beyond our borders is already changing."

He looked at Dunzok.

"Tharok won't remain idle."

"No," the orc agreed. "He won't."

"And neither will we."

Vris studied the map.

The Red Maw had survived goblin wars, orc wars, dwarven wars, the Hollowborn, and the Trollking.

But survival was no longer enough.

He needed roads.

Storehouses.

Walls.

Soldiers who could fight together.

Commanders who obeyed the same orders.

A kingdom that could endure the absence of its king.

He looked toward the crown resting beside the maps.

Fang.

Tusk.

Horn.

Bone.

Pieces of different peoples, bound together by iron.

An imperfect thing.

Perhaps that was fitting.

The Red Maw was imperfect too.

Its peoples quarreled. Its generals resented one another. Its new subjects carried old grudges, and its victories had left scars that would not disappear simply because their enemies now knelt.

But the foundations were there.

Vris straightened.

"Begin tomorrow."

Dunzok grinned.

"Tomorrow?"

"At dawn."

Hadrik chuckled.

"Should've known."

The generals began to disperse, already discussing assignments and arguing over labor.

Vris let them.

Arguments over how to build something were preferable to arguments over whether it should exist.

When the chamber finally emptied, he remained beside the table.

Beyond the mountain, the world was moving.

Somewhere, human kings were gathering their armies.

Somewhere, elven courts were weighing rumors of a goblin who had become something more.

And somewhere, Tharok Stonehowl was preparing his next conquest.

Vris looked toward the throne.

Then toward the halls where Maz rested.

Their child would be born into whatever world he managed to build.

That thought settled more heavily upon him than the crown ever could.

He had spent his first life powerless.

His second had begun in hunger and blood.

He would not allow his child's life to begin the same way.

Vris returned his attention to the map.

The Red Maw needed to be ready.

And this time, he intended to make certain it was.