The pillar of smoke had been visible even a full day before we arrived. But now, seeing it up close, the city of Oldar was like nothing else.
Oldar was built into the side of an active volcano and run by dwarves known for turning fire and stone into wonders. Lava flowed through channels shaped like canals. Two huge statues, each hundreds of feet tall, flanked a massive gate. Even if Sivares stretched as high as possible, she couldn’t reach the top of that enormous door.
Even amid the thick smoke, drifting ash, and dangerous gases, they could see people, tiny from afar, working all over the mountain. Engineers, miners, guards, and forgemasters all kept busy in the heat and haze.
Damon turned to check the parley flag, still tied to the saddle and flapping in the wind. Good. They needed the dwarves to know they weren’t here to start a fight.
As they approached the gate, they could see cannons and bluestone ballistas perched along the cliff walls. At least they weren’t aimed at them.
Sivares landed gently in front of the massive doors. The heat rolled over them in waves. Damon slid off her back, boots crunching on the blackened stone.
“Here goes nothing,” he muttered.
The heat radiated off the volcanic stone. Damon slid down from the saddle and approached what he thought were two bronze statues standing guard.
Then one of them moved.
“Oh, what business brings you here, lad?” the statue said in a deep, gravelly voice. It wasn’t a statue at all; it was a dwarf clad in solid bronze armor, standing so still it had fooled Damon entirely.
Damon reached into his bag and pulled out a folded slip of parchment. “I’ve got an order form from Boarif, son of Doarif. Mining supplies.”
He handed the document to the guard, who gave it a glance and snorted.
“Looks legit. Alright, lad, you can come in. Just mind your dragon friend and don’t cause trouble, you hear?”
Damon gave his usual practiced smile. “Don’t worry, we’re here to deliver, not to stir anything up.”
The dwarf gave a wave to someone unseen behind the gate. A channel of lava diverted, flowing into a carved stone basin that triggered a massive gearwheel. Damon watched in awe as the giant stone gates slowly ground open, thick clouds of steam hissing from the seams.
As the massive stone doors finished opening, a wave of heat rushed out to meet them. Damon immediately felt the sweat forming on his back. It had to be well over a hundred degrees in here.
The inside of Oldar was a sprawling hive of activity. Rows and rows of carved stone bluffs layered the inside of the mountain, connected by ramps and stairs. People, mostly dwarves, moved along them in steady streams. The clang of hammers striking metal rang through the air like a steady heartbeat.
One of the gate guards turned back toward them. “You’ll want Level B2, Section 4, that area’s human-friendly, and that’s where your order’s headed. Try not to get lost.”
Sivares walked slowly behind Damon, her claws tapping against the stone. She kept her tail tightly coiled, careful not to knock over any crates or step on anything moving. Damon felt like he was melting, his clothes already clinging to his skin.
“Flame Guard!” Keys squeaked from Damon’s satchel, holding her paws out. A soft shimmer of light rippled through the air around them, and suddenly Damon felt a wave of cool air wrap around his body. He took a relieved breath.
“Thanks, Keys,” he sighed. “You okay?”
The little mouse mage was panting. “It was too hot. I cast a heat-shielding spell. Might need snacks after this.”
Damon looked over at Sivares. “You holding up?”
Sivares looked completely at ease. She even yawned. “Honestly? It’s kind of nice in here. Warm. Cozy. I could take a nap right here.”
Walking through the city felt unreal. The cavern ceiling was so high it almost looked like open sky, except for the orange glow of lava channels along the walls. Dwarves moved around Sivares without hesitation, sometimes giving her a second glance or muttering, “Huh, dragon,” before going back to their day.
Oldar was different.
Magma flowed like water, channeled through stonework that gleamed with intense heat. Wisps of steam curled from pressure vents, and every breath Damon took tasted of sulfur and iron, sharp and metallic on his tongue.
He was thankful for Keys' spell, which kept most of the heat at bay as the lettel moust focused on it to be able to talk.
He couldn’t stop staring. The city around him was a wonder—every inch of stonework an act of devotion. Joints so tight he could barely find the seams, surfaces polished to a glassy sheen. Statues lined the winding paths: some rough and simple, others so exquisite he had to touch them to believe they were stone. One looked like a gray-barked tree from afar, but up close, every sculpted leaf curled and forked in lifelike detail, the artistry almost overwhelming.
Damon and his companions threaded their way through the city, following hand-painted signs and etched markers. The hum of work and the dazzling artistry surrounded them at every turn, making it easy to lose track of their destination. Eventually, they reached a small general store tucked into a shaded corner alcove.
“Excuse me,” Damon said, stepping up to the counter. “I have an order form here.”
Behind the counter stood a female dwarf with strong arms, soot-streaked sleeves, and the expression of someone who hadn’t smiled in at least a hundred years.
She raised an eyebrow. “Lemme see it, then.”
Damon reached into his bag and pulled out Boarif’s order form, handing it to the dwarf behind the counter.
She gave it a quick glance, then squinted. “Hmm. Looks like the molten prince wants shovels, picks, and some blasting powder.” She looked up at Sivares. “How much can she carry?”
Damon thought for a moment. “I’d say about six of me.”
The dwarf raised a brow and looked Damon up and down. “You look to be about ten stones. So that’s sixty stones total for her. But you’re human, so maybe thirty stones max for a safe load. More than that, and you’re asking for a sore back and broken gear.”
Damon rechecked the list, doing some quick math in his head. If he was right, they only needed twenty shovels, twenty picks, and about fifteen stones' worth of black powder. That would put them right at the thirty-stone limit.
“Sounds doable,” he said, then paused. “Wait, just to check… did you say ‘stones’ as in weight? That’s like... three of me.”
“Aye,” the dwarf said, folding the paper. “Three of you stacked and sweating.”
Damon looked to Sivares, who just nodded. “I might need to take breaks, but I can manage.”
He nodded back, trusting her. Then he pulled out the silver coins Boarif had given him for the purchase and handed them to the clerk.
As the dwarf behind the counter called toward the back of the store, several more dwarves emerged, wiping their hands on aprons and giving Sivares a long look.
One of them muttered, “Probably gonna need to rig something custom for this.”
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Sivares suddenly found herself the center of attention and instinctively shrank down a bit. She mumbled to herself, “Just don’t move…”
She crouched low to make it easier for them to load her up. The dwarves worked quickly, strapping closed bags of mining supplies and securing a keg of black powder to her back, just behind the spot where Damon usually sat.
When they finished, Sivares gave a small hop in place to test the weight, wings flaring slightly for balance.
“I can do this,” she said with a breath, then looked to Damon. “So next is Willowthorn, right? We need to drop off Vivlen’s letter.”
Damon nodded, already checking the route in his head.
“Then after that,” he continued, “we head back to Dustdwarf Hold to deliver this to Boarif. Should take maybe four days of flying, give or take.”
After we got our change, fourteen bronze coins, we put them away to give back to Boarif later and walked down the stone halls of the city. The dwarves here were doing well. If Damon had to pick one word for them, it would be 'focused.' Unless something huge happened, nothing broke their concentration. Even a dragon walking down the main street only got a few glances before everyone went back to work.
That was fine. Better than weapons drawn and shouts of panic.
Still, one dwarf stood out, an old one, even by dwarf standards. He looked like he needed a hand, hunched and breathing heavy, but the others were too focused on their own tasks to notice.
“Excuse me,” Damon said, stepping over. “You need a hand?”
The old dwarf waved it off. “Naw, just need a breather is all.”
“You sure?” Damon said, eyeing him. “You kinda look like you’re about to keel over.”
“It’s no problem,” the dwarf insisted. “Just need to get to Level R7 Point, about halfway up the mountain.”
“It's no problem at all,” Sivares said, stepping closer and lowering herself.
The dwarf looked at them and, with a sigh, said, "Fine lad, you win this one," as he let them help him.
Damon moved to assist the old dwarf up onto her back, and the group began walking in that direction.
“So… you must have stories, right?” Damon asked, glancing up at the old dwarf riding on Sivares’s back.
The old dwarf gave a low chuckle, his voice gravelly with age and pipe smoke. “Aye, lad. Got more stories than years, and I’ve lived through more winters than some mountains.” He tapped Sivares’s scales lightly. “First time I’ve ever ridden a dragon, though. Always figured I’d be in a belly, not a saddle, when that happened.”
Damon grinned. “Well, glad we could help make it happen while you're still breathing.” He pointed to a statue as they passed it. “That one’s of Dagamoth the Skull-Cracker. He's got some giant blood in him, they said he grew taller than one. Fought in the War of Blood and Stone.”
Damon blinked. “Not familiar with that one.”
“Aye, figured. You humans were on one of your expansion kicks about four hundred winters ago. Got too close to our doorstep. That war lasted two years. We may be strong and stubborn, but fighting humans? Stones below, you're the most annoying foes we've ever faced. Like rats. Kill one, and ten more take their place.”
He gave a wheezing chuckle. “That’s how Oldar went from an independent city to a state under your kingdom. Our king got demoted to duke. But we still call him King Under the Mountain. Drives your lords mad when he shows up to court, and they still have to greet him like royalty.”
Damon laughed. “So you lost the war, but kept the title?”
“Aye,” the dwarf said, grinning through his beard. “You may have won, but we’re the more stubborn folk.”
As they made their way up the winding paths of the dwarven mountain city, the old dwarf relaxed slightly on Sivares’ back, letting the warmth of her scales soothe his aching bones.
“You know,” he muttered, half to himself, “people think it's the fire and the hammers that make a city like Oldar run. But it’s the stone that holds the memory. Have you ever listened to Stone, lad?”
Damon blinked. “Listen to it?”
“Aye,” the dwarf nodded, tapping one of the walls as they passed. “Stone remembers. You cut it wrong, it'll remind you every time you pass by. Trip your boot, throw off your cart, shift just so your whole forge’s off balance. But cut it right, cut it true, and it sings.”
He gave a fond, almost wistful smile. “I worked these tunnels longer than your great-granddad has been alive. Built half of this level and helped lay the foundation under the Great Hall. When my time comes, I ask them to carve my name into the floor stones. Not high up, mind, on the path. So folk walk over it every day. Let the weight of the city press down and remember me.”
Sivares tilted her head, listening with quiet respect. Damon walked beside her, brows raised.
“That’s… kinda beautiful, actually,” Damon admitted.
“Don’t go telling everyone,” the old dwarf grunted. “Got a reputation to keep, can’t have the other think I'm getting soft in my years.”
He leaned forward slightly, gesturing ahead. “See those dark stones on the arch? Black basalt. Ain’t natural form here. We brought it up from the Wyrmdeep Mines, four days through lava tunnels. We lost five men hauling it. Still worth it. Strongest stone we’ve got. We use it to hold back the heat in the Great Forge Vaults. That’s dwarven pride, dying for a rock that’ll never crack.”
Sivares flicked her tail carefully to the side to avoid a stone marker. “Why go through all that? Just to hold a little heat back?”
“Because that stone won’t fail us. And neither did the men who laid it,” the old dwarf said firmly. “We don’t build fast. We build forever.”
They walked in silence a bit longer as the city pulsed around them with hammer strikes and lava flows. Then the dwarf let out a long sigh.
“Truth is,” he murmured, “I ain’t been up here in years. After my third back break, they reassigned me to blueprint reading. Sat me at a desk. Thought I’d never see the stone halls again. But today? Today, I felt the mountain beneath me. I remembered why we built.”
He patted Sivares' side with a grateful grunt. “And I owe that to you two. A dragon, and a stringy lad with a sharp smile.”
“You’re welcome,” Sivares said quietly.
They reached a wide stone landing with several seated dwarves enjoying mugs of something hot and strong. The old dwarf gently slid down, grunting but grinning.
“Well,” he said, tapping his knees, “still got a pulse. That’s a good sign.”
He looked back at Damon. “You keep that dragon close, lad. Not because she’s strong, but because she listens. That’s rarer than gold.”
He gave a respectful nod to Sivares, then turned, walking with slow dignity toward his seat, muttering to one of his fellows, “Tell Grodvin I finally got off my arse and touched sky again.”
As they watched the old dwarf hobble off toward his friends, chuckling and sharing stories, Damon glanced down at his bag.
“Keys? You okay?” he asked softly. “You’ve been quiet even for you.”
From inside the bag, a faint voice replied, “I’m good. Just holding the spell. Takes a lot of focus.”
He gave a small nod. Damon reached into his bag and handed the old dwarf a folded piece of paper. “Well, let’s get moving then. Once we’re clear of the heat, you can grab a snack. And hey, probably time to start thinking about dinner anyway.”
“That sounds good,” she murmured, her voice a little strained, but calm. A hint of weariness crept into her usually sprightly tone, the kind that only came when she was pushing herself too hard for too long.
Damon adjusted the strap and gave her a gentle pat through the bag. “Hang in there, pocket mage. Almost done for the day.”
"Good, I could use a snack. Hopefully something cold," Keys muttered, looking like she could use a nap too.
With Sivares carefully stepping onto the next ramp, the trio continued to their next delivery, the rhythmic sound of hammers and molten flows echoing faintly around them.
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
At the edge of the street, the old dwarf watched the trio disappear into the glow of the stone halls, Damon waving, Sivares carrying the load with quiet grace, and Keys curled in the bag, holding her spell.
“Hah,” the elder chuckled to himself. “First time I’ve ridden a dragon. Though I suppose it was just a polite ride to the pup.”
One of his companions, a thick-bearded dwarf in a leather apron, ambled over with a mug in hand. “There you are, King Dagamoth,” he said, offering the drink with a grin. “Thought you might need somethin’ to get that lift your spine.”
The old dwarf, King under the Mountain, though the title hadn’t held official power in decades, took the mug and downed the brew in one long pull. It smelled strong enough to strip paint and tasted like someone had dared lava to ferment.
“Aye…” he said, smacking his lips. “That’ll put fire in the beard.”
Another dwarf nearby looked up from his stone chisel. “Was that really a dragon just now?”
“Ye blind, boy?” Dagamoth barked with a smirk. “She walked right past you. Tail longer than a wagon train, wings tucked politely as a nun, and a human on her back like it was the most normal thing in the world!”
A few heads turned now, muttering spreading among the nearby workers.
“Y’know,” Dagamoth said, sitting down on a crate with a sigh, “maybe we’re all too focused on the stone. We spend so much time looking down that we forget the world keeps moving. A dragon walked into our halls today, a kind one, and most of you didn’t even notice. She even gave this old lump of granite a ride.”
He chuckled again, eyes glinting with warmth.
“I think it’s time we started looking up now and then. The world doesn’t wait for us, lads. We might miss it as it walks right by.”
The dwarves murmured in agreement, some finally looking around at the artistry of the statues, at the glow of the lava streams, and at the grand, living city they called home.
Dagamoth leaned back, took a draught of his drink with a satisfied sigh. “Aye… that was a good ride.”
Magma flowed like water, channeled through stonework that gleamed with intense heat. Wisps of steam curled from pressure vents, and every breath Damon took tasted of sulfur and iron, sharp and metallic on his tongue.
He couldn’t stop staring. The city around him was a wonder, every inch of stonework an act of devotion. Joints so tight he could barely find the seams, surfaces polished to a glassy sheen. Statues lined the winding paths: some rough and simple, others so exquisite he had to touch them to believe they were stone. One looked like a gray-barked tree from afar, but up close, every sculpted leaf curled and forked in lifelike detail, the artistry almost overwhelming.
He took another swig of his brew, smacked his lips, and nodded with satisfaction. “Maybe I’ll make an order meself. Haven’t had fresh fish in two hundred years.” He gave a sideways glance to his companions. “Might be worth seein’ if the young ones still know how to gut a trout.”
The dwarves laughed, and the king sat quietly, watching the shadows of the trio fade into the mountain's depths. A dragon, a mage-mouse, and a mailboy, odd company, but oddly comforting.
For the first time in a long while, Dagamoth felt like the world above might just be worth peeking at again
