Chapter 10:Shock
The deep hum of the golden throne vibrated through Elias as he sat, a conduit to the island's ancient power. Below, at the monumental staircase's base, Thorold knelt with calm reverence. Beside him, dwarfed by the lions' looming presence, knelt Grondir Stoneheart. The Dwarf Chieftain trembled violently, his head bowed so low his iron-braided grey beard brushed the gleaming step, radiating pure terror.
Thorold's voice, steady as bedrock, cut the heavy silence. "My Lord, this is Grondir Stoneheart, Chieftain of the Skyfallen Clan, son of Borin the Protector."
Elias leaned forward, the throne's dragons and phoenixes seeming to shift. His voice, amplified yet gentle, resonated through the chamber. "Rise, Chieftain Grondir. You kneel before a friend, not a foe. Lift your head. There is nothing to fear from me here."
Slowly, Grondir raised his head. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, were wide with fear, fixed on Elias like a cornered animal.
Elias met his gaze, projecting calm assurance. "I am not Kaelen. I seek not to chain your people or plunder your secrets. I seek allies. Partners. Tell me of the Skyfallen. How many souls did the storm bring to these shores?"
Grondir swallowed hard, his voice a rough, gravelly whisper thick with emotion. "Two... two hundred and fifty, my Lord. Men, women... children."
"Two hundred and fifty," Elias repeated, the weight settling deeper. "Tell me, Chieftain Grondir. Where did your journey begin? How did fate bring you to this Island?"
A profound sadness clouded Grondir's dark eyes, replacing some fear with deep grief. "We hailed from *Khazad-Murund*, Lord... the Glittering Deep. Our mountain hold within the Star Kingdom realm." Bitterness edged his voice. "Our craft... it became our curse. The Star King and his vassal kingdoms coveted the Heartstone veins beneath our halls – veins we tended as sacred trust. Worse, they demanded we forge weapons of war for their endless conquests. When we refused..." Grondir's fist clenched on his knee, knuckles white. "...they sent Legions. Not just soldiers, Lord. Battle-Golems, giants of metal and magic. We held the deep gates, but... we were outnumbered, overwhelmed. Our only path was flight. We took to the seas in desperation, seeking sanctuary... only to be met by a storm sent by the gods themselves, it seemed. It shattered our vessels, cast us adrift, and finally... wrecked us upon these shores." He gestured weakly around the throne room. "Refugees of greed and tempest."
Elias absorbed the tragedy. "Your craft, Chieftain... Thorold spoke of its greatness. In my studies, I learned that masters of the forge, the alchemist's art, and the rune-shaper's path are all measured in Nine Ranks, from the novice First to the legendary Ninth. Some ancient texts even whisper of a mythical Tenth Rank, unseen for ages beyond count. What rank do you hold among your people?"
Grondir seemed to brace himself, resignation in his posture. "I am... a Master Smith of the Ninth Rank, my Lord."
**The words struck Elias like a thunderclap.**
He shot upright from the throne, rigid as stone. A visible tremor ran through him. The resonant hum of the throne stuttered, faltering for a heartbeat. Below, Thorold stared, startled by the violent reaction. Grondir flinched as if struck, terror flooding back. He slammed his forehead back onto the golden step.
"Forgive me, Lord Sovereign!" he choked out, voice ragged with panic. "If my words offend, if my rank displeases, I beg mercy! I meant no boast, only truth!"
Elias seemed not to hear the plea. He stared down, eyes wide with disbelief. "W-what did you say your rank was?" he demanded, his voice tight.
Still pressed to the step, Grondir whispered, "Ninth Rank, my Lord. Master Smith of the Ninth Rank."
Elias swayed slightly. "Ninth Rank... How... how long have you held this rank?"
"Not long, Lord," Grondir murmured, confused by the line of questioning but desperate to comply. "Only... only five hundred years."
*Five hundred years? Not long?* Elias's mind reeled. *Five centuries is an eternity for a man!* He thought of his father's empire. The Imperial Armory was headed by a revered Master of the *Fifth* Rank. That man received honors fit for a prince, deferred to even by the Emperor himself. Elias recalled his mother's cherished, ancient bestiary – *Beings of Myth and Might*. Its chapter on Dwarven craft stated plainly: *That they were three known Humans of the Ninth Rank walk the realms.* A incredulous smile began to spread across Elias's face, utterly unbidden.
"And... are there others?" Elias asked, his voice barely above a whisper, dreading and yearning the answer. "Others of the Ninth Rank in your clan?"
Grondir, still prone, answered hesitantly. "Yes, Lord. Two others. Master Durin Forgeheart and Master Freya Runebeard."
This time, Elias didn't just sway. His legs seemed to buckle. He collapsed back onto the golden throne with a soft thud, the breath driven from his lungs. He sat utterly speechless, staring into the middle distance, the smile frozen on his face, overwhelmed. *Three.* *Three Rank Nine Masters.* His father's Fifth-Ranker was suddenly a novice by comparison.
Thorold watched, deeply concerned. Grondir remained frozen, bewildered.
After a long moment, Elias found his voice, weak but urgent. "The others... your clan... their ranks?"
Grondir cautiously lifted his head again, seeing Elias's state was shock, not fury. "The children, Lord, those under a century old, are mostly Third or Fourth Rank as they learn. The rest... the journeymen and masters... they stand at the Seventh and Eighth Ranks."
Elias weakly slumped further into the throne. The sheer concentration of power was staggering. "How?" he breathed. "How do you rise so swiftly? To hold such ranks...?"
Grondir looked at Elias with genuine confusion, mixed with a flicker of pity. "Lord... it is our nature. Dwarflings are born with an affinity, emerging at the Third Rank. The hammer, the flame, the rune... they are in our blood. As we learn, as we craft, the ranks rise naturally. Five hundred years to Ninth is... respectable, but not extraordinary among our kind. This is common knowledge." He paused, adding gently, "Perhaps... perhaps your surface world has lost the deeper teachings?"
Elias could only nod numbly, the gulf between Dwarven reality and human understanding vast. He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to focus. He leaned forward again, his gaze intense but kind upon Grondir. "Chieftain Grondir. Hear me. You and your people are safe. Bring them up. Bring them *all* up. I will have quarters prepared within the palace, secure and honored. You need hide no more. I swear it, by the power of this throne and the heartstone beneath us, I am not like the lords before. Your sanctuary is here."
Grondir stared, the terror finally dissolving, replaced by a dawning, hesitant hope. He looked at Thorold, who gave a firm, encouraging nod. Then, with sudden, decisive movement, Grondir drew a small, wickedly sharp knife from his belt. Before Elias could react, Grondir slashed it across his own calloused palm. Dark blood welled, dripping onto the ancient golden step. He raised his bleeding hand, meeting Elias's eyes with fierce determination.
"Then hear *my* oath, Lord Elias! By my blood, by the stone, by the memory of Borin Stonehand, if you keep this vow... the Skyfallen Clan is yours. Our hammers, our anvils, our very lives – we pledge to you. Command us, and we shall forge your future!"
Elias felt the resonance in the throne deepen, accepting the pact. "Your pledge is accepted, Chieftain Grondir Stoneheart. I will keep you safe. Go. Bring your people home."
Grondir and Thorold rose. With one last look of awe and newfound loyalty at the young man on the ancient throne, they turned and left the vast chamber.