Untitled -- Original Draft

“Hail, cousin, and well met! It's been a long year!” cried Urist McGhortaz, raising his flask in greeting. He was a famous tradesdwarf and the royally-appointed broker of the great mountainhome Mulagrieveb—which in the Common Tongue was called Glacierbone.
“Well met ya'self, ya drunken oaf!” roared Urist McHindin, who was, to be precise, McGhortaz's sixth cousin thrice-removed, coming from the far-flung fortress Granitechurned.
“No more drunken than you, lad! Our fortunes rise and fall together!” said McGhortaz, laughing. “What took the caravan so long? We expected you a month and half ago. It's late Timber now, and nigh on winter, don't you know?”
McHindin shook his head gravely, causing his double-braided, rust-colored beard to swing to and fro. As he crested the rise and clasped McGhortaz's hand, one could see that the cousins were of a height, less than a hand under four feet.
“Bandits, lad,” McHindin said. “And some magpie-men, and near a dozen raids by stinkin' goblins. And also...” His ochre eyes suddenly seemed distant. “We...last night we had some trouble with a werecreature.”
“A werecreature!?” McGhortaz swore loudly. “This close to the mountainhome? By Armok's beard, what happened?”
“It happened right as twilight fell. We were stopping for the night when we heard this human chap shouting for help. Well, naturally, the guards went to try, but by the time they got there the moon was up, and there was no human—just a pair of angry werelemurs.
“Well, our marksdwarves filled 'em full of quarrels. One of 'em dropped on the spot and turned back to a human, but the other one pounced right at the captain of the guards. It would have had him too, but my nephew shoved him out of the way and stabbed it with his spear, and...it bit him.”
“Oh gods.” McGhortaz grasped his cousin's shoulder as he shuddered, and passed his flask over. After a deep swig of Glacierbone rum, McHindin continued, his eyes closed tight.
“Well, the spear didn't kill the werelemur, but it kept the bastard still, and the Mace Lord crushed it. By the time he did, though, my poor nephew was staring at the moon and shaking. And shrinking. The Mace Lord didn't give him time to transform. He...he bashed his head and made an end of it.”
“It was for the best, coz.”
“Aye...” McHindin took another pull of rum and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “We didn't have a coffin with us. Do...do ya think they'd bury him here? I know it's what he'd have wanted: to be laid to rest in the mountainhome...” He trailed off, but McGhortaz nodded firmly.
“His family's got a plot here. Established by your own great-great-granduncle, I believe.” Truth be told, McGhortaz didn't have the authority to ensure it. He would have to ask one of the noblemen directly, but it comforted McHindin immensely.
“Anyway,” he continued, “the wagon's in the depot now, so why don't you go find the Duke and get that trade agreement hammered out? I'll see to the goods.” McHindin nodded, handing back the now significantly lighter flask.
“I'll see ya later, then, cousin.”
“Aye.”
* * *
After haggling fiercely with the caravan from Granitechurned, signing away almost all of that material to Syrupleaf, pinching his nose at the wagon that came from Waterburned, and staggering back from horror at the dead-eyed merchants from Boatmurdered, Urist McGhortaz turned at last to meet the final traders of the day: a noble messenger from the fortress Grimbore, which was clear on the other side of the planet, and had been presumed lost for many years. All nobles and other migrants sent there apparently vanished without trace, and no trade or mail ever came. He examined the message and found a forest-green wax seal impressed with a warhammer and a gout of dragonbreath. The dwarf who brought it would say no more about it, however, and asked only after what value he could get for trading crafts of dragon bone and dragon leather, so McGhortaz tucked it in his pocket and commenced to haggling once more.
After concluding the trade talks for the day, he returned to his study to make a comprehensive list of what goods had been traded and what had been obtained. He left it on the bookkeeper's in-tray, in the office across the hall, and then leaned into the office beyond that to speak to the manager about burying McHindin's nephew. Finally, he returned to his own office and opened he letter from Grimbore, which read in a flowing script:

Hail, friends of the mountainhome,
I have heard tell that you, too, have mastered the mining of slade. I would congratulate you, for I truly believed that no other would be able to do so, but I must also, however, warn you. Having mined adamantine in the quantities that you must have done in order to obtain slade, you have already faced horrors beyond imagination. I regret to inform you, however, that this is only the beginning. The value of slade is unimaginable, as you must realize, and the presence of too valuable and powerful a fortress of dwarves is considered an offense to Armok, and may result in this world being terrorized by even greater threats. At the last, our world may well be unmade. By my estimate, it will take the better part of a year for this warning to reach you. I would have sent it earlier, but since I mined slade myself, my home has been under constant siege by everything under the sun and under the rock of the earth, working in concert to destroy us. Now some new monstrosity approaches. I can hear its thunderous footfalls even now. I only hope that this message reaches you, and that you do not mine too much slade before it is too late.
In the true blood,
Cacame Awemedinade Monípalóthi,
The Immortal Onslaught,
Elf King of the Dwarves

McGhortaz set the letter down slowly. Slade? Terrors? Elf king of dwarves? Not a bit of this added up. As he began to ponder what it all might mean, an earthshaking BOOM rattled the fortress, and nearly shook him from his chair. What in Armok's name was that?
* * *
Urist McHindin was, at heart, a country dwarf, and even after visiting many times, the grand hallways of the mountainhome never ceased to awe him. Statues were arranged tastefully everywhere the eye could see on either side of the main hall, in nearly every material imaginable. There were masterpiece engravings upon every wall, and the floor itself was an even greater wonder, a checkerboard of a brilliantly-shining cyan metal and a stone so black it seemed to absorb the light that hit it.
He paused, stepping off the masterpiece royal-blue carpet to examine the floor more closely. The metal was clearly every dwarf's dream: adamantine. Adamantine had once been thought the rarest material in the world: a wondrous metal many times stronger and harder than steel, yet lighter even than wood. It was notoriously difficult to find, and even more frustrating to refine, needing to be extracted in strands from the ore before it could be smelted. It was not at all uncommon for a dwarf to never see adamantine in his life, because few mines delved deeply enough to find veins of it. The rumor that mining adamantine could be dangerous due to an ancient curse that promised destruction on those who did so was, these days, considered to be a mere superstition. After all, any dwarf who visited Glacierbone could see that adamantine had been mined there, and the mountainhome was as safe as ever. McHindin had always dismissed those rumors too, except... He shifted his gaze to the black stone. The dark squares of the checkerboard had been obsidian the last time he visited, with last year's caravan. This, however was something else entirely. The rest of those rumors... Could it really be...
“It's slade,” said a passing dwarf, who had paused to watch him staring at the floor, his black eyes glinting, and his black beard streaked with grey worn in an elaborate triple-braid.
McHindin jumped. He had spoken the last part aloud. “Slade?” he asked quickly, to cover his surprise. He had indeed heard rumors of slade—a mythical continuation of the so-called curse upon adamantine. “Ya mean the legend that some adamantine veins are hollow, and lead to an eerie cavern made from the densest stone imaginable are—”
“Completely true, yes,” the other supplied. “Slade is a full 200,000 urist solid density.(1)”
“But...but that's more than nine times denser than platinum!(2)” McHindin exclaimed weakly.
“Yep, and all but impossible to mine, of course. Every pick we swung would shatter and not even leave a mark on it. It was years before we learned the knack of it, and even now, we don't get very much.”
“There's that little?”
“No, lad, the knack just isn't safe. It involves tunneling down below the Pit and over through—well, I shouldn't be telling you this.” He straightened up suddenly. Being taller than McHindin, he looked over his head, then around at the relatively empty hall. “It's not my place to share the king's secrets. I'm the only one left who can.”
“But—”
“Look lad, promise me you'll keep quiet, and I'll give you something. Okay?”
“Oh, all right. Aye, I'll keep quiet.” Urist McHindin was a dwarf of his word.
“Here.” The dwarf reached into his pocket, and pulled out...a rock? He tossed it to McHindin, who was about to catch it when there was a tremendous BOOM, and the entire fortress shook. He fumbled the catch spectacularly, and as a result, the rock hit him in the stomach and knocked the wind out of him. Momentarily stunned, he slowly closed his fingers around the rock and straightened up. The other dwarf was nowhere to be seen. He looked down at the rock that was weighing down his hand. It was slade. Shorter than the length of his first finger, and yet it weighed easily 10,000,000 urist!(3) Another BOOM shook him from his reverie. Quickly pulling a piece of giant cave spider silk rope from his pocket, he attached the rock securely to his belt, which he then tightened to be sure that the extra weight in his pocket would not pull his trousers down.
* * *
BOOM.
McGhortaz jumped to his feet. There was no quake predicted for another month at least. Could there have been a cave-in? At the mountainhome? It seemed impossible. There was yet another BOOM which almost shook him to the floor again, but he regained his balance and ran into the hallway, and into pandemonium.
Dwarves were running in every direction, hardly slowing when they bumped into each other. Two such dwarves were lying against the wall, having knocked themselves out. McGhortaz flung out a hand and snagged the arm of a messenger of the fortress guard sprinting by.
“What's happened?”
“Get off me you tree-fondling...!—oh, it's you, sir.” The messenger looked suddenly nervous, but McGhortaz didn't have time for it.
“What was that sound, soldier?”
“Some sort of titan, we think, sir.”
“This close to Glacierbone?”
“All I know is that it's just like that Forgotten Beast, and the denizens of the pit, and...” he gulped.
“On your way, soldier,” said McGhortaz, releasing him. Rather than trying to hide in his office, which most of the other nobles did regularly, he quickly climbed a rampart to look toward the trouble and found McHindin standing there, staring East toward a dark spot on the horizon.
“What is it?”
McHindin looked around at him, then answered, “It's a colossus, coz.”
“Aye. And from the color of it, probably a dark stone. Obsidian maybe. That's new. We haven't fought an obsidian colossus before.”
“No coz. Obsidian would shine in the sun...I'd say it looks to be made out of...slade.”
“What is this slade?”
McHindin's eyebrows rose. “The black stone in the main hall. In between the adamantine. You never noticed it? In your own fortress?”
“I don't use the main hallway; it's only tourists who go that way. Last time I was there, the adamantine was checkered with obsidian. Now I ask again, what is this slade?”
“Here,” McHindin replied, untying the rope from his belt and handing the stone over. McGhortaz's eyes grew wide at the weight of it.
“This is impossible!”
McHindin took the stone back and carefully tied it onto his belt again. “It's how it is, coz. And that thing out there is made of this stuff.”
“What do we do?”
“I don't know. The only dwarf who seemed to know the secret of slade never gave me his name; he just said he was breaking some royal decree and gave me this and scarpered.”
“A royal decree? Then we've got to ask His Majesty!” McGhortaz exclaimed.
“Yes, I suppose I ought to be informed,” said a wry voice behind them. They both jumped so badly that they nearly fell off the battlements, and when they turned around they saw a dwarf standing there with glinting black eyes and a triple-braided beard streaked with grey.
“Your Majesty!” McGhortaz seemed shocked, even though it had been his idea to get the king in the first place.
McHindin's eyebrows, which had never really come back down, now rose even higher. “You're King Morul Cattenmat?” he gasped. “You don't look anything like the engravings of you back at Granitechurned!”
The king's mouth twitched in a small smile, but he returned to the situation. “Where did this...monstrosity come from?”
McGhortaz handed him the letter from Grimbore.
After a moment's shocked silence, the king said slowly “Yes...I understand now... This is our punishment for hubris. Mine, as it was Cacame's.”
The king turned on the spot without haste. “Perhaps...if the creature took me, the fortress would be spared...” he said slowly.
“Your Majesty, no!” the cousins shouted together.
McGhortaz continued, “In the letter, this Cacame said he was fighting. We should too! If even an elf can fight, surely the dwarf nation can!”
The king swing his head to look back at them, as slowly as he had just turned away, and stared at them both for a long moment. Then he whispered, half to himself, “By Armok, you're right.”
With that, he burst into action, slipping Cacame's letter inside his coat and dashing down the stairs from the rampart with the cousins hurrying behind him. They were separated from him in the panicked crowds below, but they found him again standing just inside the throne room, shouting orders at the Captain of the Guard.
“...and I don't care how heavy they are, or how many precedents or mandates it breaks, or how many cuffings you have to give to get it done; I want those black stones in the main hall loaded in the trebuchets and lobbed at that Rotpar colossus until it stops moving! Dismissed!”
With the king's battlefield voice ringing in the high-vaulted chamber, the captain saluted and left at top speed just as the cousins arrived. Both were grinning. However different he looked from the engravings, that was the Morul that McHindin knew from the stories: the dwarf-king who was a master of all arts, from mining to warfare. The king gave them a tight smile back, and they both hopped back as a huge team of masons and siege operators tramped by.
“And now,” the king muttered, “we shall see.”
The stones were pried up in short order by the strongest among the masons, who worked seamlessly with the siege operators and the fortress guard to load and aim the trebuchets.
“As soon as it comes in range!” the Captain of the Guard called. “Hold steady! We can't waste precious stones! Now! Fire!”
A hail of slade rocks were flung into the air, and each one impacted the colossus striding toward the fortress. The first few hit the chest, which barely slowed it, but one hit its left leg, which made its steps uneven, and one hit its head, which seemed to almost daze it.
“Reload! Hold! Fire!” the Captain roared again. And again. And again.
The slade colossus' face was damaged almost beyond recognition by the third volley, and by the fourth, enough stones had hit its left leg that it shattered at the shin, sending the entire colossus crashing to the ground.
“Adjust aim!” the captain bellowed, and the siege mechanics shifted the trebuchets slightly. “Reload! Hold! Fire!”
At first, it seemed like a mistake. The trebuchets now fired almost straight up in the air. But then they came down upon the now-fallen colossus with an even greater impact than before, breaking it apart at the right hip and both shoulders. Finally, the last volley obliterated its head, and caused the rest of the statue to break apart.
An almighty cheer rose from the dwarves on the battlements; cheering for their mechanics and their masons, their guards and their captain, and especially for their king.
* * *
It was some time later, after a celebratory feast, that the king summoned the two cousins to his private study.
“I want to thank you two lads again, for reminding this old codger what it is to be a dwarf. Is there any reward I can give you? Other than a healthy pay raise, McGhortaz. You're already getting that.”

“No, your majesty,” McGhortaz said, making his best effort at a respectful bow.
The king then looked at McHindin. “Actually, your majesty, there is one thing...”
He hesitated, but the king was having none of it. “Out with it, lad.”
“I would like permission to inter my nephew here, at the mountainhome. He was killed in an attack on the way here, and I know he'd want to be laid to rest at at Glacierbone.”
“Of course, my dear dwarf, of course!” the king laughed. “Such hesitance over so small a request. Although I suppose that you, as well, have your own reward already.”
“Actually, your majesty, I was planning to inter this with my nephew. I can think of no one better to guard it than a dwarf who would risk his own life to save another's.”
The king stared at him, apparently shocked between surprise and compassion. His mouth worked silently for a moment, then it closed, and he nodded. “Very well, I must agree. It shall be done.
“And now...” He rose, and reached into the cabinet behind him.
He returned to the cousins holding three stone mugs full of the best Glacierbone Ale, and they each hosted one high in memory of McHindin's nephew:
“To Urist McHanlon, protector of slade and a dwarf in the true blood!”