The cold wind howled along the mountain ridge, swirling up fine snowflakes that lashed against Viscount Helsen's cloak.
He tightened the fur on his shoulders, the gravel under his feet constantly slipping, requiring him to be careful with every step. But the dwarven emissary Dawn Ironhand beside him walked as if on flat ground, his strong legs steadily stepping over the snow-covered rock steps, his warhammer lightly tapping the ground as if measuring the pulse of the mountain.
They had been trekking along this secluded mountain path leading into the depths for three whole days. The cliffs on both sides were towering and jagged like the spines of giant beasts, with only a sliver of gray sky visible overhead. The air was thick with the scent of iron ore and flint—the ancient and hard smell of the dwarven lands.
Finally, the view opened up before them, revealing a deep valley surrounded by mountains. The valley floor was covered with black gravel, and a deep chasm ran through the center, from which steam rose in wisps, like the breath of the earth.
Before they could even step into the valley, dozens of dwarven soldiers suddenly emerged from the shadows of the rock walls on either side. They were clad in wrought-steel scale armor, wielded double-edged battle axes, and wore helmets adorned with the distinctive pickaxe emblem of the stonemason clan. A tall dwarf, his beard braided into chains, blocked their path, his eyes sharp as chisels.
"Halt!" he hissed in Dwarven, his gaze like a hammer blow to Dawn Ironhand. "You're a member of the Ironhammer Clan? How dare you bring a human into our sacred land?"
Dain remained calm and stepped forward, saying, "My name is Dain Ironhand! Guardian of the Stonemasons, and I have come with permission from the clan elders. This is Viscount Helson, an envoy of the Kingdom of Aldor, who has been ordered to accompany me to your hall."
The surrounding dwarf soldiers murmured in hushed tones, staring at Helson with a mixture of surprise and wariness in their eyes—humans rarely set foot in this mountain range, and what was even stranger was that he had been led there by an envoy from another clan.
The dwarf chieftain narrowed his eyes and sized Helson up: "The Stonemasons' Clan never associates with humans. You may tell me your purpose for coming here, but don't even think about going any further."
At this moment, Dain took out a bronze talisman engraved with two crossed hammers from his bosom, raised it high, and the talisman glowed with an eerie light.
"This is the token of my clan chief!" he said solemnly. "I guarantee his safety with the honor of the clan. Mr. Helson has come here for a very important matter—peace between the two clans."
"Ridiculous! We have no contact with humans, so what's this talk about peace? Do humans intend to trespass into our forbidden territory?"
Dain unleashed his ultimate weapon: "You have no contact with humans, so what about the orcs?"
The valley fell into a brief silence, with only the wind whispering among the rocks.
Finally, the leader slowly raised his battle axe and stepped aside to make way.
"Let's go," he said in a low voice, "but remember—every step you take is under the watchful eye of Stone Eye."
The stonemason clan's main hall is nestled deep within the mountains. Huge stone pillars support a towering dome, and torches embedded in the rock walls illuminate the hall. The firelight dances on the polished obsidian floor, and the air is filled with the scent of cooled iron ore, mingled with the tranquil aroma of ancient rocks.
Viscount Helson followed behind the dwarven messenger Dawn Ironhand, passing two rows of guards clad in wrought-steel scale armor, their footsteps echoing steadily on the stone ground, until they finally came to a stop below the high platform.
On the high platform sat Imar, the patriarch of the stonemason clan. He was a burly man with a thick iron braid for beard, inlaid with a black stone bead symbolizing his authority. His left eye bore an old, gray scar, while his right eye was sharp and deep, like molten iron in a furnace.
Dain bowed in the clan's customary manner, paid homage to Imar as an envoy, and then stepped aside.
Helson stepped forward, removed the hood of his cloak, and said in a clear and respectful voice, "Your Excellency, I am Solan Helson, a special envoy appointed by Marquis Paul Gleman of the Kingdom of Aldo, here on his orders to discuss matters with the Stonemasons Clan..."
He paused, then said, "Let's discuss the orcs."
"Paul…Greyman…" Imar repeated softly, his brow twitching slightly. The sudden appearance of this name made him miss what Helson said next.
He stared at Helson and slowly asked, "You said you were sent by Paul Gleman?"
"Exactly." Helson nodded.
Imar fell into a brief silence. He slowly leaned back, his gaze becoming distant, as if piercing through the stone walls of the hall and returning to many years ago.
At that time, he was not yet the clan chief, but a banished exile who lived under the patronage of the Ironhammer clan.
That day, a human caravan came from the northern grasslands, intending to cross the Rocky Mountains.
Imar became their guide, leading them through snowstorms and cliffs back to the northwestern bay south of the mountains.
He met Paul Gleman in a town called Lakeside.
He had just completed a long journey and was exhausted, but he still held a glimmer of hope: if he could form an alliance with this powerful human lord who controlled a region, he might be able to use his strength to regain leadership of the Stonemasons Clan.
He made a request, but was coldly rejected.
This experience remains etched in his memory like a nail.
He had no choice but to seek another way, and with the support of the grassland royal court, he was finally able to fight his way back to the clan and regain power by force.
How dare Paul Gleman send an envoy to see him?
Imar slowly raised his right hand. "You say you're Gleiman's messenger?" he said in a low voice. "Then go back and tell him—"
The dwarf chieftain's gaze was sharp and piercing, piercing directly at Helson: "The stonemason's gates are only opened for friends, and he was never our friend!"
Helson stepped forward and said loudly, "Please give me some time, Chieftain. I have come here to find out one thing—why would the Stonemasons Clan open the mountain pass for the orcs, allowing them to cross the naturally formidable Loki Mountains and launch a surprise attack on our northern border?"
These words echoed in the stone hall, like a hammer blow striking the silent rock.
"Are you questioning me?" Imal suddenly stood up, his massive frame casting a huge shadow in the firelight, his voice turning icy. "How dare you step into the halls of the Stonemasons' Clan with accusations?"
His eyes seemed veiled by a gloomy atmosphere before a blizzard.
"Slander!" The dwarf chieftain slammed his hand on the armrest of the throne. "You humans are always like this! You can't even guard the border, so you blame it on your people in the mountains! What passage? I, Imar, am the rightful chieftain of the Stonemasons Clan. How could I open the mountain gates for a foreign race?"
He glared at Helson, his voice booming through the stone hall: "The Rocky Mountains are full of peaks and valleys, and if the orcs can really pass through them, it is their own skill, your incompetence, your weak defenses, and your oversight at the watchtowers! Not here, tarnishing the honor of a dwarf chieftain with suspicion and lies!"
His voice rose higher and higher, filled with offended dignity and a hint of barely perceptible panic: "We, the Stonemasons Clan, have never made way for orcs!"
The air in the hall seemed frozen, making the crackling of the torches all the more jarring.
The Ironhammer Clan envoy, Dain, who had been listening quietly, frowned. He had already discerned something amiss—beneath Imar's anger lay a trembling sense of guilt.
The Stonemasons clan is likely to have some connection to the orc invasion of Aldor.