The single point of light that had flared from the heart of the stone henge in the village below was, Ronigren realized as they descended the pine-covered ridge, no welcoming beacon, but a signal. By the time his weary, mud-stained party reached the outskirts of the settlement, they found themselves facing a silent reception committee.

  The people before them were a hardy, insular-looking folk. Faces weathered by sun and wind, clothed in a practical mix of homespun wool, cured hides, and garments woven from tough pine fibers. They carried hunting spears, heavy wood axes, and a few bows with weary diffidence. Interspersed amongst the humans were a few stout bearded figures whose broad shoulders and intricately braided beards proclaimed their dwarven heritage, their hands resting on the hilts of heavy rune-etched axes.

  Two figures emerged from the largest of the cyclopean stone-founded buildings. Human in every proportion, in every feature but scale. Faces strong and sorrowful, hair of weathered granite shot through with silver, blue eyes like a winter sky. Jotunais. There was no other word for them. The male stood easily ten feet tall, his shoulders broad as an oak trunk. The female, a handspan shorter but no less imposing, carried herself with a mournful dignity. They moved with a deliberate grace, despite the weariness in their gaze. Even Sabine, who would usually tower over everyone she met, looked… small in their presence.

  The villagers eyed Ronigren’s party with open suspicion, their gazes lingering on Xylia-Kai’s amphibian form and Snik with undisguised hostility. Their own K’thrall-made attire, practical as it had been in the Fens, now marked them as outsiders.

  "Hold on there, strangers," one of the human villagers called out, a grizzled man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow and a longbow held loosely but ready in his hand. His voice was rough, but the language, Ronigren noted with surprise, was Argrenian. Archaic, yes, peppered with unfamiliar inflections and older word forms, but undeniably the tongue of the kingdom. "State your names and your purpose in the boundaries of Sturrel’s Edge. We don’t take kindly to… swamp-crawlers… or their green-skinned lackeys in these parts." His gaze flicked pointedly towards Xylia-Kai and Snik.

  Xylia-Kai bristled, her hand instinctively going to one of the obsidian-edged knives at her harness, her golden eyes narrowing. Snik predictably tried to make himself invisible behind Sabine’s leg.

  Sabine stepped forward, gently pushing Snik further behind her, her own towering form drawing the villagers’ attention. The amulet on her chest, cleansed of the swamp’s grime, pulsed with a faint, steady light.

  "We come in peace," Sabine said, her youthful voice carrying a surprising volume. She tried to mimic the archaic Argrenian, embarrassed by her clunkiness, hoping it didn’t sound too daft. "We are travelers, seeking shelter, and… answers. We mean no harm to your people, or your dwelling place."

  A murmur ran through the assembled villagers, and their aggressive posture loosened slightly. Eyes shifted to Sabine.

  The two colossal Jotunai exchanged a slow, meaningful look. The female stepped forward and spoke with quiet authority, in the same archaic inflection as the villagers. "The song of your blood… it is faint, child," she said, "Faint, and… touched by the world beyond Jotunai lands. But it is there. The echo of the Mountain-Shapers. The whisper of the Terra-Born." Sabine, grappling with exhaustion, was in a speechless daze, looking upwards at someone for the first time in years.

  The female Jotunai saw the amulet on Sabine’s chest, her eyes widened, a crack of surprise ran through her composure. "And the Chain you carry… it too sings an old, familiar song. Though it has slept for many ages."

  "You seek answers in Sturrel’s Edge, little sister?" The male giant interjected. "Perhaps there are echoes here that will speak to you. But this is a hard land, and the shadows grow long. Trust is a rare spring in these hills, and easily poisoned."

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  Ronigren stepped forward. "We understand your caution, good folk, we have traveled far, through great peril. We ask only for shelter for our wounded," he gestured towards Masillius, now propped wearily against Gregan’s shoulder, "and for a chance to speak, to share what we know of the darkness that now threatens all lands, from the high peaks to the deepest swamps."

  The scarred human villager looked to the two Jotunais. The male giant nodded slowly. "Shelter, you shall have," he rumbled. "And talk. Many dark things stir these days. Perhaps your tales will blend with ours, and a clearer song may yet emerge. We have not conferred with any of you southern people in immemorable time. Surely not within our lifetime." He then gestured towards a large communal longhouse built against one of the ancient stone foundations. "Bring your wounded. Rest. Tonight, we will speak.”

  The longhouse was an accretion of ages upon ages, a story told in stone, metal, and wood. The foundations were of that same smooth, dark, obsidian-like stone making up the Silent Sentinel of the Silted Isle. Upon this primordial substrate, cyclopean blocks of granite formed the lower walls. Higher still, sections of intricate dwarven stonework, fitted with a precision that spoke of master craftsmen, interspersed with heavy iron-banded timber beams. The uppermost reaches and the steeply pitched roof were of a more recent, familiar Argrenian-like style, sturdy brick and well-seasoned pine, though even here the scale was grander, the craftsmanship more robust than any frontier settlement Ronigren had seen.

  The main assembly hall was vast, its high, raftered ceiling lost in shadows above the reach of the flickering oil lamps and oversized stone hearth, where a whole spit-roasted deer turned slowly, wafting wood smoke and and inviting roast meat smell. Long trestle tables and benches filled the main space.

  At the far end of the hall, on a slightly raised dais before the hearth, stood a massive table fashioned from a single slab of dark wood, polished more by age than craft. They were escorted here by the two Jotunai, the scarred human villager and a tough-looking dwarf woman, her silver braids intricately woven with small iron rings. She was introduced as Thera Anvil-Breaker, chieftain of the dwarven contingent in Sturrel’s Edge.

  "Sit," the male Jotunai gestured towards the benches. "Sturrel’s Edge offers shelter, but trust is for you to earn. If you wish to call me by my name, it is Jorn.”

  As they settled onto the benches, their K’thrall-made attire drew more than a few curious glances from the handful of villagers in the hall. Ronigren’s attention was drawn to a small alcove bar tucked away to one side of the hall. Behind a scarred wooden counter laden with dusty clay flagons and a few battered pewter tankards, a lone dwarf was engaged in a personal battle with a large, dark bottle.

  He was ancient even by dwarven standards, a magnificent beard reached well past his knees in a tangled cascade of white, stained yellow around his mouth. His eyes were the fiery red of fanned embers, but he seemed oblivious to their arrival, lost in his own haze.

  "That," Thera Anvil-Breaker grunted, noticing Ronigren’s gaze, her voice a gravelly rumble, "is Grumstone. Last of the old Brewmasters of Stonebeard’s Rest. Keeps the ale flowing, when he can find his own feet. Mostly, he just keeps himself soaked with whatever spirits he hasn’t already drunk the village dry of. Pay him no mind. His wits are… addled." The old dwarf shot her a murderous gaze, then scoffed and took another swill from his bottle.

  Ronigren began their tale. The tale of Sabine’s burgeoning power, of Marta’s key, of the K’thrall’s ancient grief and their unexpected aid. He spoke of the Sorrow Marshes and the nightmare vine. The villagers listened in watchful silence, their expressions unreadable. Jorn and his wife remained impassive, their eyes occasionally flickering towards young Sabine, as if measuring her against some ancestral standard.

  When Ronigren spoke of Sabine’s parents, of the two Stone-Singers who had vanished near the Bleeding Marshes fifteen years ago, trying to bring their infant daughter and an ancient amulet to safety, a sharp sound cut through the hall.

  CLANG!

  The ancient dwarven barkeep had dropped his pewter tankard, its contents splashing unheeded across the dusty floor. He stared at Sabine, his fiery red eyes suddenly sober and lucid, blazing with an intensity that belied his earlier stupor. "Stone-Singers?" he rasped, "Two of them? And a babe? Fifteen years past? Near the K’thrall cursed Fens?"

  He lurched from behind the bar, stumbling towards their table, trembling, his gaze fixed on Sabine with an almost unbearable intensity. "What… what was the name of the amulet? The one the babe carried? Did it… did it sing a song of shattered mountains and sleeping fire?"

  All eyes turned to the dwarf.