Raggard and Po the Eastern Tunnels
Raggard had expected resistance.
He had not expected how quickly the council chamber would turn cold.
The elders of Gunabash listened in silence as he finished speaking. When he mentioned Kneewater by name, more than one brow tightened.
“Goblins,” one of the stone-chairs muttered.
“Shanty clans and tunnel-scavengers,” another added. “We are not masons for monsters.”
Raggard rested both hands on the head of his hammer and did not raise his voice.
“Kneewater is not a camp,” he said steadily. “It is a town. A fragile one.”
The murmurs grew.
“They live on a single stone rise in a lake cavern. The ceiling above the water is thin. Cracked. Old fault lines run through it. Po fears a collapse. A flood would take the entire settlement with it.”
Silence followed.
Then one of the elders spoke again.
“And in exchange?”
Raggard nodded once.
“Po has mapped a chain of linked caverns far to the east. Ores. Gems. Multiple veins. All connected.”
A low ripple of interest passed through the chamber.
Still, several heads shook.
“We do not trade labor for goblin rumors.”
Raggard straightened.
“We already trade safety for ignorance.”
That drew their attention.
“Our patrols cannot reach that far east. Our outposts end two long tunnel-days short of those reaches. But Kneewater stands there now. They see what we cannot. Hear what we cannot. Watch what moves through passages we do not hold.”
He paused.
“The cost of allies is copper. Food. Simple tools. Reinforced stone and timber.”
He lifted his chin.
“The value of allies is knowledge—before danger reaches our gates.”
The chamber remained silent for a long moment.
At last, the eldest of the forge-lords nodded.
“Build their walls,” he said quietly.
“And buy their trust.”
Kneewater rose from the dark lake like a broken crown.
A broad stone shelf jutted up from the water, crowded with leaning huts, rope bridges, timber walkways and clustered scaffolds. Lantern light flickered across slick stone and rippling water below. The cavern soared high above the settlement itself—but sloped low and heavy over the surrounding lake, its cracked ceiling pressing close like a weight waiting to fall.
Po stood at the edge of the island when Raggard arrived.
“You came,” the goblin said softly.
“Aye,” Raggard replied. “Let’s keep your home standing.”
The work took weeks.
Dwarven masons hung from ropes along fractured stone ribs. Timber braces were sunk into drilled channels. Stone plates were anchored into fault seams. New retaining walls rose along the edges of the outcrop where the water had slowly eaten away at its base.
It was dangerous, wet, and miserable work.
But when the first great ceiling brace was seated into place and the stone finally stilled, Po wept openly.
“Now,” he said quietly, when the last beam was locked. “Now I show you the caverns.”
The expedition was assembled quickly.
Raggard led it himself.
Farder Thornbeard scouted ahead.
Dels Rainrocks walked beside him, bright robes dulled by dust and travel.
Po padded between them.
Behind came a small wedge of dwarven infantry.
The first cavern nearly killed them.
An ettin emerged from behind a broken pillar—two snarling heads screaming in different voices. The battle was short and brutal. The creature’s clubs shattered shields and bodies alike.
Two dwarves fell before the monster finally collapsed beneath hammer, blade, and spellfire.
They buried the dead with quiet hands.
The tunnels only grew worse.
In a narrow passage, a translucent mass peeled itself from the cavern wall and surged forward.
Farder barely had time to scream.
The caustic ooze wrapped around his torso and dragged him backward. Leather smoked. Flesh burned.
Dels shouted and hurled radiant fire into the creature’s core.
The ooze recoiled long enough for Raggard to tear Farder free.
Dels dropped to his knees beside him at once.
Blue light flooded the torn armor and blistered skin.
Farder lived.
Barely.
Not long after, the ledge collapsed.
Stone screamed as it tore loose beneath their boots.
Two soldiers vanished into darkness.
The rest barely leapt clear.
When the dust settled, the passage behind them was gone.
Raggard counted heads.
Only four remained on this side of the collapse.
Himself.
Po.
Farder.
Dels.
The others were alive—but separated, somewhere in the dark, searching for another way through.
“We go on,” Raggard said quietly.
Po nodded.
Orcs found them first.
A small warband, then another.
Farder and Raggard cut a path forward while Dels kept the wounded standing.
Po stayed close to Raggard’s shadow.
At last, the tunnel widened.
The first linked cavern opened before them.
Gold and crystal caught their lantern light at once.
The ore veins were undeniable.
So were the scars.
Blackened stone spread across the floor. Melted stalactites dripped like wax from the ceiling. Entire rock faces were split and fused.
Dels knelt and touched the stone.
“Spellfire,” he whispered. “Powerful.”
Po shivered.
“He lives here.”
The air shifted.
A figure stepped from behind a broken column.
His robes were scorched and stitched together from mismatched fabrics. His eyes glowed faintly with unstable light. Wild sigils drifted around his hands like sparks that refused to die.
“Visitors,” the wizard crooned.
The cavern shook as magic surged.
Dels raised his symbol and met the spell with a crashing wave of divine force.
Light and fire tore across the chamber.
Po cried out as a stray bolt caught his shoulder.
Moments later, Farder was hurled into a rock wall by a shockwave that cracked the stone behind him.
Raggard saw blood.
He saw Po fall to one knee.
He saw Farder not rise.
Something in him snapped.
Raggard charged.
Spellfire slammed into his armor. Stone exploded beneath his boots. Invisible force crushed into his chest and drove the breath from him.
He did not slow.
The wizard screamed and unleashed another torrent.
Raggard smashed through it.
His hammer rose and fell like a forge press.
Once.
Twice.
A third blow shattered the wizard’s warding field.
The fourth crushed bone.
The fifth ended the madman’s screaming.
Silence rushed into the cavern.
Raggard dropped to one knee.
Dels staggered toward the fallen, hands trembling with exhaustion. He knelt beside Po first. Then Farder. Then Raggard.
Light flickered weakly from his palms.
Enough.
Only enough.
But enough to keep them all alive.
Not long after, distant voices echoed through the tunnel behind them.
The other dwarves emerged—dust-covered, battered, but whole.
Relief spread quietly through the chamber.
When the cavern was finally inspected, the truth was undeniable.
Linked passages stretched onward.
More veins.
More chambers.
A network of stone and wealth beyond any single find.
Raggard poured acid onto a smooth section of wall.
The liquid hissed and bit into the stone, carving the Thornbeard mark.
He pressed his hand to it and sealed the sigil with quiet words.
“This place is claimed,” he said softly.
They turned back toward home.
Toward Kneewater.
Toward allies bought not with gold—
but with stone, sweat, and shared blood in the dark.
