Dawn found Valos inspecting supplies. Not the mithril — that was straightforward — but the ale. He personally inspected three barrels of «Stone Root» brought from the highland monastery. One wrong look from a dwarf, and the deal could shatter over the wrong variety of barley.
«Excellent. Now I'm an expert on ale notes. I can add to my resume: Specialist in magical artifacts and alcohol diplomacy.»
Corvus, standing at the cellar entrance, looked like a man preparing for an execution.
— They're approaching. Five of them. Coming from the portal square. According to the guards, three of them carry axes larger than the average child.
— Wonderful, — Valos wiped his hands on his cloak. — So they mean business. Remind me, what's our plan in case negotiations go south?
— Run. Quickly.
«Honest. I like it.»
***
He met the dwarves not in the throne room, but in the inner courtyard, where mithril ingots lay on a specially constructed platform. The sun caught their facets, and a bluish glow danced on the stone walls. «Let the first thing they see be the reason for their visit. Directness is valued by everyone, especially those who are used to breaking problems with their foreheads.»
The delegation poured into the courtyard like a landslide. The air thickened, filled with the smell of volcanic glass, sweat-soaked leather, and unyielding will. At the head was Thorgrim. A beard braided into complex plaits with steel rings woven in, a chest plate that could sharpen blades, and a gaze that could drill through stone.
«Of course. The perfect specimen. He's looking at my fortifications as if calculating how many minutes it would take his kin to tear them down to their foundations.»
Thorgrim stopped a few steps from Valos, not bothering with a nod.
— I am Thorgrim, son of Thorbenn, of the Ancient Hammer clan. They say you found what by right belongs to the mountains.
«Straightforward. Well, I can do that too.»
— Valos Tropan. And I didn't just "find" anything. I earned it. With the blood of my men. — He paused. — A long road parches the throat.
He nodded to a servant. The man brought a simple clay jug and two crude wooden mugs. Valos poured a dark, almost black liquid.
— "Stone Root." From the highland monastery. They say it's given to newborn dwarves so they understand from the cradle the difference between nectar and swill.
Thorgrim took the mug, his thick fingers easily encircling the rough wood. He sniffed it, and his stony face flickered. He downed half the mug in one gulp, then grunted appraisingly.
— Not bad. For a human. You know your way around what matters.
— I know my way around many things, — Valos took a drink from his own mug. The ale was so thick and bitter it could probably etch armor. «I nearly burned my esophagus for this. I hope it's worth it.» — For instance, I know that mithril in human hands is a trinket. In dwarven hands, it's a priceless artifact.
He gestured to the ingots. All five dwarves stared at the shimmering metal with the reverence priests show toward a holy relic.
— The quality? — Thorgrim didn't look away.
— Purer than a maiden's tear and harder than your clan's stubbornness, — Valos answered without hesitation. «Alright, maybe I overshot it. But who knows what a dwarven maiden's tear feels like.»
The corner of Thorgrim's mouth twitched. *He appreciated that.*
— What do you want?
— Oh, quite a lot — Valos gestured around the courtyard. — But let's start with the obvious. Weapons. Not the kind you sell to humans for gold. The kind you carry yourselves. Armor that arrows can't pierce. — He turned to Corvus. — And a new sword for my knight. The one he wears now is only fit for slicing cheese.
— And, — Valos continued, — something more serious. Your engineer. Someone who understands not just how to lay stones, but how to *convince* them to stay put properly.
Thorgrim frowned, his eyebrows merging into a single bristly line.
— You're asking for my sister's hand, just in a different form. Our stone artisan… his art… that can be arranged.
Thorgrim looked long at the ingot, then at Valos, then at his empty mug.
— There is one condition. Balin will go with you. But his word in matters of stone is law. If you or your people disobey… we take him back, all the mithril, and pour all the remaining ale into the nearest cesspit.
«Damn. That's serious.» Valos understood he was giving up some control. But there was no other way. He extended his palm, as people did when striking a deal.
Thorgrim stared at his hand for a minute, as if it were an unfamiliar tool, then slammed his mighty fist into his palm. Valos's ears rang.
— A deal, human. Don't make the Ancient Hammer clan regret this. Balin will be here in two days. The weapons and armor in a week. — He turned to leave, but called over his shoulder, — And have more of that… "Stone Root" ready. For Balin. He appreciates a good drink.
When the dwarves disappeared beyond the gates, Valos sank onto a stone bench, rubbing his numb hand.
— So, Corvus? — he asked, looking at the shimmering mithril. — Ready for a new sword?
Corvus stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the retreating dwarven figures.
— They are taking a huge risk. Entrusting their best engineer to people they barely know.
— They are making a calculated move. Just like us. They don't see us as allies in arms, but as an investment. A living shield protecting their new mine. And you know what? — He smirked bitterly. — As long as this shield holds, they'll provide us with the finest steel in the world. And when it falls… it won't matter to them anymore.
He rose from the bench, feeling the weight of the just-concluded deal.
— What now, my lord? — Corvus asked.
— Now — Valos sighed, — we wait for the necromancer. And hope that the dwarves' craft proves stronger than the magic of the dead. Still, — he cast a final glance at the ale barrels, — at least we'll face the apocalypse with good drink.