The Morning of the 8th - Firesday - The Deepgate

''Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.''

Grima had heard that sound his whole life. Twenty five years in the pits of Khar'Zhan. Fifteen in the mines of Trosten. The same sound.

''Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.''

Forty years of hacking at stones, mostly in the dark; forty years of giving up every major find to some overseer; forty years breaking his back so that some Thane who never touched a pick-axe in his life could drink and get fat and trace his ancestry on vellum in some brightly lit pleasure hall.

''Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.''

He paused and wiped his brow. That's why he was here, now. In the north, he had a chance. Find the Undercity. Reclaim it for the Dwarves. Bring honor to the clans. And get rich, maybe. For that, he'd break his back a hundred times over. For that, he'd give his life. For that...

''Tap. Tap. Tap.''

That...was a new sound...

Tap.

''Tap. ''

...

...