The Stolen Throne

The dwarf nodded grimly. “Eventually there will only be a handful of us left. Then the darkspawn will come.” His dark eyes became distant. “We will not be returned to the Stone,” he said flatly.

The sound of the picks cracking at the stony ground rang throughout the cavern. The dwarven warriors who were not taking part in the digging spread out quietly into the outpost, removing their armor and tending to their injuries. They spoke only in hushed voices. As Nalthur moved around, inspecting his ranks, they glanced respectfully at him and then their eyes moved suspiciously up to the tall humans and the elf who followed behind him.

Eventually they reached an area with several earthen ovens carved into the stone walls. Three male dwarves and a large, pretty female dwarf were sweating profusely as they worked over massive iron pots bubbling with meaty-smelling stew. The female dwarf turned to regard Nalthur with a displeased look, wiping her filthy hands on her smock.

“Still alive, then, are you?” she chuckled.

“So far.” Nalthur shrugged.

Her eyes glanced up at Maric and then at the others. “Those don’t look like darkspawn. Where did you pick them up?”

“Out in the Deep Roads. Alone, if you can imagine.” He turned to look at them. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” Loghain said instantly.

“Yes,” Maric amended. He looked at Loghain. “We all are, in fact.”

“It’s not ready just yet,” the female dwarf grumped, “but for you I’ll make an exception.” She dug up several bowls and scooped out the stew into each. When no one was immediately forthcoming, she cleared her throat at Maric until he belatedly rushed forward to take his bowl. The others followed suit, followed by Nalthur.

They followed him out into one of the side caves, ducking their heads to get through the door. It was his quarters, Katriel assumed, though it was also neatly packed with enough barrels and crates and piles of fur and odd weapons that it might have doubled for a storage room. The cot was thick but sturdy, and Nalthur sat down on the edge of it. The others found seats wherever they could and began to eat.

Maric dug into his stew ravenously. Katriel picked at hers gingerly, sipping on some of the broth. The dwarf all but gulped his down greedily, finishing it long before the others were even half done, and then belching loudly. He wiped his beard with the back of his hand.

“Not as hungry as you thought?” he asked, watching their progress.

“No, it’s fine,” Maric quickly commented. “What is it?”

“Deep stalker.” He grinned.

Loghain paused. “Deep what?”

“You would have encountered them before the darkspawn if we hadn’t been hunting them around these parts for more than two months, now. We ran out of our perishables a few weeks back. What I wouldn’t give for a good nug steak.” He eyed them closely. “Don’t suppose you’d have one in those packs of yours?”

Rowan looked down at her stew queasily. “Nug steak?”

The dwarf sighed, disappointed. “Thought not.” He put his bowl down and watched them eat, and then his eyes drifted over to Maric’s longsword. “That’s quite a weapon. Mind if I see it?”

Loghain looked like he was about to object, but Maric waved a hand at him. He stood and pulled the stained sword out of his belt, handing it to Nalthur. “It’s dwarven, I think.”

“You don’t know?”

“We found it on a skeleton not long after we left the ruins. Maybe it was one of your men? Even if it wasn’t, if it’s a dwarven weapon, your people should have it back.”

“You went through Ortan thaig?” Nalthur seemed impressed. “That would explain it. We don’t go near the thaig on account of all the tainted spiders. So I don’t know what you found, but it wasn’t one of mine.” He studied the blade with interest, running a stubby finger over the glowing runes, before finally handing it back hilt-first. “I’ve no use for it. It’s your blade now, human.”

Maric took the sword back slowly, looking confused. “But . . .”

“It won’t get back to Orzammar through me,” the dwarf explained with a grin. “I’m not going back, or didn’t you understand that part?”

“They’re dead,” Katriel explained hesitantly. “They . . . have a ceremony before they enter the Deep Roads, a funeral. They say good-bye to their loved ones, pass on their possessions, and then they go and they don’t come back.”

Rowan blinked in surprise. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

Nalthur chuckled ruefully. “To clear our debts. To clear our names. To clear our houses’ names.” His face went grim. “Orzammar politics are more deadly than the Deep Roads, by far. Best to have left it behind, really.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Maric sighed.

“That so?”

Loghain frowned. “I don’t think you need to explain that, Maric.”

“No, it’s fine,” Maric shook his head. He held out a hand to the dwarf. “My name is Prince Maric Theirin, and these are my companions.” He introduced each one of them in turn.

The dwarf stared at Maric quizzically, and then shook his hand in an awkward way as if he had never performed the gesture previously. “Human royalty, eh?”