Deep under the frozen peaks of the Razorspine, mighty Onasmeugrynax guarded her eternal hoard. Even among the elder wyrms, she was a massive beast, and were there any other creatures here to behold her, they could not have seen all of her crimson glory at once. Her sinuous tail curled behind through an ancient gallery, while her body and massive, spiked head lay in a wide cavern.
But there were no eyes here beyond her own. They glowed in the cavern's darkness as though lit from deep within by some smoldering flame, a pair of baleful orange discs. What chthonic treasures hid in the darkness behind her? Who would brave that gaze to find out? When last did one dare try?
And yet here in the warm shadows, in a cavern that smelled softly of stone, snow, pine―and far more strongly of dragon―Onasmeugrynax fixed her eyes on a point somewhere past the rocky walls. Her unblinking stare could mean only one thing.
Someone was coming.
⁂
Isrik's breath misted in the frigid mountain air. He raised one hand to his impressive beard, running his fingers through its braids to dislodge shimmering ice crystals. Fortunately, as a mountain dwarf, he was all but impervious to the cold. Less fortunately, he was also only about as tall as he was wide. Normally that was no hindrance, but today it meant he was trudging through snow that often came to above his waist. It was slow, wet, and cold work.
His olidon, Yuka, had an easier time, because she was triple his height. Her wide legs stamped down the snow like falling tree trunks. Occasionally she stopped, rooting with her great tusks and her trunk into the snow at the base of a pine, searching for the tasty, green shoots beneath. She was strong, too. Her heavy burden, two enormous bags slung across her wooly back, didn't trouble her.
Isrik patted her with affection. "I know you're getting hungry, girl," he said. "It won't be much longer. When we get there, you can forage all you want. I'll whistle when it's time to go."
It turned out to be over an hour before Isrik reached his destination, and the sun drifted close to the horizon. Days had grown short. Fresh snow fell now, sliding off Yuka's hide and clinging to Isrik's shoulders. He peered at the rock of the mountain ahead of him, where an iron door lay flush within it.
It was rusting around the edges. In only a few more decades, it might fail. These days, iron lasts hardly any time at all, he mused. Funny how when he had been younger, it seemed like this door ought to last forever. He stroked his beard again, dislodging snow and revealing more silvery white beneath it. He shook his head. Perhaps when he returned home, he ought to find some craftsmen he could trust not to ask questions and send them up here to―
Isrik interrupted his own thoughts and forced his hand from his beard. He was stalling. Nothing for it then, he thought. The haft of his axe made a dull, hollow thud as he rammed it against the door three times. Boom! Boom! Boom! A little snow cascaded on both sides of the door, dislodged by the vibrations.
Nothing happened.
Again, he slammed the wood of his axe on the door's iron. Again, the pounding reverberated like a drumbeat. And again, nothing happened. He muttered under his breath, a non-stop stream of dwarvish curses rising into the air on the wisps of clouds.
He beat out the rhythm one last time, a third set of three. "I know you can hear me, you great stubborn old lizard! It's cold, it's almost dark, and my beastie looks like she might wander off to strip pines before I've even unloaded her." He took a deep breath and bellowed in frustration. "Hurry up and let me in!"
There was no answer.
Isrik hefted the axe he'd been using as a doorknocker, flipping it around. It was a proper mountain dwarf's axe, with a thick shaft and a double head―wide blade on one side, mining pick on the other. He looked down at the pick, then squinted up at the rock around the door appraisingly. A wide grin split his craggy face. It'd be a chilly day in the molten underworld indeed, before a door set in mere stone could stop a dwarf.
