Glorina Stonewall, daughter of King and Queen Stonewall, rulers of the Monolith—guardians of the deep and wardens of the dark—pushed open the tavern door and stepped inside. Her enchanted armor clinked with each step, the magics on it making the weight of the tower shield on her left arm barely noticeable. Her parents had spared no expense in ensuring their only daughter was protected.

  And, putting pride aside, Glorina had accepted their generosity. She had proven herself enough among the clergy and the warriors of the Deep. There was nothing else she needed to prove, and nobody else she needed to impress. No, her mission was far too important to wear anything but the best. There was no room—or excuse—for failure on this journey.

  The long journey that had taken her here, to the so-called Whetstone Tavern.

  Finding the place had been surprisingly difficult. Nobody seemed to know what town it actually called home, which made little sense for an establishment so famous. Well, famous if one knew where to look… or what one was looking for, as it was in Glorina’s case.

  The tavern wasn’t famous for ale or food, nor for entertainment or the beauty of its waitresses. No, the Whetstone Tavern was famous for the clientele it attracted. Only those with a name that mattered would find succor within its four walls. Heroes and villains of repute, knaves with a price on their heads, or legends in the making whose stories could barely be believed.

  It was one of those heroes Glorina was there to find. To enlist, hopefully. So, as Glorina Stonewall, First Princess of the Deep, stepped into the Whetstone Tavern, she wasn’t sure what to expect.

  How could she be? This tavern was as much as legend as the people it was said to cater to. On the other hand, all the taverns she’d been to since leaving the Monolith had been… disappointing.

  As a dwarf—and royalty at that—her life had been full of the finest ales, the greatest songs, and the most moving of stories. Long had her family protected the Monolith and warded against the Dark beneath. Compared to those tales, there were few that impressed her. And the lack of real beards made it feel like she was again sitting at the kids’ table.

  Her eyes scanned the room—while her free hand stroked her own short, full beard to steady her nerves—looking for the one she sought. The first thing she noticed was that nobody cared she was there. In fact, did anybody even recognize her? Royalty, standing there with them, and nobody gave a damn.

  At least at the previous inns and taverns she’d visited, her impressive armor had gotten her some attention, if they didn’t recognize her as the Princess of the Deep. Her tower shield depicted the screaming face of one of The Three, Daghor Warcry, the dwarven god of battle and celebration. The warhammer strapped to her back had the face of another of The Three—Vesna Stonespirit, this time, the goddess of wisdom, history, and culture—imprinted on the head. Any she struck with the hammer would be left with a permanent reminder of the wisdom to not piss her off, in the shape of the goddess’ face. Finally, her magnificent armor, with epaulets and helm rising across her shoulders and head in the image of the mountain beneath which the Monolith lay, had the face of the final of The Three—Brack Deepforge, god of devotion, to clan, to craft, and to The Three—sculpted in all his glory on her breastplate.

  The armor was, if nothing else, enough to attract attention from warriors, thieves, and would-be suitors. Apparently, it still wasn’t impressive enough to turn an eye in the Whetstone Tavern.

  Yes, this is what a tavern of legends should be like, and Glorina nodded. Her hand unconsciously gripped her beard in excitement, but she pushed that childish instinct aside. She’d taken this task on her broad shoulders, as an adult princess, and beard-tugging was not the image she would present to these people.

  Speaking of ‘these people’, the one dwarf she saw sat at a table with his back to her, only recognizable by the thick hair on his head and the wide beard she occasionally glimpsed when he threw back a drink. A man by the longer, bushier volume of the beard than her own. A bit unruly, and could use some genuine attention, but the length and braids spoke of a seasoned warrior.

  Glorina’s beard—a work of art, in her own mind—barely reached her collarbone. Though she let it bulge out to the sides slightly, she kept it all very tight, with only the most expensive beard-care products available. The perks of being a princess. She used the same products to keep her mustache tightly twirled, and she couldn’t stop a frown from creasing her lips when she spotted how the other dwarf’s mustache went in every direction, more than a little of it coated in the thick ale from his mug. While there was nothing wrong—and in fact, something attractive—about the proper amount of ale left on the whiskers after a particularly satisfying drink, that was just going too far.

  She would need to leave some of her beard-care products—and tips—with the man. As the only dwarf in the tavern, he had the image of his people to uphold.

  But, that begged a question. The Whetstone Tavern was not a place for normal dwarves. This one that sat in front of her, was he a hero or a villain, that one? She wasn’t sure.

  Aside from him, the room was full of dozens of different races. Humans and orcs, elves and halflings. They made up the majority of the patrons.

  On the stage, a trio of goblins played. Honestly, their music wasn’t half bad, which was both kind of surprising and kind of uncomfortable. The last Glorina had heard, the only music goblins could make entailed the screaming of their victims. Here, though, two of them played violins while the third held some contraption between its arms, expanding and contracting as it squeezed and pulled its hands apart. Together, all three of them sang, and it wasn’t unpleasant, Glorina’s toe starting to tap without her consent.

  That’s kind of catchy…

  She had some coins in her purse—money not set aside for her goal of hiring heroes—that she could drop into their hat as a tip. They deserved at least that. Something she would do later, though. For now, she had somebody to find.

  Still standing just within the door, her target did not appear to be sitting at the bar. None of those present matched the description of the absolute titan of a man she was looking for. With the tales associated with his deeds, her target would need to be far more impressive than that lot.

  The upper level—there just the one—had tables near the banisters, and they too, while seating impressive-looking individuals, were not home to the one she sought. By the tales, he would not be wearing the full-plate or a wizard’s robes, nor the flashy garb of a bard or leathers of a rogue, she saw there.

  A moment of doubt crossed her mind. Could she have been wrong? Was she led astray in being told the one she sought would be found within the Whetstone Tavern?

  Glorina, daughter of the wise rulers of the Monolith, would not let frustration seep into her mind. She was like the stone beneath her feet. Calm. Unmoving when she needed to be. Stoic in achieving her goals.

  Now was that time.

  Long had she walked. Far had she traveled to find this place, here in the sixteenth town she’d visited. No, if she didn’t see the man she was after at the bar or on the upper level, that just meant he had to be here on the first floor with her.

  Would it be somebody watching the goblins or hiding in a corner? None of those individuals fit the description. Over there, in that corner, was a dark-skinned man with bushy hair, a ring glinting—almost sparking like it housed an ember of flame—on his finger as he lifted a drink to his mouth. At his side, a woman with a slight overbite complained about something, if the gestures of her arms were any indication. By the number of empty ale mugs on the table, they’d been drinking for a while and showed no signs of slowing.

  Heroes in their own right, perhaps, but not who Glorina was there for.

  The occupants of the other tables, while likewise impressive, were similarly not the person she was looking for. That only left one table. The one at the center of the room where she’d originally seen the dwarf.

  Looking closer, the table held six occupants, all playing some kind of card game. There was the dwarf, of course. On his left, a small halfling who, as her head turned, made Glorina gasp softly in surprise.

  That was Valeria the Undaunted, said to be able to open any lock, enter any room, or steal any valuable—and more than a few hearts too—if the legends were to be believed. And, yes, beside her, that had to be her infamous crossbow, Corpsemaker. While the name of the weapon was a bit on the nose, the tales around it were too numerous and consistent to ignore. The weapon was a killer, though the stories about were never related to the Undaunted’s thefts. It was only when somebody wronged Valeria, or took advantage of the needy and desperate, that the crossbow made an appearance.

  The realization of the halfling’s identity made Glorina give the dwarf a second look. Bushy beard aside, the man sat in heavy armor, though his powerful arms were bare. It seemed a little strange, though there were definitely some kind of hinges or mounts on his epaulets.

  The Princess of the Deep had a moment to wonder about what those might be before she found her answer, nestled under the table by the dwarf’s legs. Vambraces that would be almost as long as the dwarf himself, rested heavily on the floor. Forged of what could only be mithril.

  Glorina had found not only Valeria the Undaunted, but also Brawn Granitefist, the Smasher. The legendary warrior who had defended the Deep against the Dark for nearly two centuries before taking his leave to seek challenges in other lands.

  Never had she imagined finding Brawn Granitefist here, in some human tavern, drinking human ale! Her inner voice screamed at the crime, while her hand went back to gripping her beard. Did these people not know who he was? By the way nobody stared at him, the answer was obvious.

  Like they hadn’t recognized her, Princess of the Deep, Brawn’s notoriety hadn’t followed him here. But, here he was!

  Thank the Three Below.

  Even if Glorina did not find the one she was after here, if she was able to bring Brawn Granitefist back with her to the Monolith, she would consider that a rousing success.

  But if the Undaunted and the Smasher sat at a table together, who else could warrant a seat?

  On Brawn’s other side sat a gnome who clearly wasn’t doing well at the game, having already—literally—lost his shirt. Admittedly, the muscles on the small body were impressive. Could gnomes even have muscles? As far as Glorina knew, gnomes were too busy locking themselves within their laboratories, experimenting with gadgets and alchemical wonders.

  Though she didn’t recognize this gnome, there was a chance he was one of those small geniuses. Perhaps she could ask Brawn about him, and whether he was worth bringing back with her after she secured the Smasher’s aid.

  Beyond the gnome, though, was another face she recognized immediately, Zazabar, master of the All-Consuming Flame. Though he was an elf—and Glorina resisted the urge to spit at the thought—he was famous for his control of a particularly deadly variant of fire. One said to destroy or consume all it touched.

  Zazabar had been hired by more than one nation to stand against armies, his reputation alone causing many to turn and flee in terror. He too could be an excellent addition. Just how much of a jackpot had she hit by finding the Whetstone Tavern?

  At the thought, an idea slowly formed in her head, growing bolder with every passing second. Originally, she had come seeking a single hero to turn the tide of what was coming. Instead, she’d found a veritable table of heroes. If she could bring them back—or half of them—then even her parents would have to admit her idea was the best. Better than her brothers who’d gone seeking aid from the other six nations.

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  Any one of these heroes would be worth more than any army the other nations would provide.

  How they would praise her! How her father would pat her on the head and tell her what a good girl she was. Heat rose to her cheeks at the thought, hidden only by her glorious beard.

  No, don’t get ahead of yourself, Glorina told herself. You have to secure their help first. And you’re not doing this for head-pats. Grown princesses don’t want head-pats!

  The second of gentle recriminations calmed her nerves, but she couldn’t pull her hand from her beard. She was far too excited.

  And she wasn’t even finished appraising the other two people at the table. Could their legends be as impressive as the others?

  First, unsurprisingly—with Glorina trying not to get too starstruck—was a second spell-slinger: Mika of the Heavenly Storm. Said to be a sorceress commanding nature’s wrath, she was almost the polar opposite to Zazabar. Where he pored over tomes and sought hidden knowledge, Mika’s power came naturally. A magical duel between the two? Glorina had no idea who would win, but the land for miles in every direction would certainly lose.

  Eyes wide at the power gathered in the room, Glorina turned to the sixth and final member. Her breath caught in her throat.

  This… this had to be the man she was looking for.

  A hulking specimen, at least seven-feet tall if not larger, with arms as big around as her entire torso. And there, leaning against the table, a great axe. Not just any axe, either. Though it stood taller than she was, with a double-bladed head as wide as a door, it wasn’t those features that drew the eye.

  No, it was the fact the axe was made of solid crystal. Crystal that seemed to contain the night sky within, complete with shooting stars and what the scholars of the Monolith called solar systems—galaxies—deeper and more profound than the sky itself.

  The inner workings of the great axe seemed to draw her in, almost like she could reach out and push her hand into the axe itself.

  The legendary weapon… Fatespinner.

  There was no doubt about it. This was the person she came here to find. Right there, practically so close she could touch.

  Fire in her blood like the strongest ale, Glorina took a breath and stepped forward.

  “Conun of the Drums!” Glorina bellowed, her full voice—used to addressing thousands of rowdy dwarves—easily cutting through the din of the tavern and silencing every other conversation.

  “I have come seeking Conun of the Drums! The man known as the Walker of the World! He who has slain ten thousand goblins, orcs, and trolls across the lands! He who entered the mage tower of Tim the Disenchanted and single-handedly rescued Princess Donna from his clutches!

  “The hero who held Two-Eye Pass for ten days and nights against the cyclops tribes of the north. Who defeated their leader, Occu-Lum-Lum the Dry Eye, in an arm-wrestling match that forced the tribes to retreat!

  “Conun of the Drums, the protector who stood on the shores of Sapphire Bliss and fought back not only the armies of the Depths, but who personally turned aside the Final Tide when it came!

  “Conun of the Drums, the savior of six of the seven kingdoms, who sought out and slew Acatrax, the ancient red dragon, terror of the Fang Mountains! It is this hero I have come seeking to recruit, for a great threat faces the Monolith, and only one such as you, Conun of the Drums, can stand against it!”

  The entire tavern stared.

  Glorina stepped up to the mountain of a man sitting at the card table as her final words left her lips, arriving beside him just as silence fell. If the patrons of the Whetstone Tavern didn’t understand the caliber of the man sitting among them, she would proudly tell of his deeds.

  Though, would she really need to? There could not be a single soul alive who had not heard the tales of Conun of the Drums. Of the lives he had saved, and the kingdoms he had protected.

  Unfortunately, the titan beside her didn’t turn. His eyes remained locked on the cards before him. From the looks of things, only he and the gnome across the table were left in the game. Glorina could almost see sparks in the air between their gazes.

  The only one who truly looked up at her from the table was the dwarf, Brawn Granitefist. His eyes widened in recognition when they landed on her. Though he’d left when she was just but a wee dwarven schoolgirl, his blood would sing when he saw her. He would know her.

  “Princess?” he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly. “What are you…?”

  She raised a hand to cut him off. “Brawn Granitefist, the Smasher. It warms my heart to find you here, but we will speak soon. Your home needs you, your power, and your fists. I hope you will come with me when I leave. For now, however, I must speak with Conun of the Drums.”

  Her attention returned to the towering man, who, even sitting, loomed over her.

  “Conun of the Drums,” she said firmly, “if you would hear my plea, I would be most grateful.”

  “Princess…” Brawn began again.

  She lifted her hand once more. “I’ll speak to you soon,” she hissed.

  Brawn opened his mouth again, but she turned her eyes on him with a glare only royalty could master. To his credit, even after centuries away from the Monolith, true loyalty still flowed through his veins. His mouth closed with an audible snap.

  Next to him, Valeria the Undaunted chuckled, likely never having seen the Smasher cowed so easily.

  Nevertheless, Glorina would talk to them all soon. For now, the titan beside her had not moved. Hadn’t turned an inch during any of her proclamations.

  Getting a better look at him, she saw the steely gaze in his eyes, the focus in his posture. Even here, utterly consumed by his game, he looked ready for war.

  As a princess, she was used to getting her way. But as a seasoned traveler, she knew she did not walk in dwarven halls. These were not her subjects, and she couldn’t hold them to the same expectations she would back home.

  Perhaps she could let him finish his game, then speak when she had his full attention.

  “Well?” the titan’s voice rumbled.

  The word wasn’t loud, yet it carried through the tavern like an avalanche. The deep, echoing tone of rolling boulders down an unyielding mountain made Glorina’s knees weak in spite of herself.

  That voice, it carried the same weight as her father’s.

  This was the man she’d sought.

  “Are you going to raise,” the titan continued, “or are you going to fold?”

  It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t talking to her. He was looking across the table at the gnome.

  Glorina blinked and tore her eyes from him to glance at Conun’s opponent. The gnome—bare-chested, short, with a twinkle in his eye—had an enormous pile of coins in front of him, easily three or four times larger than any other players’, and ten times that of the titan’s.

  Was the gnome cheating?

  Just the thought made Glorina’s beard bristle. Even her carefully applied beard oils couldn’t keep a few hairs from flaring in anger.

  If this gnome was cheating a hero of the realm, she would happily introduce his skull to Stonemaul, her hammer—crafted by her father’s finest smiths and blessed by the Three themselves. Let’s see him cheat with the visage of Vesna Stonespirit imprinted on the top of his shiny skull.

  “I think…” the gnome said, his voice playful, as he reached up and twirled his mustache between finger and thumb. “I’ll raise.”

  He shoved his entire pile of coins forward.

  A gasp rippled through the room. Even the goblins stopped playing. The air thickened with the weight of every watching eye.

  “Now it’s your call,” the gnome said. “Will you fold and keep what’s left of your gold and pride, or go all in?”

  A low growl rolled from the titan’s chest, deep enough to make the mugs on the table tremble. The thick harness across his chest creaked as he drew a breath, thick muscles shifting beneath scarred skin.

  “Be careful,” Zazabar warned, voice sharp. “He cheats. We all know he cheats.”

  “I don’t cheat,” the gnome said evenly. “You’re just terrible at cards. Also, that maniacal laugh you do when you’ve got a good hand? You might want to work on that.”

  “You really do,” Mika added helpfully to the mage beside her.

  “Shut up, you primitive excuse for a wizard,” Zazabar snapped.

  “Oh, you’re always like that,” Mika retorted. “Take the stick out of your ass and accept that my magic’s just as good as yours. Just because I didn’t pull it from some smelly old book doesn’t make it less impressive.”

  “More impressive, in a lot of ways,” Valeria chimed in, her grin mischievous. “I’m still trying to figure out how to steal it. As for yours, Zazabar…” she held up an enormous tome “…maybe I already have.”

  Zazabar’s jaw dropped. “Give that back to me, you little thief!”

  “Fine, fine, fine. I was just borrowing it anyway,” Valeria said, tossing the book back across the table.

  “There better not be anything missing from that!” Zazabar hissed.

  “Oh, relax,” Valeria said with that same reckless smile.

  “Or all that will be left of you is ashes in the wind!” the elf shouted, flames beginning to dance around his hand.

  “Careful who you threaten there, Zazzy,” Valeria teased, her grin turning sharp. “Even you have to sleep sometimes.”

  “Now, now, now,” Mika said, raising both hands. “This isn’t what we’re here for. It’s just a friendly game of cards.”

  “Nothing about this is friendly!” Zazabar snarled. “How you all sit here and let him cheat you out of your gold, I’ll never know! I’m done!”

  He slammed his hand on the table, stood, and stormed off.

  “If I ever see you again, gnome, you’ll taste my fire!” he promised as he stalked toward the exit of the Whetstone Tavern, every eye watching him go.

  “Does it taste like barbecue?” the gnome called after him. “Because I could go for a good barbecue. You offering?”

  Zazabar didn’t answer. The door slammed behind him, and the All-Consuming Flame was gone from the premises.

  “Well, that was entertaining,” the gnome said casually, then turned his attention back to the titan. “So. Call or fold?”

  “I’m beating you this time,” the huge man rumbled, sliding his coins forward.

  “You know that’s not enough,” Mika said.

  “It’s fine,” the gnome replied. “I know he’s good for it. If nothing else, I’ll get him to run a few errands for me.”

  Glorina bristled again. Conun of the Drums—a hero of legend—running errands for a gnome? Unthinkable!

  Before she could speak, the titan nodded. “I’m good for it,” he growled. “If I lose.”

  “Well then,” the gnome said, “let’s see what the cards say. After you.”

  The confidence in the gnome’s voice gave Glorina pause. He hadn’t touched his cards since pushing his coins forward. If he was cheating, she had no idea how. She could pray to The Three Below for guidance, but such an act was generally frowned upon when gambling, and the last thing she wanted was to anger Conun of the Drums by interfering in his game.

  “Read ’em and weep,” the titan said, flipping over his cards.

  It was a game Glorina wasn’t familiar with, so she couldn’t tell whether the hand was good or bad. But, from the collective gasp of the tavern, it was clearly impressive.

  “Damn,” Valeria said, grinning. “How did you manage that? You might have actually got him this time.”

  Except, when Glorina looked across the table, the gnome wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t even pretending to. He was twirling his mustache again, both hands far from the cards.

  “Brawn,” the gnome said pleasantly, “since I don’t want anyone accusing me of cheating again, would you do the honor of flipping my cards?”

  “Sure,” the Smasher rumbled, reaching over to do just that.

  One card at a time, he revealed the gnome’s hand.

  With the first card, the entire tavern leaned forward. With the second, the tension thickened until it was nearly tangible. The third drew a chorus of held breaths.

  The fourth made the titan’s chair fly backward as he stood.

  And the fifth… the fifth brought the Whetstone Tavern to life in an explosion of cheers and disbelief.

  Whatever hand the gnome had, it was a once-in-a-lifetime draw. The cheers shook the rafters. The floorboards trembled under hundreds of stomping feet and tables rattled as hands pounded them. Glorina hadn’t heard such jubilation since her last birthday feast, which had filled an entire hall with a thousand of her “closest” friends.

  Somehow, these few dozen patrons matched that volume.

  “You…!” the titan growled, leaning forward, his massive hands gripping the table hard enough to creak the wood. Muscles bulged beneath scarred skin; even his harness seeming to strain. For a heartbeat, Glorina thought he might seize his crystal axe and end the gnome where he sat.

  But, he didn’t.

  Instead, with monumental restraint, the giant exhaled and sank back into his chair, shaking his head.

  “You really didn’t cheat?” he asked, low and wary.

  “Of course I didn’t cheat,” the gnome replied, cheerfully sweeping his new mountain of coins toward himself. “You know me better than that, Trath. But look,” he paused, smirking “to make you and everyone else feel better, drinks are on me for the rest of the night!”

  That single declaration nearly split the tavern in half with excitement.

  Seeing the number of empty mugs already scattered across tables, Glorina could scarcely comprehend what he’d just offered. The people here could drink.

  And then her thoughts caught on something he’d said.

  Wait.

  What had he called the titan?

  “Trath,” the gnome had said.

  Her brow furrowed.

  Trath? As in Trath One-Tusk?

  The legendary barbarian from the southern tribes, whose bloodline was said to mingle with orcs of the old age? She looked closer and, indeed, there it was; a single tooth poked up from his lower lip, white and sharp.

  “But… if you’re Trath One-Tusk,” she murmured, almost to herself, “then who is Conun of the Drums?”

  Her gaze darted to the shining axe beside him. Fatespinner. It had to be his. Everything fit the tales.

  “Princess?” Brawn began gently, his gravel voice tinged with sympathy.

  “What is going on here?” she demanded.

  The Smasher sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Princess… it’s a common mistake. One I made myself when I first came here. There is no Conun of the Drums.”

  “What do you mean?” Glorina’s voice broke in a way quite unbecoming of a royal. “I’ve traveled here from the Monolith! This is the sixteenth town I’ve visited searching for this tavern seeking Conun of the Drums! The legends of his accomplishments, the cities and nations he saved, they’re all true! They must be. Tell me now, Brawn Granitefist, tell me true! What nonsense is this that there is no Conun of the Drums?”

  At her rising voice, the table fell into a hush. The others exchanged knowing smiles. Valeria bit her lip to hide her laughter. Mika’s eyes sparkled. Even Trath’s shoulders shook slightly as if holding back a chuckle.

  Brawn’s thick fingers drummed on the table once, twice.

  “Princess,” he said at last, “the tales are true. The things he accomplished, all of them true. Acatrax the Red Dragon fell to Fatespinner’s edge. He stood on the shores of Sapphire Bliss, and in the Two-Eye Pass. He did defeat Occu-Lum-Lum the Dry Eye in an arm-wrestling match. And there are a dozen more tales you’ve never heard, unless you sit here, in this tavern, and speak with its patrons.”

  He paused.

  “But…”

  “But what?” Glorina snapped.

  “But his name,” Brawn said, his mouth twitching into a reluctant smile, “isn’t Conun of the Drums.”

  “Then what is it?” she demanded.

  The dwarf inclined his head toward the gnome, who was now stacking his coins into neat little towers, utterly unbothered.

  “His name,” Brawn said, “is Conundrum.”

  Glorina blinked. “…What?”

  The gnome looked up at her, mustache still twirled into perfect curls, eyes gleaming with humor.

  “Princess Glorina Stonewall, daughter of King and Queen Stonewall, rulers of the Monolith, guardians of the Deep and Wardens of the dark,” Brawn said formally. “Allow me to introduce you to Conundrum, the Walker of the World.”

  Then the gnome winked at her.