“Hurry up, boy!” His father’s voice cracked like a whip, stirring him from his daydream. Snapping his head up, he realized that his team had indeed fallen behind. He clucked softly as he flicked the reigns, urging the large draft horses forward at a trot – the fastest speed they could manage while pulling the heavy wagon.

Logan Trask sighed. Pushing draft horses forward like this was hard enough under normal circumstances. When you were traveling up a steep sloped mountain road, it was hard on you as well. I should have stayed home with Aunt Kotha. But no… I had to get out of the house with Da. Stupid, stupid, stupid….

Clucking a second time, he hoped the horses would finally listen and not complain too loudly. The team was experienced and knew the route better than him. Sighing, he realized his Da listened to their complaints more than he did Logan’s own.

He couldn’t blame his Da. He was as green as grass; he just hoped the trade run was profitable. Then again, how could it not be? The dwarves of Citadel Guernas were famous around the world for their talent as miners. Of course, they always drove a hard bargain - they were dwarves, after all – but the fact that Da’s partner was a dwarf made up for a great deal.

He stopped feeling sorry for himself when he realized that at last the horses were moving a little faster. The grade here was steep, heading up into the Togress Mountains, so fast was still a relative term, but... Steep mountain pass, barely wider than the wagon. Perfect spot for bandits to attack. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide… Even though the dwarves patrolled this route, he felt certain they would be attacked at any moment.

He was right, for a war cry unlike anything he had ever heard suddenly filled the air. The horses screamed in terror at the unearthly sound, and it was all Logan could do to prevent them from bolting. Mhartin, the hired guard sitting next to him reached for his weapons even as he shouted a warning. A hulking green mass leaped from the cliff above him, swatting Mhartin aside with a massive hand. The guard never even knew what killed him, for in a heartbeat, the creature ripped the head from his body. Logan blanched as the guard’s head suddenly appeared at his feet; even so, he managed to hold his grip on the reins, for instinctively he knew the horses would race to their doom if he let go.

Snarling, the creature whirled around above him, calling out to him in a rasping form of the trader’s tongue. “This land ‘long Bith Naku Trolls, human! You die!” He swung at Logan with a powerful backhand swipe. Logan ducked at the last second. The creature – troll, he realized – proceeded to smash the seat next to him into splinters.

Snarling again, it raised both arms overhead. Logan knew there was no way he could avoid this next attack. His closed his eyes as the creature swung at him.

Yet, somehow, the end never came. Blinking, he gulped in sudden relief as he saw that an arrow was lodged in the troll’s eye. It screamed in pain, collapsing in a heap next to him, crushing what little remained of the seat.

He released his breath explosively as he whipped his head around, surveying the situation. What he saw left him with little hope. There were at least a dozen trolls attacking the half-dozen wagons in the caravan, and several of the guards – both dwarven and human – were already dead or dying.

Yet, all was not lost. His father was still on the wagon behind him, loosing arrows at the trolls one after another, and a dwarf in robes was standing next to him as well. Uncle Grim. The dwarf was a cleric of Voluge, as well as his Father’s partner, and he was calling down the righteous fury of his god.

Logan cast about for a weapon – any weapon – as the troll next to him somehow began to stir. Frantically, he grabbed at a piece of the shattered bench to use as a club, but in his panic, it slipped from his fingers.

Something dripped on his neck as he clambered for a weapon – something wet and very sticky. He turned his head up, fearful in a new way, and he could feel the wetness run down his leg as he looked into the maw of the eight-foot-tall troll, the arrow still lodged in its eye. “Pointy stick not stop troll!” it sneered, and it ripped out the arrow with one hand. It leered at him through rotten teeth even as I raised malformed arms over its head, ready to smash Logan into pulp.

Then, suddenly, a shout from behind: “By Voluge! You will na’ have the boy, too!”

Uncle Grim’s call startled the troll just enough that its blow smashed the seat behind Logan, and he tumbled backward off the wagon, landing behind the wagon as it rolled on. His head cracked on the hard mountain road, and between the stars, he saw a column of fire come crashing down into the front of the wagon. A part of him understood that the fire was magic, magic from Uncle Grim’s god, but only a small part of him. The shock of the fight and the impact caught up to him then, and everything went black.

* * *

Logan woke with a start and immediately wished he were still asleep. His head pounded in a way he’d never felt before, and it felt as if one of the multi-ton freight wagons had rolled directly over his forehead.

With a groan, he pushed up, elevating his shoulders enough to glance down the narrow mountain road. What he saw horrified him. At least two of the wagons were splintered to kindling, and fire burned fiercely from at least one more. As for the other wagons, he couldn’t see. What he could do was smell, and that smell was enough to make him forget the pain in his head. Burning bodies, he knew. He’d smelled a cremation fire once, and this was far, far worse.

Rolling over, he sicked up on the ground, pushing himself away from the bile despite the fact that the effort made his head throb even more blindingly. He nearly blacked out again from the pain, and blackness swam at the corners of his vision again as a gentle voice filled his ears. “Easy, lad. Easy. “Yah’ve taken’ nasty blow to yer’ head, what one oh’ them priests o’ Traalar would call a concussion. Dinna move.”

Move? Why on Aromathus would I want to do that? Still, he didn’t see any reason to argue with the voice, so he slowly opened his eyes into the gruff, scarred face of Uncle Grim. The dwarf was covered in blood – most of it not the red of human or dwarf, but the black of trolls. Logan couldn’t make out the words, but could tell his foster Uncle’s lips were moving in nearly silent prayer.

Gathering strength, Logan managed to stammer, “Where’s my Da?” He was hushed down by another voice, a voice he recognized as his foster Aunt Martah, who gently placed a finger to his mouth, holding him down with her other hand.

Then, suddenly, a warm feeling effused his body, and he convulsed in pain as it seemed that fire flashed through him. He gasped for air as his back arched, and it was all his foster Uncle and Aunt could do to hold him down. Even at fifteen, Logan had the body of a fully grown human man, and he was much larger than the two dwarves. His arms thrashed, and later his Aunt would show him the bruise on her arm where he’d hit her.

Then, almost as quickly as it began, it was over. He sucked in a lungful of air and realized that he felt… better. The pounding in his head was gone, and he blinked once, twice, and let his body relax as his aunt lifted her hand from his shoulder. A deep lassitude overcame him then, a tiredness that made his body ache.

“Where… Where’s my Da?” he stammered. But the magic had taken too much out of him, and sleep was coming for him whether he wanted it or not. Yet he heard Aunt Martah softly say, “Hush now lad. We’ll be discussin’ that later. Don’t yah’ worry….”

But that was all he heard before sleep took him.

* * *

Waking suddenly, Logan realized he was hungry. More accurately, he was ravenous. In fact,

he couldn’t recall ever being this hungry in his whole life– and that was saying something for a six-foot-tall, two-hundred-plus pound fifteen year old boy. After all, he was always hungry.

His eyes fluttered open as a groan of hunger escaped his lips. Faint light shone through the back of what he quickly concluded was one of his Da’s trade wagons. Then, a voice: “Ah, good. Yer awake, lad. I wasna’ sure you’d make it.” Uncle Grim, he thought as he took a bowl of steaming hot porridge from his foster uncle’s outstretched hand.

“Make it?” he asked.

“You took a nasty blow to yer head, lad. That an’ the burns.”

“Burns?” He looked down his arms as he sat up. “I’m not burned!”

The dwarf flushed visibly. “Ah, me last spell was a wee bit… off.”

“Off?” Logan responded, still confused.

“I missed, lad. Ye got caught up in the blast o’ me last flame strike.”

Missed? He patted himself down. “But I feel fine.”

Grim chuckled. “I always try to fix me mistakes, lad. An’ that’s why you’re here now. I healed ye.” Grim stopped, scooping up a bowl of porridge for himself. “I fixed ye up right as rain.”

“Thanks, I suppose,” Logan managed to say between mouthfuls. “But I don’t remember a thing.”

“No, I dinna think ye’ would. Not after that.” Grim trailed off, appearing as if he wanted to say more, but staying silent as he watched Logan eat.

After a long time, Logan finished his bowl and motioned for a refill. “Can I see my Da? How come he’s not here now?”

Grim dipped his head down, unable to meet Logan’s gaze. “That’s why I’m here now, lad. Someone has to tell ye. An’ it might as well be me.”

“Tell me what?”

“Lad, you’re Da’, he dinna make it. He’s… he’s dead, Logan.”

Logan’s head snapped up. “That’s not funny, Uncle Grim. I know you dwarves have an odd sense of humor, but…”

Grim cut him off. “I be a Shieldbrother of Voluge. We dinna joke about such things. Never.” Drawing in a deep breath, the dwarf continued. “One o’ them thrice-damned trolls killed him, lad. There was nothing I could do.”

Logan’s gaze tore at Grim’s heart, but the old cleric was a dwarf. And dwarves were always direct about matters of life and death. Especially priests of the Soul Forger like himself. Yet he was mortal, and he allowed his own tears to come, even as the first tear appeared on the boy’s face. Willem Trask had been his friend and partner longer than Logan had been alive, and he already missed the human.

“But I just spoke to him an hour ago!” Logan stammered.

Grim shook his head. “Ye’ve been asleep for two days, lad. It’s been two days since yer Da’ died in me arms.”

Logan’s stared hard at Grim. “You could save me, but not him? How is that possible?”

“By the time I got to him, it was too late. One o’ them trolls nearly crushed his head. He was breathin’ his last by the time I found ‘em.”

Logan’s arms went limp, and he dropped his bowl to the floor of the wagon. Grim let him sit silently; he knew that the enormity of his Da’s passing would take a while to sink in. Then, after a long while, the boy’s head fell into his hands, and the tears started to flow unbidden. “What am I to do?” he sniffled. “I have nothing at home now. With Da gone, what am I to do? All I’ve got left is the clothes on my back!”

Grim reached up one hand and tried to put it on the human’s shoulder, but the boy shook him off. “Lad, ye’ know that’s not true. Yer aunt will take you in.”

“No she won’t!” he wailed. “The only reason she hangs around at all is because she wants Da’s money. Stupid woman doesn’t realize that Da’s so far in debt to you that it’s only your money that kept him going!”

Grim tried to keep the surprise off his face. How did he know that? But it didn’t matter now. After all, he had to admit, the boy was right. Kotha would be gone in two swings of an axe if she knew about Willem’s debts. But I can’t let Logan think that. Not now. “Lad,” he finally managed to murmur, “It’ll be all right.”

“No, it won’t.” Logan replied heavily. “It will never be all right again.”

Before Grim could say or do anything, the big human boy had spun around and fled from the wagon into the night, leaving Grim to sit and worry about his friend’s son in addition to everything else that had gone wrong on this trip.

* * *

Logan walked up the mountain trail, leaving the surviving wagons behind. It was hard

to believe, but there were only two left. Two out of six. And even worse, there were far fewer people around them than there should have been.

So much for the trade run that was supposed to get Da’ out of debt to Uncle Grim. Minutes ago, when he’d fled from the wagon, he’d had a small amount of hope – less than a fraction, but still, some. Now? Now the situation really was hopeless. Sure, Grim was an old friend, but unlike his Da’, he was a shrewd businessman. Logan knew that Grim had taken Da’ on as a partner not for his business sense, but because of his connections to the great trading houses in western Averim.

That had been years ago, though, and those creditors were starting to want their money today, not next month on a promise of one more run. As a result, Grim had paid off Willem’s debt; but a debt was still a debt. One day, even Grim would call in those debts – cleric or not. And I’m nothing but a fifteen year old kid. A kid with no future, now. Grim was many things, but he was still a dwarven merchant – and dwarven merchants always collected their debts in the end.

What am I going to do? Da’ had poured every last dime he’d had left into this run. They’d been carrying fine goods north – elvish porcelain, human leather craft, whiskey from Eldahne – everything high profit goods, and almost all of it smashed by the trolls. Da’ and Grim had hired twice the normal number of guards, but it hadn’t been enough. Not against trolls. No. Those misbegotten spawn of Hadar had to be killed by fire or acid – nothing else would do, for otherwise whatever wounds were inflicted on them healed in minutes.

And now the last of Da’s money was gone. Da’s death literally left Logan destitute; his only possessions were the clothes he had on his back. What little he had at home would be sold by Aunt Kotha - if she didn’t take them with her when she fled.

He collapsed by a scraggly pine growing along the mountain trail and buried his head in his hands. He began sobbing, wishing he could wake up from this nightmare, but he’d already tried slapping himself awake. This was reality, he realized – a reality worse than any nightmare could ever be. It should have been so simple. This would have been his first run with Da’, learning the trade. He’d help Da’ and Grim, his wages helping work off the family debt, and then, in a few years, he’d be ready to become Da’s partner. But now? Now I’ve got nothing but a mountain of debt with no skill or training at all – and no way of earning any.

He didn’t know how long he sat there crying, but it felt like hours. His face flushed, and his eyes hurt from rubbing them with his linen shirt. Have to stop. Be a man, if only for a while. Let everyone think I’m all right long enough to figure out a way to fix it – if that’s even possible

Heavy footfalls broke his reverie. “I know what you’re thinkin’ lad.” He looked up, rubbing his eyes for the thousandth time, and saw Grim standing by him.

“You do?” he asked, amazed that the dwarf could sense the direction of his thoughts.

Grim nodded. “He was me friend too, ye know. An’ we were friends for longer than ye’ve been alive.” Logan nodded sullenly. “I’ll miss ‘em too, ye know. Ye don’t have to cry out here all by yourself.”

“By myself?” Grim nodded in reply. “But you’re a battle cleric! You must have seen many men die in battle!”

“Sure enough, lad. But that don’t mean we don’t miss our friends who’ve gone on to Voluge’s hall.”

“But Da’ was human! He’ll go to Urnomax, if he’s lucky.”

“Yer Da’ died a warrior’s death, lad. With his last breath he spat upon the troll that killed ‘iem. He’s in Voluge’s hall for sure.”

“Small comfort!” Logan retorted. Grim tried to embrace the boy, but Logan refused. “Just let me be, all right? I just need time to think. I’ll be all right in a while.” Logan hoped his lie was convincing.

It must have been. Either that, or Grim was humoring him. “Ach, lad. I don’t blame ye. Just remember that we’ll be leavin’ in the mornin’.” Grim paused, seemingly unsure of what to say. Then: “I know it doesn’t seem to mean much now, but it does get easier, lad. I do know that.”

Logan smiled, muttering a word of thanks. Grim’s anxiousness appeared to be mollified by his response, and so the dwarf stood up, preparing to be about his business. The human boy watched his dwarf foster uncle step down from the wagon. Logan was happy to see him go, for the dwarf was far too cheerful to be around.

* * *

The next few days passed by in a flurry of activity around the campsite. Grim oversaw the

refitting of what wagons were left, and he also sent word by arcane means to a dwarven garrison a few tens of leagues ahead that troll raiders were in the area.

Sure enough, a company of battle-hardened dwarven soldiers showed up a few days later. Some of them were to escort the wagons in case of another attack, but most were there to hunt down the trolls. The dwarves prided themselves on the security of their trade routes, and for trolls to attack a caravan like they had meant they were either desperate, or stupid. Probably both, Logan mused. Either way, fifty dwarven warriors will find out why, and stop it - one way or another.

He almost wished he was going with them. Almost. After all, a crusade like that would not only avenge his Da’ but would give him something worthwhile to do while he figured out what to do with his life – and debts. But no. No matter how tempting such an idea was, it wouldn’t change the situation any. In fact, it’d probably only make it worse.

Surprisingly, Grim hadn’t even mentioned his Da’s death in all those days. It was almost as if he and the dwarves had agreed not to talk about what had occurred – or anything else, for that matter. Logan had to admit that Grim and Martah had been very forgiving of him and his sullen attitude after they’d started out again. He tried to act like nothing was bothering him at first, but everyone knew that was a lie, so he just clammed up, not saying anything more than he had to. He’d worried his uncle would try and pry more words out of him, but Grim left him alone. That suited his purposes just fine. Just a few more days and we reach Citadel Torfal. Then I can slip away and hide, at least long enough to figure out what to do.

Sure, Grim hadn’t said anything about his Da’s debts these last few days. But he could tell. After all, it was said that dwarves could buy from a Narvic and sell to a Brecht – and still make a profit. He doubted that, but he did know that dwarves never forgot who owed them money. Never.

He sighed as he continued to walk down the path, concentrating solely on putting one foot in front of the other. How can they act like nothing’s wrong? Adults could be so… frustrating. I mean, I know they aren’t related to Da and don’t have my debts. But gods of light! Twenty men died in that raid before Grim burned out the trolls, and if he hadn’t been here, we all would have died!

Suddenly, he realized that he’d been lost in his thoughts for so long that he’d come up behind one of the wagons and had nearly walked into its rear end. Stopping, he shook his head to focus his thoughts and realized he heard voices coming from inside the wagon.

“When’re you going to tell the boy?” Aunt Martah.

“Tell him what?” Uncle Grim. “I don’t have anything to tell him yet. And ye know I won’t know anymore until I talk to ‘em in person. I can only say so much by matters arcane. And ye know as well as I that me brothers have as much to say about this as I do, Martah.”

Brothers? That could only mean… Uncle Grim had several brothers, and they were his partners in the trading business as well. The money grubbing bastard couldn’t even wait until he found out how much we made off the goods we have left. Gods damned coin worshipping dwarves! Always about money with them!

“I know that, Grim. But yer elder to them; they’ll listen to ye!”

A snort. “It doesn’t work that way, Martah, and ye know it. It concerns money. Me money, and theirs. An’ they won’t agree to anything until that matter is taken care of.”

“But Grim! Look at the lad! Tis’ eatin’ him up inside. We have to find the money!”

The conversation continued, but Logan could stand to hear no more. His foster uncle hadn’t even waited until they returned to Citadel Carnoth! Hells, they’re probably going to throw me in some accursed debtor’s prison as soon as they can! And I know I won’t survive that!

Scuffing at the ground with his boot, Logan fell behind the caravan, more lost and worried than ever.

* * *

The garrison just ahead of them was small, even by dwarven standards, but Logan knew that a

hundred dwarven warriors called the little fortress home at any given time. Fifty of them were out hunting down the trolls that had attacked them a week past, but the other fifty manned the battlements of the fortress with eager readiness.

Not that you’d ever see them if you didn’t know they were there. Dwarves stood out like sore thumbs in the plains of Averim, but here in the mountains, they were only seen if they wanted to be seen. And these dwarves wanted to be seen.

Well, at least half the garrison is gone. That’ll make finding what I need easier. He dared not wait another week until they got to Citadel Carnoth; he’d never be able to maintain the calm façade he was attempting to keep up. Grim wasn’t even going to give him a chance to pay off his debts; he wasn’t going to give him any time at all.

He’d come to realize that he only had one choice. After all, the blasted dwarves had to know he was hiding something. If he didn’t hurry, well, they’d want him alive for a show trial before locking him in debtors’ prison. Or, more to the point, if he didn’t hurry, they’d just assume he was up to no good and lock him up in the back of the wagon, and he’d never be able to carry out what he was planning.

I should just end it all, he thought. I’ll never pay off Da’s - my – debts. And no one will miss me when I’m gone. It’ll just be easier that way. It would solve a lot of problems, that much was certain.

How to do it, though? He didn’t think he had the will to slit his wrists. Poison ,maybe. Surely something in Grim’s wagons would do the trick. But no; not after the trolls had ravaged the caravan. He could think of nothing short of drinking a keg of ale. He imagined he’d pass out long before he drank enough dwarf spirits to do the job.

Well, just a few more hours. Surely I can hold it together that long. Straightening his back, he walked forward with a purpose for the first time since Da’ had been murdered. He was behind the surviving wagons, so the sentry at the gate simply nodded to Grim, letting him pass without question. Normally, a human entering a dwarven fort would have been cause for thorough investigation, but after all that had occurred – and in the company of Uncle Grim – nothing was said.

The fort was built into the mountainside; only the battlements were exposed to the world, and then only when the dwarves wanted them to be seen. The rest of the fort – storage rooms, armories, barracks and training halls – were hidden from prying eyes. Much like I want to be right now. How appropriate.

One of the dwarves motioned him toward a large open chamber with the floor carved level – a place to park the wagons and stable the caravan’s animals. Had he been paying attention, he would have found it amazing that such a place was fully hidden inside a mountain. All of the rooms had been dug out by the dwarves, forming a fort as large as any built by men, yet all of it built into a mountainside.

He slipped quickly away from the caravan as soon as he could, ducking into a storage chamber and closing the wooden door behind him. The room was dark, but the door didn’t fit well in the rough stone opening; a hint of light flickered in around the edges. Just enough to see by, but not enough to be seen. Perfect.

Quickly, he started to inventory what was stored in the room. Dry goods. Some tack for animals. Polish and other cleaning supplies for that tack… Yes. That would serve nicely.

He picked up the metal polish he knew to bepoison and stared intently at it for long moments. A part of him didn’t want to end his life – the gods of light frowned on such things, even the morally ambivalent ones such as Relvith or Toronar. Yet… he could think of no other solution to his problems. Well, bottoms up. He realized he had no idea how much of the poison he would need, so he brought the bottle up to his mouth and downed the whole bottle in one gulp.

That didn’t taste so bad. After all, one would think poison should taste foul, like death incarnate. He glared at the bottle. I’ll have to remember to tell Hadar that when I see him. He was pretty sure the god of death would be amused by that thought. Maybe it would amuse the god enough that he would only banish him to one of the upper hells instead of the lower ones where murderers spent the afterlife. After all, wasn’t he murdering himself? Still another question he’d have to ask the gods.

Sighing, he sat back against a barrel of oats. Things were beginning to get a little fuzzy now; he hoped that meant the poison was working. He’d find out soon enough. He could see Da. And Ma. How long had it been since he’d seen her? He couldn’t remember. As he slouched there, trying to remember how long it had been, everything slowly faded away.

* * *

Blast it all! Where was that boy! By the flaming beard of Voluge, he’d skin him alive when he found him! It’s one thing for him to run off and sulk when he was hiding from the drovers in the caravan. But here? If he wandered off into one of the unfinished caverns, we’ll never find him!

Grim called Logan’s name again. He’d set some of the warriors to looking for him, but there were only so many of them – and his authority as a Shield Master of Voluge only carried so much weight, even here in a garrison. In truth, he could conscript some of the warriors for a few hours, but with half the garrison gone on a pacification mission, they were already short-handed and reluctant to give him even that much aid.

He stalked down the corridor, looking into one storage chamber after another, his darksight piercing the darkened rooms. Most of them were empty, or nearly so, but a nagging feeling told him to keep looking.

Voluge, let me find the boy soon. Otherwise, how will I be able to keep me word to his dying father? Rounding a corner, he noticed a door left slightly ajar. That’s odd. He glanced down at the floor; there was enough dust on the ground for him to see footprints… and the only ones he saw were bigger than a dwarf’s.

Heading into the open door.

Grim bolted for the door, barreling the heavy oaken door aside with one of his shoulders. He swept his eyes about the room. They stopped suddenly on the inert form in the back corner.

By Voluge, no! Rushing over, he turned over Logan’s unconscious body and felt for a pulse. There was one there, if barely. He quickly began chanting the words of a healing spell that should stop whatever had befallen the boy.

The dwalish words passed from his mouth, but when he finished and checked his pulse again, it was no stronger. Cursing, he cast another minor spell. This one would define whatever was ailing the boy. Even before he finished the spell, he drew back, shocked and alarmed

Poison.

Stupid, stupid boy! Poison blocking spells were relatively simple, but he’d asked Voluge for battle and healing spells this day, not those needed to control poisons. Cursing the boy’s stupidity again, Grim mouthed the words of a strength-enhancing spell. Wrapping his arms around the boy’s waist, he flung him bodily over his shoulder. There are positives to memorizing combat spells after all.

He rounded the corner, picking up speed. By the time he reached the end of the hallway, he was moving at a dead run toward the garrison’s small infirmary. Barreling aside the guard at the door, he dropped the boy none too gently on a human-sized cot set up along the back wall. The very junior Shield Brother on duty started to object, but Grim cut him off. “Do ye’ ha’ an anti-poison spell memorized?”

“Ach, no, Shield Master. But we’ve got ‘em on scrolls!”

“Then get me one, quickly!” Grim sputtered. “Now!” he shouted, and this spurred the other cleric into action. He grabbed a scroll from a cabinet on the opposite side of the room and threw it to Grim. The Shield Master began unrolling it even before he had it in both hands. He hoped it wasn’t too late. I just wish I knew what the fool boy had taken. And if wishes were horses…..

Moments later, his prayers were answered as Logan moaned; moaning meant he’d been quick enough, and the boy would recover. ‘Twas a good thing ‘twas me who found ‘im, or he’d be dead by now. Stupid boy!

Logan raised his head a minute later, groaning as his eyes flashed open. “Where am I?

Am I dead? Is this Hadar’s realm?”

“No, ye stupid ninny! This is a dwarven infirmary, and ye best be glad it tis!” Grim yelled.

“Then I’ve failed,” he moaned as his head dropped back down.

“Failed? Ye mean ye tried to do this to yerself?”

“Of course! What other choice do I have? There’s no way I can pay back what my father owed

you!”

Grim collapsed onto his haunches in shock. “

Where in Voluge’s hindquarters did ye get such a foolish idea?”

“From you, you crazy old bastard!” Logan shouted. “ I heard you talking to Martah the other night. I know you’re going to have me tossed in jail as soon as we get to Citadel Carnoth!”

Grim couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Is that what ye think, lad?”

“Of course!” he cried. “You’re a dwarf. Everyone knows dwarves never forgive a debt!”

In spite of himself, Grim had to chuckle. “Lad, we may never forget a debt, but we do forgive. Despite whatever you have heard.” He allowed his expression to harden just a touch. “Now, tell me what you think you heard to put this insane idea of killing yerself into your head.”

Logan lay there for a moment before the words began tumbling out. It took him a while to tell this tale, but by the end, nothing could stop the old cleric from laughing out loud. “Lad, nothing could be farther from the truth. What ye heard… I have to convince me brothers, but me decision stands.”

“Your decision?”

“Lad, your Da’ was one of me oldest friends, even among me fellow dwarves. An’ I promised him as he died in me arms that I’d look out for his boy. Train ye, and see ye educated.”

Logan started to say something, but stopped as the enormity of his error sunk home. “So you’re not going to throw me in prison?”

“Oh course not!”

“Then what were you and Aunt Martah talking about?”

“Lad, I’ve an offer to make ye, if yer willing.” Logan nodded, abashed. “Well, then. I intend to take ye to Citadel Carnoth, to the Temple of Voluge there. You’ll learn from the same Shield Masters who taught me. Ye’ll learn our ways an’ culture, true enough, and it’ll be hard, ye being the only human among a lot o’ dwarves. But ye’ll also learn how to be a priest. An when yer done in a couple years, well, you can come work for me – as me partner, lad. I owe yer Da’ that much.”

“What… what about the money?”

“Ye can work it off when the time comes, lad. Either to me, or to me order.”

Logan stared at the floor, embarrassed. “I don’t know what say, Uncle Grim.”

“Ye could say thanks, lad. I did just save yer life. Again.”

Half a smile appeared on Logan’s face. `“Ah, yes. Yes you did. Thanks.”

“So what do you say, lad? Will you go Citadel Carnoth, or did I just waste a wagonload of magic on ye?”

“It beats debtors’ prison, Uncle Grim.”

“Aye, lad. That it does. But now ye best rest for a while. We’ll talk later.”

Logan lifted his head off the cot. “Uncle Grim?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. I mean it.”

This time, Grim could tell he really did mean it. He clasped his new foster son around the shoulders and hugged him fiercely. “No, lad,” he replied as he stood. “Thank ye. Now rest.”

Logan rolled his eyes at Grim. “Rest? I’m too hungry to rest! Haven’t you dwarves got any food around here?”

Grim just laughed, first by himself, then with Logan even as he called for a steward to bring them food and ale. After all, we could both use an ale after all this – an ale in memory of a good man, and for the making of another.