“Not until I give you my signal. And if I were you, Brother, I wouldn’t expect that anytime soon.”

Quinn gave an annoyed growl. “They dare treat our guests this way? After we’ve promised Keeley and the others safe passage?”

“Keeley wasn’t the one in danger. We were.”

“Meaning what?”

“That our job is simply to keep her alive. The rest are expendable. And trust me . . . they all know it.”

* * *

Mundric took them to his favorite forge for a tour. A tour Caid didn’t need or want, but the fascination and joy on Keeley’s face made it all worth it. At least for him.

The forge was, to say the least, immense. Giant chains and cuffs were currently being made from dwarven steel by several of the king’s best blacksmiths.

Keeley grabbed one of the enormous cuffs and lifted it, studying the entire thing, which was at least four times the size of her head.

“What, exactly, is this for?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” the king admitted. “The wood elves ordered them. I do know they sometimes have to deal with trolls, which is probably why they constantly need new sets.”

“Interesting latch mech—”

“My wife,” the king cut in and Keeley dropped the cuff back on the steel table. It wasn’t until the metal piece landed that Caid realized how heavy it was. It landed with a brutal clang and shook the entire thick table.

Keeley faced Mundric and ended up gawking at a dwarf female.

The two females walked around each other, their heads tilting from one side to the other. They sized each other up until Mundric said, “Queen Keeley of the Hill Lands, this is my wife, Queen Vulfegundis.”

Keeley gazed down at the short but powerfully built dwarf female who wore a sleeveless leather tunic, leather leggings, leather boots, the brand of the dwarven blacksmith guild on her shoulder, and had a hammer strapped to her back. A much bigger hammer than Keeley wielded.

Matching grins spread across the faces of both females and they nodded at each other.

“You two hungry?” the king asked.

And, completely by coincidence, they said together, “I could eat.”

* * *

The feast was a little off-putting only because the roasted meats that were brought out still had their heads and not all of them were animals Keeley knew. But she was grateful nothing appeared to have once been human. So that was good.

Keeley sat to the right of the king and his wife sat on his left, across from her. And they spent the entire meal discussing blacksmith techniques and blacksmith history. Dwarven history that even Keeley didn’t know. It was, in Keeley’s estimation, the most splendid dining experience she’d ever had with those who were not family.

Once the meal was finished, the king demanded more Old Songs. But this time, he pointed at Gemma, who had not spoken once during the meal. And Keeley knew why—she didn’t trust anyone.

“You. War Monk. You two are sisters, so you should know the Old Songs too.”

Gemma looked up from her steel cup of water. “I do. But I have no desire to sing on command.”

“I thought you wanted our help, Monk,” Vulfegundis said, pushing her short black hair off her face.

“Yes.”

“And yet you expect us to hand over our armies to people we don’t know, of a race we don’t particularly like?”

“Our armies?”

“We rule together. And it’s together we choose who we help. And my husband knows I’m not much a fan of... monks.”

“It’s true,” the king said, smiling lovingly at his wife. “So if I were you, Monk . . . I’d sing.”

Keeley thought for sure her sister would have long forgotten all those songs their mother had sung to them since they were in their cribs. But then, Gemma sang one of the saddest Old Songs ever, about the death of a blacksmith’s loyal hound. Her voice was crystal clear and beautiful and by the time she was done, Keeley, the king, his wife, and every dwarf in the throne room was openly sobbing. The centaurs, however, were not. Although they did look disturbed. Samuel, of course, was crying. And Keran was asleep, most likely waiting for the dinner wine to turn into hearty dwarven ale.

“That was beautiful, War Monk,” the king said to Gemma with great respect, using his fist to wipe his wet eyes.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She turned to Keeley, her mouth opening to say something, but when she saw the tears, she stopped. “Woman . . . are you crying?”

“I love that song,” Keeley sobbed out.

With a wave of her hand, Gemma started to stand, but Keeley asked through her tears, “Do you remember Butch?”

Gemma froze. “Keeley, stop.”

“He was our mother’s dog,” she explained to the king. “He went with her to her forge every day. And walked her home every night.”

Gemma leaned back in her chair, her own eyes now filled with tears. “Keeley, I said stop.”

“He took care of us and watched out for all us kids—and then one day... one day!”

Keeley looked at Gemma and together they cried out, “Butch!”

* * *

Caid watched with his mouth open as a battle-ready blacksmith and her murderous War Monk sister sobbed over a dead dog. It wasn’t just sobbing either. It was hysterical sobbing. The kind of sobbing one saves for finding one’s father dead. Not because of a dog.

Next to him, Laila rubbed her nose and immediately Caid barked, “You better not be—”

“Are you kidding?” she demanded, eyes dry. “My nose is itchy.”

A short time after the sobbing finally stopped, the dwarves brought out their ale. That’s when Keran snapped awake and, out of nowhere, began to sing another Old Song. This one was a jig from the start and all the way through. The sisters and cousin started off the dancing and the dwarves happily joined in. Now, all of them were singing.

That went on for quite a few hours until almost everyone passed out except the on-duty guards—who didn’t drink at all—the king, Queen Vulfegundis, Laila, Quinn, Keeley, and Gemma.

They didn’t head off to bed, though; instead all of them sat down at the dining table once again.

“If I give you my armies,” the king haggled with Keeley, “what will you give me?”

“My armies—”

“Which you don’t currently have,” Queen Vulfegundis tossed in.

“—will be there for your wars, of course. And we protect the Amichai Mountains from any raiders. Human or otherwise. All this territory will belong only to the tribes. I’ll make it a royal edict. And if anyone disobeys it . . . they’ll be beheaded.”

“Is that it?”

“You’re getting a royal edict out of this—what more do you want?”

“That’s a nice hammer,” the king noted.

“You’re not getting my hammer,” Keeley quickly said, making the king laugh. “And you said it was cute.”

“I thought my granddaughter would like it. She’s nearly eight seasons now.”

“Oh, that’s very nice,” Keeley coldly replied.

“I want something,” the queen suddenly interjected, her gaze locked on Keeley.

“And what’s that?”

When the queen smirked, Caid’s ears twitched and Laila sat up a little straighter in her chair.

“I want gold,” she finally announced.

Keeley’s eyes rolled and she sarcastically replied, “I’m a little low on gold at the moment. New queen and all that.”

“Sichar’s gold.”

Keeley’s mouth fell open and Gemma abruptly leaned forward, her arms slamming down on the table. Both sisters openly gawked at the queen. Even Keran reacted . . . a little. She sat up from her spot on the floor where she’d passed out an hour before, yelled “Sichar!” then dropped back down and started snoring.

“You can’t be serious,” Keeley hissed.

“More serious than you know. You come to us,” Vulfegundis barked, her mood suddenly changing, “you make demands—”

“I asked nicely!”

“—bring your blood-soaked War Monk sister—”

“She sang for you!”

“—and you offer us nothing except an army you don’t have and that worthless hammer!”

“I didn’t offer my hammer,” Keeley growled out.

“You want our armies, bitch, you get us Sichar’s gold.”

Keeley looked at her sister and lifted her arms, as if she was showing the king and queen their own throne room. “Where?” she demanded. “Where’s Sichar’s gold? Because if I had Sichar’s gold, I’d be making Sichar’s weapons!” she ended on a powerful bellow that brought the king’s guard closer to the table.

“I know where there’s Sichar’s gold.”

As one, they all looked down to the end of the table where Quinn sat. He scratched his head. “At least, I’ve heard rumors.”

“Oh, it’s no rumor, centaur,” Mundric said. “They have Sichar’s gold.”

Fed up, Caid demanded, “What is Sichar’s gold?”

Keeley looked at him now with mouth agape.

“What?” he demanded.

“I’m so disappointed in you right now,” she replied. And he knew she was very serious.

“Sichar is one of our most powerful gods,” Mundric explained. “And, many centuries ago, he gave us a special kind of gold. We and specially trained blacksmiths of other races are the only ones who can use it to create weapons.”

“And?” Caid pushed.

“The last of it was stolen from us and we want it back.”

“And you want me to get it for you?” Keeley asked.

“You’re going there anyway.”

“I am?”

“The rumor,” Quinn said, “is that Sichar’s gold is with the wood elves.”