Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“Ironhame! The capital of the Dwarven Kingdom and perhaps the greatest fortification in all the world is a city of secrets. Born in slavery, our folk were reborn in freedom with a fierce determination: that no one of our people ever again suffer chains upon their wrists or shackles on their feet. But we are a race that lives or dies by our invention and devices so some must accept that their own liberty is the price of freedom for their people. The Masters of the Trades may never set foot beyond the walls of the Inner Ward of the city lest their secrets be at risk. 'Tis a gilded and comfortable cage, but a cage nonetheless. This is their sacrifice, their gift to all their folk.”

From the diaries of Engvyr Gunnarson

They stopped to regard the capitol city with awe. The Great Wall of Ironhame was of gleaming white stone and bisected the valley like an immense dam. It was a full hundred feet tall if it was an inch and seemed to stretch a league or more across the valley, with five great towers topped with black iron domes spaced along its length. After crossing the valley, the road that they were on ran along a ledge on the face of the wall to the Grand Gate. That great portal was carved from the granite of the mountain at the wall's eastern edge. Perhaps a half-mile beyond the Great Wall rose another wall, even higher, with three towers of its own and still further beyond that were the grand spires of the Palace.

“They say that the Great Wall of Ironhame took a hundred Stonewrights and over a thousand laborers more than twenty-five years to erect,” his father said, “And that it contains more cut stone than all of the rest of the city and palace combined.”

Engvyr nodded. All dwarven children were taught the basics of magecraft so he knew that Stonewright's magic allowed them to 'feel' stone and know its properties, strengths and flaws, but more than that they could influence its structure to get the results that they desired.

As they continued around the shoulder of the mountain the High road descended down a long ramp to the valley floor. The granite face of the valley's wall along this stretch had been flattened ruler-straight and smoothed to a high polish. But now the surface was pock-marked with hundreds of craters, from just above the road to head-height along its entire length. Each crater was around two feet across and nearly a foot deep. He looked a question at his father, who favored him with a grim smile and gestured to the towers.

“The Tower-Guns of Ironhame, “he explained, “An unsubtle reminder to visitors to mind their manners.”

Engvyr imagined an army trying to make its way down that long ramp under the merciless hammer of the guns and shuddered.

They made their way across the valley, joining the throngs queuing to enter the city through the Grand Gate. Ore wagons from the south, traders, travelers and pilgrims to the great shrines. All Dwarves came to Ironhame sooner or later, or so they said.

As they passed through the gate he stared in unabashed awe. Each of the sections of door was of the finest steel, more than a foot thick. When the leaves were closed another foot-thick panel dropped straight down behind them in grooves cut deep into the rock of the mountain. No battering ram, no boulder or bolt from any siege engine made by mortal hands would ever penetrate those mighty doors.

They moved with the stream of traffic through a high, wide corridor under the great wall to a second set of gates. His father spoke briefly to a guard, then clucked to the oxen and they passed into the city proper. They had to pause to wait a moment while his Aunt also spoke to the guard before moving the second wagon up to join them. Engvyr took the opportunity to look around.

They were within the Outer Ward, and it was filled with people. Dwarves of every description, tall, lanky Afmaeltinn, even a party of Goblins!

The Goblins wore broad-brimmed hats and scarfs, long coats and gloves. Not a single square inch of them was exposed to sunlight, which Engvyr understood was harmful to their kind. They wore long knives at their belts but were otherwise unarmed.

“I can't believe they let those filthy creatures in here,” Engvyr said, “They ain't fit to be among decent folk!”