Deep beneath the craggy peaks of the Mistwall Mountains, where sunlight was but a fanciful rumor and the concept of “up” remained purely theoretical, sprawled the vast kingdom of Undermire. Not that the denizens particularly cared about what lay above—they had enough troubles managing their own subterranean affairs, thank you very much.
Dredge Hollowhelm had spent forty-eight years as Royal Administrator of Mushroom Taxation and Fungal Revenue, a position that sounded considerably more impressive than it actually was. In practice, it meant he spent his days hunched over ledgers illuminated by the gentle blue glow of phosphorescent lichen, calculating how many gilders the crown could reasonably extract from the mushroom farmers of the eastern caverns without triggering another Spore Rebellion.
“Three-hundred and twenty-seven gilders from the shiitake collectives, one-hundred and ninety from the portobello guilds,” he muttered, his stubby fingers smudging the ink as he wrote. The quill—fashioned from a peculiar blind cave bird that had evolved to navigate by screaming incessantly—occasionally emitted muffled squawks as he dipped it in the inkwell.
A sharp rap at his office door nearly caused him to upend the entire pot of precious squid ink imported at ridiculous expense from the underground sea of Darkwash.
“Enter!” he barked, hastily blotting the small splatter on his revenue projections.
The door creaked open to reveal a messenger so young her beard barely reached her collarbone—practically an infant by dwarven standards. Her eyes were wide with the kind of urgency that Dredge had come to associate with extremely inconvenient news.
“Administrator Hollowhelm,” she gasped, clearly having run the entire way from wherever she’d started, “Her Most Illuminated Majesty requests your presence in the Glitterdome immediately.”
Dredge felt his stomach plummet like a mining cart with a snapped cable. In his nearly five decades of civil service, he had met Queen Obsidiana Deepcrystal exactly twice—once at his appointment ceremony, and once when she had mistaken him for someone else at a state function and asked him about troop movements along the border with the drow territories.
“Did Her Majesty happen to mention why she requires the expertise of a mushroom tax collector?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“No, sir. But she did say to bring your ledgers for the past decade and, I quote, ‘whatever arcane calculating devices he uses to predict fungal yields.'”
Dredge sighed so heavily that a small stalactite, which had been threatening to detach from his office ceiling for months, finally surrendered to gravity and shattered on the stone floor.
—
The journey to the royal palace took Dredge through the Grand Undercavern, a space so vast that entire weather systems formed beneath its distant ceiling. Today it appeared to be raining slightly near the massive stalactite known as the Hanging Tower, home to the kingdom’s most prestigious (and insufferable) noble families.
“Make way! Royal business!” shouted his escort, a member of the elite Crystalguard whose armor was enchanted to glow with an intensity directly proportional to how important they believed their current assignment to be. Judging by the nearly blinding radiance, this guard considered escorting a mushroom tax collector to be roughly equivalent to saving the entire kingdom from imminent destruction.
The crowds parted reluctantly. Market day in Undermire was a chaotic affair, with vendors hawking everything from glow-worm silk to pickled cave fish. A trio of deep gnomes was attempting to sell what they claimed were “authentic surface artifacts”—mostly oddly shaped rocks with crude drawings of the sun scratched into them.
“Authentic daylight in a bottle!” called one particularly ambitious merchant, waving a jar containing what was obviously a trapped will-o’-wisp. “Feel the warmth of the mythical sun-orb on your face!”
“That’s not even how sunlight works,” Dredge muttered as they passed. “And wisp-light is cold.”
“You’ve felt sunlight, sir?” asked the guard, sounding both impressed and vaguely suspicious, as if contemplating whether this admission constituted some form of treason.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dredge snapped. “I’ve read books.”
The guard nodded, satisfied with this explanation. Reading books was a sufficiently boring activity that it couldn’t possibly be seditious.
As they approached the palace—a monstrous construction of obsidian and crystal that had been carved directly from a massive geode—Dredge felt sweat beading beneath his beard. The last tax collector summoned to the Glitterdome had returned with one fewer eye than he’d arrived with, though he refused to explain exactly how he’d lost it.
The palace gates were formed from interlocking teeth of some enormous prehistoric beast. Legend had it that the creature still lived, and if the correct words were spoken, the gates would close permanently, consuming anyone unlucky enough to be passing through. Dredge had always assumed this was nonsense designed to keep the children of visiting dignitaries from touching the ancient ivory.
“Administrator Hollowhelm for Her Majesty,” announced the guard to a bored-looking functionary who consulted an enormous tome before nodding.
“The Queen awaits in the Strategy Cavern, not the Glitterdome,” the functionary said. “There’s been a change of venue.”
Dredge’s anxiety ratcheted up several notches. The Strategy Cavern meant war planning. What in the name of the Deepest Dark could mushroom taxation possibly have to do with military matters?
—
Queen Obsidiana Deepcrystal, seventeenth of her name and Undisputed Sovereign of the Twenty-Seven Connected Caverns, did not look up when Dredge entered the Strategy Cavern. She was hunched over a massive three-dimensional map carved from luminous crystal, moving tiny figurines that represented military units with a jewel-encrusted pointer.
“Ah, Administrator Hollowhelm,” she said without turning. “Tell me, how much revenue do we derive from the truffle beds in the northwestern tunnels?”
Dredge blinked. “Approximately eight thousand gilders annually, Your Majesty, though last year’s yield was affected by the calcium seepage from the upper caverns, reducing our take by nearly twelve percent.”
Now she turned, fixing him with eyes that glittered like knife points in the dim light. Unlike the surface monarchs Dredge had read about, Queen Obsidiana didn’t go in for elaborate gowns or impractical crowns. She wore practical leather armor inlaid with mithril, and her crown was a simple circlet of black diamond. The only concession to royal ostentation was her beard, which was elaborately braided and studded with tiny gemstones that clicked softly when she moved.
“And if those truffle beds were, say, trampled by an invading army of stone giants? What would be the economic impact?”
Dredge nearly dropped his ledger. “Stone giants? In the northwestern tunnels? But they haven’t breached the Granite Gate in seven centuries!”
The queen’s mouth tightened. “They haven’t breached it yet. But our scouts report unusual activity. The giants appear to be… cooperating.”
This was indeed alarming news. Stone giants were notoriously solitary and territorial. The idea of them working together was like suggesting that tax collectors might spontaneously develop a sense of humor—theoretically possible but contrary to the natural order of things.
“The economic impact would be catastrophic, Your Majesty,” Dredge said, quickly running calculations in his head. “Beyond the immediate loss of the truffle revenue, the destruction would disrupt the entire fungal ecosystem. The cordyceps fields would fail within a month, the medicinal mushroom supply would be compromised, and without the soil enrichment from the truffle mycelia, we’d see diminished yields across all fungal crops for at least seven years.”
The queen nodded grimly. “That’s what I feared. And that’s just one small part of our kingdom. The giants appear to be massing for a full-scale invasion along our entire northwestern border.”
Dredge stared at the map, his mind racing. “But why now? What’s changed?”
A new voice spoke from the shadows. “I believe I can answer that question.”
Dredge turned to see a figure step into the light—tall and slender, with skin the color of polished obsidian and hair like spun silver. A drow. In the Strategy Cavern. Dredge instinctively reached for the ceremonial dagger he carried but never used.
“Peace, Administrator,” said the queen sharply. “Ambassador Xalynthria is here under diplomatic protection.”
The drow smiled, revealing pointed teeth that had been capped with what appeared to be tiny diamonds. Everything about her screamed danger and decadence in equal measure.
“The stone giants believe they’ve received a divine mandate,” said Xalynthria, her voice like silk sliding over gravel. “Their shamans claim the Great Stone Face has woken from its millennial slumber and commanded them to ‘reclaim the depths.'”
“The Great Stone Face is a myth,” Dredge said automatically.
“All myths have their beginnings in truth,” countered the drow. “But in this case, I suspect less mystical interference. My people have observed emissaries from the surface visiting the giant encampments. Humans.”
The queen hissed through her teeth. “Surface-dwellers. I might have known. But what interest could they possibly have in provoking a war between our kingdoms and the stone giants?”
Xalynthria’s smile widened fractionally. “That, Your Majesty, is where our interests align. The humans have been increasingly bold in their excavations. They dig ever deeper, seeking metals and gems. If the giants drive your people eastward, and mine northward…”
“The humans could expand their mining operations unchallenged,” finished the queen. “And neither of our peoples would be in a position to stop them.”
Dredge found his voice. “Forgive me, but what does any of this have to do with mushroom taxation?”
The queen and the drow ambassador exchanged a glance that made Dredge distinctly uncomfortable.
“Administrator Hollowhelm,” said Queen Obsidiana, “how would you like a significant promotion?”
—
Three days later, Dredge found himself trudging through a virtually unused tunnel system, accompanied by the drow ambassador and a contingent of elite dwarven sappers. His new title—Special Emissary for Subterranean Resource Allocation and Defense Economics—had come with a modest pay increase and an immodest increase in the probability of imminent death.
“Remind me again why we couldn’t take the main tunnels?” he grumbled, ducking beneath a low-hanging stalactite.
“Because,” said Xalynthria with exaggerated patience, “the main tunnels are almost certainly being watched by giant scouts or human spies. This route, while less… comfortable… will deliver us to the giants’ territory undetected.”
“And then what? We ask them politely to ignore their supposed divine mandate and, by the way, would they mind confirming that humans put them up to it?”
The drow’s laughter was like glass breaking. “For someone who has spent his life counting mushrooms, you have an amusingly direct approach to diplomacy.”
“Fungal taxation is far more complex than—” Dredge began hotly, but was cut off by a sharp gesture from the lead sapper.
“Movement ahead,” the sapper whispered. “Large. Multiple entities.”
The party froze. Dredge felt his heart hammering against his ribs. They weren’t supposed to encounter giants for at least another day’s travel. Had their intelligence been wrong? Or worse, had they been betrayed?
Xalynthria melted into the shadows with disturbing ease, her form seemingly dissolving into the darkness. The dwarven sappers readied their weapons—specialized picks and hammers designed to crack stone… or stone-like hide.
Dredge, having no combat training whatsoever, clutched his ledger to his chest and tried to look inconspicuous behind a particularly large boulder.
The rumbling grew louder, accompanied by an odd scraping sound. And then, to Dredge’s astonishment, the source of the noise came into view—not stone giants, but a team of deep gnomes operating some kind of mechanical contraption. The device resembled a giant metal insect, with multiple articulated legs and a drill where its head should be.
“Hold!” called the lead sapper. “Identify yourselves!”
The gnomes froze, their bulging eyes widening further in alarm. The leader—distinguishable by a particularly flamboyant hat adorned with glowing crystals—stepped forward with his hands raised.
“We’re peaceful prospectors!” he squeaked. “Guild-certified and fully authorized to survey this region by the Undermire Department of Mineral Rights!”
Dredge stepped forward, sensing an opportunity to assert his bureaucratic authority. “I am Administrator Hollowhelm of the royal court. There are no authorized surveys scheduled for this tunnel system.”
The lead gnome’s expression shifted from alarm to calculation in an instant. “Ah, well, you see, the authorization came through just last week. Signed by… er… Administrator Flintbeard of the Department of Expedited Mineral Extraction.”
“There is no such department,” Dredge said flatly, “nor any such administrator.”
The gnomes exchanged nervous glances. Their machine gave an ominous mechanical click, followed by a belch of steam.
Xalynthria materialized beside the gnomish leader so suddenly that he let out a high-pitched squeal. “You will tell us who really sent you,” she said, her voice honey over steel, “or I will personally introduce you to several fascinating drow traditions involving fingernails, eyelids, and excruciating longevity spells.”
The gnome’s resistance crumbled like dry chalk. “The humans!” he babbled. “Surface-dwellers from a place called the Consolidated Mining Corporation! They paid us to map these tunnels—said they were looking for new ore deposits!”
Dredge and Xalynthria exchanged glances. “And did these humans happen to mention anything about stone giants?” Dredge asked.
“Only that we should complete our survey quickly because this whole region would soon be ‘under new management,'” the gnome admitted. “They paid in surface gold—heavier than our gilders, and stamped with the face of some beardless king.”
Xalynthria’s expression was coldly triumphant. “We have our confirmation. The humans are indeed orchestrating this conflict.”
Dredge nodded grimly, then turned back to the gnomes. “Your survey is hereby terminated by royal decree. You will provide us with copies of all maps you’ve created and then return to Undermire immediately.”
The gnomish leader deflated. “And our payment?”
“Consider yourselves fortunate that we’re not arresting you for unauthorized tunneling and potential treason,” Dredge said, surprised at his own authoritative tone. Perhaps there was something to this diplomacy business after all. “Though I’m sure we could work out an arrangement involving reduced penalties in exchange for your future cooperation.”
The gnomes huddled together, whispering frantically, before their leader nodded. “We accept your terms, Administrator. But you should know—we’re not the only survey team. The humans have hired dozens of independent operators.”
Dredge felt a chill that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature of the tunnel. “How many?”
“Enough to map every major tunnel system connecting the stone giant territories with both dwarven and drow lands within the month,” said the gnome. “Whatever they’re planning, it’s happening soon.”
—
The revelation that human corporations were essentially drafting invasion plans of the Undermire territories accelerated their mission considerably. Rather than taking the circuitous route they had originally planned, Dredge and his unlikely companions pushed directly toward the stone giant territories, reasoning that stealth was now less important than speed.
“I still don’t understand what we hope to accomplish,” Dredge said as they paused to rest in a vast cavern dominated by stone formations that resembled frozen waterfalls. “Even if we confirm that humans are manipulating the giants, how does that help us prevent a war?”
Xalynthria, who was sharpening a wicked-looking curved dagger, looked up with an expression of mild amusement. “For someone charged with diplomacy, you have remarkably little faith in diplomatic solutions.”
“I counted mushroom taxes,” Dredge reminded her. “My diplomatic experience is limited to negotiating with fungal farmers who think their yield assessments are too high.”
“And yet,” said the drow, testing her blade’s edge against her thumb, “you convinced those gnomes to surrender their maps and return to Undermire rather efficiently.”
Dredge blinked. He hadn’t thought of it that way.
“The stone giants revere truth above all else,” Xalynthria continued. “It’s why they make such poor liars and such implacable enemies. If we can prove that their ‘divine mandate’ is actually human manipulation, there’s a chance they’ll redirect their considerable anger toward the true culprits.”
“And if they don’t believe us?” asked Dredge.
The drow’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Then we die, the giants invade, our kingdoms fall, and the humans strip-mine our ancestral homes until the entire mountain range collapses. But let’s focus on the positive outcome, shall we?”
Before Dredge could formulate a suitably sarcastic response, one of the sappers approached with obvious agitation.
“We’ve got company,” the sapper reported. “A giant patrol—five, no, six of them. They’ve spotted our campfire and they’re heading this way.”
Dredge felt his mouth go dry. Stone giants stood three times the height of a dwarf and were rumored to be able to reshape rock with their bare hands. Their skin was like granite, making them nearly impervious to conventional weapons.
“This is fortunate,” said Xalynthria, sheathing her dagger. “They’ve saved us the trouble of finding them.”
“Fortunate?” sputtered Dredge. “They’ll crush us!”
“Not if we invoke diplomatic privilege,” said the drow calmly. “Remove your weapons,” she instructed the sappers. “Place them on the ground in plain sight, then step away from them.”
“That’s suicide!” protested the lead sapper.
“That’s diplomacy,” corrected Xalynthria. “Administrator Hollowhelm, I suggest you prepare to look as official and non-threatening as possible.”
Dredge straightened his beard, adjusted his formal robes (now considerably less formal after days in the tunnels), and clutched his ledger like a shield. He had a sudden, hysterical thought that if he was going to die, at least he wouldn’t have to finish calculating the quarterly mushroom projections.
The ground began to tremble with rhythmic impacts—massive footsteps approaching. And then they appeared at the cavern entrance: stone giants, their craggy forms silhouetted against the phosphorescent fungi growing along the tunnel walls.
The largest giant stepped forward, its voice rumbling like an avalanche. “Dwarves and drow, together? This is an unusual sight, and an unwelcome one. You trespass on the sacred territory of the Great Stone Face.”
Xalynthria stepped forward, her hands empty and raised. “We come under diplomatic protection, seeking audience with your elders regarding matters of grave importance to all who dwell beneath the mountains.”
The giant’s eyes—glittering geodes embedded in its rocky face—narrowed suspiciously. “What matters could possibly concern both your kinds, who have warred for centuries?”
Now it was Dredge’s turn. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward. “Matters of taxation and economics,” he declared, projecting his voice with all the authority he could muster. “Specifically, the imminent destruction of fungal revenue streams that will devastate the underground economy for generations to come.”
Human manipulation and divine mandates might mean nothing to these giants, but if there was one universal constant Dredge had observed in his decades of civil service, it was that everyone—regardless of species—paid attention when you talked about their money.
The giant blinked slowly, clearly taken aback. “You… wish to discuss mushroom taxes?”
“Among other critical economic concerns,” Dredge confirmed gravely. “Including the surface-dweller gold currently flowing into giant territories under suspicious circumstances.”
That got their attention. The giants conferred among themselves in their rumbling language before the leader turned back to them.
“You will be escorted to the Hall of Elders,” the giant announced. “Your weapons will be carried by my warriors. If you attempt to reclaim them, or if your words prove false, your deaths will be…” it paused, searching for the right word, “…economically devastating.”
As they were led deeper into giant territory, Xalynthria leaned close to Dredge and whispered, “Mushroom taxes? That was your diplomatic gambit?”
“You told me to use what I know,” Dredge whispered back. “And what I know is that even stone giants must eat.”
The drow’s expression was unreadable in the dim light. “You continue to surprise me, Administrator. Perhaps there’s hope for this mission yet.”
Dredge wasn’t nearly as confident, but he clutched his ledger tighter and marched forward. If he was going to die on this fool’s errand, he’d at least do it while talking about fungal revenue projections—a subject on which he was, indisputably, the kingdom’s foremost authority.
—
The Hall of Elders was less a hall and more an immense natural amphitheater deep within the giant territories. Massive stalactites hung from the distant ceiling like stone daggers, while equally impressive stalagmites rose from the floor, many carved into seats sized for giant anatomy. The walls were covered in intricate petroglyphs depicting what Dredge assumed was giant history—scenes of battle, construction, and what appeared to be giant shamans communing with a colossal face embedded in stone.
At the center of the amphitheater stood a raised dais of polished granite, upon which sat three ancient giants whose skin had the weathered look of mountains exposed to centuries of erosion. Their eyes—unlike the geode-like organs of younger giants—glowed with an inner light that was somehow both warm and terrifying.
“Approach, small ones,” commanded the central elder, its voice like rocks grinding together. “Explain why representatives of dwarves and drow stand before us in these troubled times.”
Xalynthria nudged Dredge forward. Apparently, his unexpected success with the patrol had earned him the honor of addressing the elders first. He swallowed hard and stepped onto a smaller platform obviously designed for non-giant visitors.
“Honored Elders of the Stone,” he began, using the formal address he’d hastily memorized from Xalynthria’s whispered coaching, “I am Special Emissary Hollowhelm of the Kingdom of Undermire. My companion is Ambassador Xalynthria of the Obsidian Court. We come before you with evidence of surface-dweller manipulation and deceit.”
The elder to the right leaned forward, causing a small avalanche of dust to cascade from its shoulders. “What evidence could you possibly possess that would interest us? The Great Stone Face has spoken. We are to reclaim the depths that were once ours.”
Dredge nodded respectfully. “So your shamans have reported. But consider this: at the exact time this divine mandate was received, human mining corporations began paying gnomish survey teams to map all tunnel systems connecting your territories with ours.”
He gestured, and one of the sappers unrolled the maps they had confiscated from the gnomes.
“These maps detail invasion routes,” Dredge continued. “Routes that would drive both dwarves and drow from their ancestral homes and leave the entire region vulnerable to human exploitation.”
The central elder’s glowing eyes narrowed. “You suggest that the voice of the Great Stone Face was… falsified?”
“I suggest,” said Dredge carefully, “that the timing is suspiciously convenient for the surface-dwellers, who have been seeking deeper mining access for decades. If our kingdoms fall into war, the only beneficiaries would be human mining corporations.”
The elders conferred among themselves in rumbling tones too low for Dredge to make out. Finally, the central elder spoke again.
“Your theory is… interesting. But it does not explain how humans could possibly imitate the voice of the Great Stone Face, which speaks directly to the souls of our shamans through the living rock itself.”
This was the critical moment. Dredge glanced at Xalynthria, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“With respect, Honored Elders,” Dredge said, “we believe they used this.”
He signaled again, and the sappers brought forward a peculiar device they had discovered hidden in an alcove near the giant territories. It resembled a metal disk with numerous crystalline components and emitted a faint magical aura.
“This is a resonance amplifier,” explained Dredge, mentally thanking the sappers for their hasty explanation of the device. “It can transmit vibrations through solid stone over vast distances. We found several of these positioned around the borders of your territory, all bearing the maker’s mark of the Consolidated Mining Corporation.”
A murmur ran through the assembled giants. The elders’ expressions darkened like storm clouds gathering over mountain peaks.
“If what you say is true,” rumbled the left elder, speaking for the first time, “then we have been grievously deceived. But why would humans go to such lengths? Surely they must know that once discovered, their deception would turn our wrath upon them?”
Now Xalynthria stepped forward, her silver hair gleaming in the phosphorescent light. “Because, Honored Elders, they never expected the deception to be discovered. They counted on ancient enmities between our peoples to prevent any cooperation or investigation. They believed that once war began, it would consume us all, leaving the underground ripe for their taking.”
The central elder rose to its full height—a movement that took an surprisingly long time and was accompanied by the sound of stone grinding against stone. “These are grave accusations. If proven false, the penalty would be severe.”
“If proven false, we accept whatever judgment you deem appropriate,” said Xalynthria with a formal bow. “But if proven true, we ask that you redirect your righteous anger toward those who truly deserve it—and join with us in defending the underground realms against surface incursion.”
The amphitheater fell silent. Dredge could hear his own heart pounding in his ears. Everything depended on what happened next.
After what seemed like an eternity, the central elder spoke. “Summon the shamans. Let them examine these devices and determine if they could indeed have been deceived.”
As several younger giants rushed to carry out the order, Dredge allowed himself a small sigh of relief. They hadn’t been immediately crushed—which, given the circumstances, counted as a diplomatic victory.
Xalynthria leaned close. “Well played, Administrator. I believe we may actually survive this mission.”
“Don’t celebrate yet,” Dredge muttered. “If their shamans can’t confirm our theory, we’re still very much in the ‘being crushed’ scenario.”
The drow’s smile was enigmatic. “Oh, they’ll confirm it. I made certain of that before we arrived.”
Before Dredge could ask what she meant, a commotion at the entrance to the amphitheater drew everyone’s attention. A group of giants entered, distinguished by elaborate mineral growths cultivated on their stone-like bodies and carrying staffs topped with glowing crystals. The shamans, presumably. But they were not alone.
Struggling in the grip of one massive giant hand was a human—a man in expensive clothes now torn and dirty, his face pale with terror.
“Elders!” called the giant shaman. “We found this surface-dweller attempting to retrieve these devices from our sacred spaces!”
The human was deposited none-too-gently onto the platform beside Dredge and Xalynthria. Up close, Dredge could see that despite his bedraggled appearance, the human’s clothing was of exceptional quality, and a heavy gold signet ring adorned his finger—bearing the same insignia they had seen on the resonance devices.
“I demand diplomatic immunity!” the human sputtered, attempting to regain his dignity. “I am Maximilian Blackstone, Vice President of Subterranean Acquisitions for the Consolidated Mining Corporation! My presence here is fully authorized by—”
“By whom?” interrupted Xalynthria, her voice deadly quiet. “By the Kingdom of Undermire? By the Obsidian Court? Or perhaps by the Council of Stone Giants?” Her smile showed far too many teeth. “No? Then it seems you are, by definition, an unauthorized intruder in sovereign territory. How fortunate that representatives from all affected parties are present to determine your fate.”
The blood drained from Blackstone’s face as he looked around the amphitheater, apparently only now fully comprehending his situation.
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “The Corporation has only peaceful intentions—”
“Explain these devices,” commanded the central elder, its voice like a rockslide.
“Geological survey equipment,” Blackstone said quickly. “Standard tools for assessing mineral deposits.”
One of the giant shamans stepped forward, holding one of the resonance devices in its massive palm. “These are not survey tools,” it said with absolute certainty. “These are voice projectors, designed to simulate speech through rock itself. They bear enchantments of illusion and persuasion.”
“Check his pockets,” suggested Dredge, a hunch forming.
Despite the human’s protests, a giant shaman plucked him up and turned him upside down, shaking him until various objects clattered to the stone floor—including several scrolls sealed with wax.
Xalynthria snatched one up before Blackstone could recover, broke the seal, and unrolled it with a flourish.
“How interesting,” she said, scanning the document. “This appears to be a pre-drafted treaty, granting the Consolidated Mining Corporation exclusive rights to all mineral wealth in the ‘newly vacated territories’ following the ‘regrettable conflict’ between the underground races.”
She passed the scroll to Dredge, who quickly confirmed its contents. “It’s dated next month,” he added, looking up at the giant elders. “They were so confident in their plan that they prepared the paperwork in advance.”
The central elder’s eyes blazed like molten rock. “Is this true, human?”
Blackstone, recognizing that denial was futile, straightened his torn jacket in a pitiful attempt to regain some dignity. “It’s just business,” he said. “Nothing personal against any of your… people. The Corporation identified an opportunity to access valuable resources by exploiting existing tensions. Standard corporate strategy.”
The elder’s response was a sound like mountains collapsing. It took Dredge a moment to realize the giant was laughing—a terrifying, humorless sound.
“‘Just business,'” the elder repeated. “Your kind has always had a talent for reducing atrocities to simple transactions.”
The elder turned to address Dredge and Xalynthria. “You have proven your accusations true. The Council acknowledges that we were deceived by human artifice, not commanded by the Great Stone Face. The planned incursion into your territories will not proceed.”
Dredge felt a wave of relief so profound that his knees nearly buckled. They had actually succeeded. The underground kingdoms would not go to war after all.
But the elder wasn’t finished.
“However,” it continued, “an insult of this magnitude cannot go unanswered. The human mining operations that encroach upon the upper boundaries of our territories must be stopped, permanently.”
“Now, let’s not be hasty,” Blackstone interjected, his business instincts apparently overriding his survival instincts. “I’m sure we can negotiate a mutually beneficial arrangement—”
“Silence,” said the elder, not loudly but with such authority that the human’s mouth snapped shut. “You have forfeited any right to speak in these chambers.”
The elder turned back to Dredge and Xalynthria. “Representatives of the underground realms, I propose an alliance—not just between our peoples, but between all who dwell beneath the mountains. Together, we will drive these exploiters from our borders and secure our lands against future incursion.”
Xalynthria bowed deeply. “The Obsidian Court would welcome such an alliance, Honored Elder.”
All eyes turned to Dredge, who suddenly realized that he had vastly exceeded his authority as a fungal tax administrator—even one with a fancy new title.
“I… cannot commit the Kingdom of Undermire to such an alliance without consulting Queen Obsidiana,” he said carefully. “But I can guarantee that your proposal will receive her most serious consideration, especially given the evidence we have uncovered.”
The elder nodded, seemingly satisfied with this diplomatic response. “Then we shall await word from your queen. In the meantime, what shall be done with this human deceiver?”
Blackstone paled further, if that was possible. “Now see here—I have rights under international law! I demand to be returned to the surface immediately!”
“International law?” rumbled the elder. “I know of no treaty between the stone giants and the Consolidated Mining Corporation. Do you, Ambassador Xalynthria?”
The drow’s smile was chilling. “None whatsoever, Honored Elder.”
“Nor am I aware of any such agreement with the Kingdom of Undermire,” added Dredge, warming to the game.
“Then it seems,” said the elder with terrible finality, “that the human’s fate is solely at our discretion.”
Blackstone looked frantically between the three representatives of the underground races, apparently hoping for some intervention.
Dredge considered the situation. On one hand, the human deserved punishment for his corporation’s attempt to instigate a war that would have cost countless lives. On the other hand, executing him might provoke retaliation from the surface.
“If I may suggest,” Dredge said carefully, “this human could prove valuable in the negotiations to come. His testimony regarding his corporation’s plans would be compelling evidence should we need to treat with surface authorities.”
The elder considered this. “A practical suggestion, Administrator Hollowhelm. Very well—the human will be detained as evidence of surface treachery. His ultimate fate will be determined once our alliance is formalized.”
As Blackstone was led away, still protesting his rights under various surface treaties that held no sway in the depths, Dredge found himself the recipient of an approving nod from Xalynthria.
“Not bad for a mushroom counter,” she murmured. “You may have saved that human’s life—at least temporarily.”
“I was thinking more of saving mushroom tax revenue,” Dredge replied with a straight face. “War is terribly bad for fungal yields.”
For the first time, the drow laughed genuinely—a sound surprisingly warm for one with such a cold exterior. “I begin to understand why your queen selected you for this mission, Administrator. Behind those ledgers beats the heart of a true diplomat.”
Dredge wasn’t so sure about that. But as they prepared to return to Undermire with news of their success and the promise of an unprecedented alliance between the underground races, he had to admit that the assignment had been considerably more interesting than calculating truffle yields.
And if nothing else, he now had an excellent excuse for why the quarterly mushroom projections weren’t completed on time.