Chapter 250: Dwarven Engineering
The Ironforge Bastion, located by the southeastern edge of the continent, marked the boundary between the dwarven realm and the lands of other races.
It had been built as a bulwark, and stood as a barrier between realms. Volcanic lava, channeled through carved sluices, encircled the entire stronghold and formed a natural moat of molten fire.
The lava moat not only raised the ambient temperature to levels intolerable for most non-dwarven races, but also served as a formidable line of defense.
"Oi, Tobey! How's the Deep Delve coming along? I can't stand another day in this blasted heat. It's not me I'm worried about—it's the ale! You've no idea what it's like to take a swig of beer gone sour!"
Near the side of the fortress facing the elven territories, a vast pit had been excavated into the earth. A network of scaffolding clung to the rim. Dwarves could be seen clambering up and down, swinging pickaxes and hammers as they worked to expand the cavity's breadth.
A set of rails descended along a gradual, stair-like spiral carved into the walls of the pit. On this track rumbled a great mechanical "train"—and it was atop this iron leviathan that the complaining dwarf now stood.
A steel colossus, a serpent of iron—both would be apt epithets for the massive, serpentine locomotive trundling down into the earth, a testament to dwarven mastery not only in forging weapons but also astounding magitech behemoths.
The dwarf in question stood atop the armored train as it descended, calling down to a fellow dwarf within. That latter dwarf, Tobey, was none other than the pilot and conductor of the metallic beast.
"Shut it already, you brass-headed dolt! They must've warned you to bring something strong enough to drink, didn't they? But no, you brought your own bloody favorites again!"
The cockpit's iron door was kicked open with a clang. A round, bearded head emerged from within, red-faced and bristling, as Tobey berated the dwarf on the roof.
"I don't even like strong ale! They're trying to kill me! Why can't I be issued a cooling alchemical unit? I'm the chief engineer on this project, damn it, and I'll have my favorite drinks!"
Enraged by Tobey's shouting, Olaf brandished the wrench he'd been gripping and raised his voice to the heavens in fury.
"You're not the only chief engineer on site, you know. That title doesn't make you special. All the cooling units have already been assigned to engine regulation. I could pull one for you—but then what? Every engineer will be whining for one."
Tobey snorted dismissively, utterly unfazed by Olaf's tantrum.
"There are differences between chief engineers! You think those hacks are on my level? Here's my solution—give me one. If someone else wants it, they can challenge me for it. Beat me, and they can have it!"
With a dramatic flair, Olaf unslung a massive mithril warhammer from his back and began swinging it about as he shouted his wildly unreasonable proposal.
"Watch your thick skull—we're entering a tunnel. This one's a tight fit, not like those expansion shafts outside..."
Tobey cast a sideways glance up at the roof, rolled his eyes, and slammed the cockpit door shut, retreating into the steel belly of the beast.
"What?"
THUNK!
Olaf didn't quite catch what Tobey meant until it was too late. The train suddenly entered a constricted tunnel, with no clearance for anything above it.
The next moment, Olaf's horned helmet smashed into solid stone at full train speed. There was a tremendous crack as he was flung from the roof like a ragdoll.
The wheels shrieked in a staccato rhythm as mechanical arms extended to apply friction to the axle. Slowly—forcefully—the iron serpent eased its pace.
As the wheels finally halted, glowing red-hot from friction, the train came to a heavy stop against the last segment of the braking track.
The front hatch swung open. Tobey disembarked.
"Get over here and help unload. Then come report with me. Construction prep is nearly complete—once you lot are checked in, we'll begin."
He barked the order at the rear of the train, then walked to the central segment, pulled a lever, and opened the side of the cargo car. The entire section unfolded like a mechanical flower, revealing heaps of metal ingots and arcane components.
"Damn this blasted tunnel. Narrow as a gnome's outhouse! I couldn't even climb back on top—had to cling to the back like a soot-caked barnacle."
Olaf emerged from the rear, caked in grime but very much alive. His horned helm was dented, revealing a wild shock of brown hair, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear. For a dwarf, a head-on collision with bedrock barely registered.
After all, Olaf was a dwarven grand knight. That meant terrifying physical resilience. Add dwarven durability to the mix, and you had someone who could survive being body-checked by a train—and even walk it off.
Together with Tobey, he yanked another mechanism. The cargo shifted upward, tilted, and began sliding out onto a platform beside the train.
"Let's go. You might not be the very last engineer, but you're probably among the last few. Once you sign in and check the schematics, we can begin."
Tobey resealed the car. The materials would be handled by others—there was no need to linger.
The train had arrived in a newly excavated subterranean cavern. Rough walls, which had only just been hewn, still bore the jagged marks of recent mining. The lighting was sparse: only the main paths were illuminated by faint mana lamps. The rest was shadow.
"This is barebones! You sure we're building something great down here?" Olaf glanced around, scratching his thick, tangled scalp.
"What you think doesn't matter," Tobey replied. "The elders are certain. They say the kingdom's greatest creation will be born here. You think you know better than them?"
"Fair point. Those old goats have better heads than I do. Me? I just know how to hammer steel and forge alloy."
It wasn't self-deprecation—just a dwarf's honest truth. What might've been an insult to other races was plain fact to them.
The two dwarves reached the end of the platform and passed into a tunnel leading to the next chamber.
"Eh? What's this stuff? Feels kinda nice. Some new gnome alchemy? Looks like real wood root... gotta hand it to those little buggers, they've got skill."
Olaf ran a hand along thick root-like tendrils embedded in the tunnel walls. As his palm brushed the bark, a surge of refreshing vitality coursed through him. He felt clearer, lighter—invigorated.
Curious, he asked Tobey what exactly these roots were, still referring to the gnomes as "little runts" with no trace of irony despite their similar heights.
"That's a branch root of the Tree of Life—not something crafted by gnomes. It's a living plant. Don't touch it," Tobey snapped, brusquely pushing Olaf's hand away. "They serve a more important purpose than boosting your stamina."
"The Tree of Life? Isn't that those pointy-eared folk's precious treasure?" Olaf blinked in surprise. "How'd they agree to let us use it? And what good does it do us?"
At the mention of the Tree of Life, the dwarf became visibly confused.
"Have you never bothered to learn history?" Tobey grumbled. "You really don't know about this? Back when the World Tree split into three, we dwarves and the elves were far closer allies than we are now. We helped them a great deal in migrating and re-rooting the Tree of Life."
"As gratitude, the elves signed an agreement with us. One branch of the Tree's root system would extend to our kingdom and bolster its vitality—the very place we now stand."
Tobey's tone carried a trace of exasperation. It was a rare thing for a dwarf to restrain his temper and explain something without immediately bursting into a shout—and Tobey was doing his best.
"Oh come on, Grandfather. I'm not as ancient as you. I wasn't around back then—it's perfectly normal I wouldn't know about it, right?"
Olaf, growing impatient, clamped his hands over his ears.
Among dwarves, age could be a tricky thing to gauge. Aside from dwarf children, who were beardless and thus more easily recognized, youths and elders alike bore thick beards and wild hair, giving them all a similar grizzled look. Dwarves could tell each other apart, but to other races, it was near impossible.
"Damn it all. You're the only dumb one in the entire Bronzebeard clan—yet somehow, you're one of the two chief engineers. I'll never understand what they were thinking," Tobey Bronzebeard barked, frustrated beyond words.
Despite tending to be a steady-handed train conductor, even he was at his wit's end with his ignorant grandson.
"Oh, enough already, Grandpa! Let's just get going!" Olaf whined, shoving Tobey forward. "I've got the title of chief engineer, haven't I? So don't worry about how I got it!"
He bitterly regretted asking about the Tree's roots to begin with. All he wanted now was to be taken to the workplace where he'd be stationed in the days ahead.
The two of them continued down the tunnel, following the great roots of the Tree of Life. The sounds of their destination began to reach their ears—metallic, rhythmic, and unmistakable.
"Oho! Praise the God of Forges, what a glorious sound!" Olaf cried in delight. "I might be able to go without ale if this is what I get instead!"
The clanging of hammers on anvils rang out without pause, a music sweeter than any to dwarven ears. For those who loved the craft of forging as much as their ancestors did, such clamor was far more comforting than stillness.
As the two dwarves emerged from the tunnel, they entered a vast underground space far larger than the station platform where the train had stopped.
Massive scaffolding, anchored into the surrounding stone, extended downward layer after layer. Dwarves bustled along each level, transporting ingots and forged components to where they were needed—whether for further refinement or assembly into alchemical machines and specialized tools.
Below lay a yawning chasm whose depths could not be seen. It was impossible to tell how deep the dwarves had dug. Suspended from the cavern ceiling were enormous mechanical arms, unmistakably of gnomish design—an intricate array of gears, pistons, drive shafts, and hydraulic limbs.
Under the precise control of dwarven engineers, the arms performed feats of strength no mortal body could manage, effortlessly lifting and moving massive pieces of material and machinery.
"I don't even want to drink anymore!" Olaf's eyes shone as he gazed at the great mechanical arms, marveling at their raw, industrial beauty. "Grandfather, can I operate one of those? Please? They're gorgeous!"
He clutched Tobey's arm, barely able to contain his excitement. Ever since stepping into this chamber, his fingers had itched to wield the adamant hammer at his belt. Now, seeing those magnificent machines, he could hardly hold himself back.
"Quiet down. First, go register." Tobey didn't even glance at him. "Hm? Jenkins Ironaxe is waving at me... I'll see what he wants. You stay here."
Olaf watched as his grandfather walked off to speak with a dwarf of similar age. He sighed. Tobey was probably grumbling about him already.
Suddenly, Tobey's furious shout rang out, making Olaf jump. "What?!"
The rage in his voice was unmistakable. Olaf flinched—memories of the time he'd stolen a sip of his grandfather's ale and been thrown off the top of Ironforge flashed through his mind. Tobey hadn't been this angry back then.
"What do you mean, the pointy-ears sent us a mandate? They want us to halt the Deep Delve now, abandon all we've achieved, and stop using the Tree of Life's root system?!
"How dare they? That's not what the agreement says at all! Damn it all, this is outrageous! There's no way—we're not giving up the fruit of our labor! Tell that messenger to take a hike—no negotiations. We will not abandon the plan!"