Ghalrak Dramz, son of Zharok Dramz, son of Kalrok Dramz, commander of the Dwarf trading ship Stonebreaker and all the stout Dwarfs aboard her, watched with grim stoicism as the strange metal craft grew closer. His men, those who still lived, murmured warily amongst themselves. More than a few of them clasped their weapons tightly and prepared for another onslaught, for it was ever of the nature of his kind to expect the worst until proven otherwise. True, the vessel had slain the monster, but that proved nothing. For all Ghalrak knew, the vessel was a pirate ship and simply wanted the pleasure of looting and sinking the Stonebreaker itself.

  For a moment, Ghalrak considered ordering the gun crews to open fire. With the foreign vessel slowed to a crawl to pull up alongside him, it would be impossible to miss. The Stonebreaker was wounded, badly, but it still had teeth. She could deliver a full broadside into the metal beast before it had time to react.

  But even as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. If the metal ship had power enough to kill a full-grown leviathan, there was no way his own ship could prevail against it. Oh, he'd get some good shots in--assuming they even penetrated the strange craft's metal hull--but it would be a futile gesture and only seal the doom of Stonebreaker and everyone aboard her. Besides, if the strangers had wanted to destroy them, they could have done so from a distance, without bothering to come so close.

  He squinted up at the banner flying from the vessel's mast. A white and red-striped flag, with a blue field studded with white stars in the canton. Ghalrak thought it was a rather busy, somewhat garish ensign, but was wise enough to keep that to himself.

  Chief Gunner Zarrl, streaked with soot and smelling of sulfur from overseeing Stonebreaker's gun crews during the fight, nodded up at the strange flag as he limped over to Ghalrak's side. He'd had that limp ever since one of his legs got gnawed off by a wyvern in his youth, and had replaced the leg with a peg leg carved from the femur bone of the same animal who'd taken it. "That's a new one, and I've sailed all around this miserable world."

  Ghalrak grunted, not in agreement so much as in resignation. “Never seen a ship made entirely of metal. Not even the Elves have managed that, and the Elves think they’ve managed everything worth doing.”

  Zarrl eyed the metal colossus warily, his one good eye puckered almost shut. “They’re not Elves,” he said, “and that’s a mercy. But humans be not always much better.” Like most Dwarfs, Zarrl had a rather dim view of those not of his own kind.

  “Aye,” Ghalrak said. “The Morghastians come to mind as proof of that.” He studied the foreign vessel, the way it moved, the brisk precision of the crew flitting about on deck. “They’re not green, though, whoever they be. Look at how they handle themselves. Every last one of them knows his job and does it without waiting to be told.”

  “A warship, then,” Zarrl stated flatly.

  “Aye.” Ghalrak spat over the rail, a fleck of blood and phlegm. And an impressive one at that, he added to himself. A ship of iron! In his soul he felt a spike of intense envy. The Under-Realm had been experimenting with building metal ships of late, but none of the prototypes thus had yielded promising results.

  The metal ship glided to a halt within a stone’s throw, more nimble than any vessel its size had a right to be. Ghalrak thought he saw the captain--a human woman, dark-skinned, sharp-featured, dressed as if she were about to address a council rather than a crew--staring straight through him. She seemed as cool and unflinching as a fresh-forged anvil. Her men scurried about, lowering ropes, unfurling what looked like rescue equipment, even as their gun emplacements swiveled and tracked the Stonebreaker’s deck through remote malice.

  The Dwarfs grew restless at that and hefted their weapons, muttering darkly, but Ghalrak held up a hand for calm. “Steady, lads,” he growled. “Steady there.”

  “There’s movement,” Zarrl said, pointing. “Look!”

  Ghalrak saw it was true. Even as the crew of Stonebreaker looked on, two crewmen emerged through the smoke and spindrif from beneath the looming metal bridge, clad not in the armor or scaled mail familiar to the Under-Realm, but in drab blue cloth, starched and tailored, with shiny buttons that gleamed in the sun. They carried no spears or axes, though at their hips hung short, squat cylinders—Ghalrak knew at once they were weapons of some sort, but not ones he was familiar with. The one in front was tall, almost abnormally so, with pale skin and close-cropped hair the color of clash-bright steel.

  A voice boomed above them—not from a mouth, but from some devil’s pipe attached to the side of the metal ship. Magic, no doubt, Ghalrak thought sourly. The Dwarves used magic in their own way and after a fashion, but they didn't use it like a crutch the way the High Elves or some of the other Elder Races did. Humans tended to be little better, perhaps even worse, about that sort of thing in Ghalrak’s experience. At least the High Elves didn't throw their magic around willy-nilly the way human mages did, as if they had something to prove.

  "Permission to come aboard?" the voice asked. Ghalrak could see who it belonged to now—a young human male.

  Ghalrak squinted and pointed his axe up at him. "That depends on who's asking, lad. I'll not let strangers set foot aboard this vessel without knowin' their intentions first. Who are ye, and from whence do you come? And how the devil do you speak Dwarvish?"

  The human seemed to hesitate. "I'm not speaking Dwarvish," he said. "We're both speaking English."

  "The hell we are." Ghalrak bared his teeth. "Another spell, I'll wager. Do you use magic to wipe your arses too?"

  That got a round of laughter from Stonebreaker's crew. If it fazed the human, he didn't let it show as he replied through the device, "We're from a place called the United States of America--"

  "Never heard of it." Ghalrak folded his arms.

  "My name is Jacob Hunley, Executive Officer, U.S. Navy, U.S.S. Lexington--"

  "Never heard of you, either. Or your ship."

  "As to how we're able to communicate, I honestly don't know," Hunley went on. "Maybe it's a...side effect."

  "A side effect of what?" demanded Ghalrak.

  Hunley decided it was better not to divulge everything to the short man just yet. No, he corrected himself silently, Not a short man. A Dwarf. Right down to the beard and stubborn attitude. He felt a sudden surge of giddy, almost hysterical disbelief and pushed it away. He'd have time enough to freak out about how ridiculously impossible all of this was when he was off-duty. "Nothing, it doesn't matter. In any case, we mean no harm and wish to offer assistance. May we have your permission to come aboard?"

  Ghalrak thought about it, eyes narrowed to slits. His mind ticked over: if this was a ruse, there were plenty of ways it could end badly, but if the human was indeed telling the truth—an admittedly spotty proposition, in Ghalrak’s experience—then this was an opportunity to gain valuable information about these strangers. Still, there was no risk in taking chances.

  "No," Ghalrak bellowed, voice echoing out over the water. "I'll not put the lives of my men at risk so soon again by letting strangers set foot aboard Stonebreaker. If you've words to bandy about, I'll hear them aboard your ship, not mine. Send down a rope, if the words you speak be not falsehoods. Else leave us be and shove off, or prepare to fight!"

  The human vanished from view, presumably to consult with his fellows. Ghalrak permitted himself a thin smile at this small victory. Moments later, a rope ladder—quite unlike any Ghalrak had ever seen, the rungs made of iron and the rope more like braided wire—dropped from the side of the iron ship.

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  At Ghalrak's gesture, Zarrl moved forward, planting his peg-leg with a decisive thunk on the deck. “You want me to go with, or keep the boys in line here?” the old Gunner asked, voice kept low.

  “Stay. If I don’t return, the command is yours. Make for the nearest coast at all speed. When you get back to our homeland tell King Firebeard what you've seen, and he will rouse our people to war."

  Zarrl nodded, just once. Then Ghalrak turned and began to climb. He was astonishingly nimble for one with such a stocky, heavyset build. He clambered aboard the Lexington with a grunt, then glanced about, curious despite himself.

  The ship, though made by human hands, was well-crafted. Very well-crafted, he admitted, though only to himself. He bent to inspect the rivets in the deck and the gleaming steel of the railings. He hammered at the deck plating with his knuckles, tapped a toe against a seam. Ghalrak’s hand lingered over his beard as he traced the seams of the bulkhead and a momentary surge of professional jealousy flickered up his spine.

  He barely had time to take three steps when the tall human—Jacob Hunley—met him at the hatch, face breaking into a smile that was either genuine or a masterful fake. “Captain,” Hunley said, “welcome aboard the U.S.S. Lexington. Lieutenant-Commander Kingley sends her greetings and is eager to meet you.”

  “She the one in command?” Ghalrak asked, gazing up at Hunley beneath bushy eyebrows.

  “Correct.”

  Ghalrak nodded. “Aye, figured as much. Couldn’t be you. You’re too young. Lead on, then. Let’s not keep her waiting.”

  Hunley led the way, striding briskly through the humming corridors as he led the Dwarf into the ship and up to the bridge. The human’s posture was polite but wary, as if a single misstep might send the guest lunging for a concealed weapon. Ghalrak didn’t blame him. It’s what I’d do in the same position.

  Ghalrak’s boots clomped on the metal floor as he followed Hunley. The Dwarf’s eyes were never still—measuring, judging, cataloguing everything. The halls were narrow and labyrinthine, but everything was set tight and flush. Even the lamps were sunken and caged. Ghalrak couldn’t help but nod with approval. No wasted space, no foolish ornament, nothing done for show. His Dwarfish soul couldn’t help but admire it, for the Under-Folk prized efficiency and economy in all things. There was a discipline here that reminded Ghalrak, strangely, of home.

  Sailors stared at him. Some smiled, one or two saluted—though whether that was for him or for Hunley, Ghalrak couldn't say. One young man, working on a bundle of wires, gawked open-mouthed and dropped his tool. Hunley shot him a glare. The young man stammered, “Sorry, sir!” then picked up the tool, cheeks burning.

  They reached a doorway and after going through it, climbed up a ladder that led to what Ghalrak sensed was the ship’s command center. It was even more impressive than the rest of the ship: an armored box protruding from the vessel’s upper deck, it bristled with levers, wheels, and dials—each manned by a crewman hunched in studied concentration. It was crowded and rife with tension, but the organization and activity of the human crew soothed Ghalrak’s sensibilities. There was nothing wasted here, every station manned and every set of hands busy, much like the machine halls of home.

  Hunley rapped on the bulkhead. “Captain on deck!” he called, more ceremonial than necessary, but the effect was immediate. Every eye on the bridge flicked first to the Dwarf and then, in a practiced motion, to Aisha Kingley, who stood at the ship’s center like the pivot of a compass rose. Her arms were clasped behind her, jaw set. She wore her uniform with the casual certainty of someone born to it, but her eyes, Ghalrak observed, were anything but casual. They radiated the kind of authority a soldier could spot a mile off.

  The moment Ghalrak entered, she nodded with a sort of respectful gravity rarely granted to outlanders in Dwarfish society. “Welcome aboard," she said, with the crispness of someone who’d spent a lifetime getting to the point. "I hope you weren’t too inconvenienced by the transfer." A gesture—just this side of military precision—invited him deeper into the chamber.

  "Not at all," Ghalrak answered, then, after a pause, remembered he had yet to give the humans his name. “Ghalrak Dramz,” he said, jerking a thumb at himself. As introductions went, that was about as elaborate as it got for Dwarfs. “Nice ship,” he added, and as diplomacy went, that was about as much any Dwarf could muster.

  Kingley managed not to smile. She wasn’t sure if the compliment was deliberate, but it was a compliment nonetheless, and from a Dwarf, no less. "We do what we can," she replied. "Seems your own ship gave a fine account of herself, under the circumstances," she added, which in Navy-speak meant that it was a miracle Stonebreaker was afloat at all given the level of damage she suffered.

  Ghalrak's gaze narrowed, as if searching the statement for an insult, or perhaps even a joke, and upon finding neither, allowed himself a single, affirming nod. “She’s seen worse,” he lied. And then, though the words didn’t come easily, he said, “Thank you for helpin’ us out. Some mighty powerful magic you threw at that beast.” That was an understatement, obviously. Ghalrak's people were no slouches at blowing things up and making things that blew other things up, but he'd never seen anything like what killed the sea monster. The sheer destructive power of the ordnance alone was enough to give him pause, but the speed at which they'd traveled, too...nothing in the Under-Realm could shoot at such velocity.

  The idea that the Dwarves might play second fiddle to anyone, for any reason, rankled Ghalrak deeply. The Under-Realm was rightly famed for its technological prowess, yet what he'd seen so far from these humans was unlike anything the best Dwarf engineers could conceive. He had to admit, however begrudgingly, that these humans were a different breed entirely from any others he’d met. And the more he saw, the more he grew concerned about what this might mean for his land and people.

  Kingley studied him, weighing his words. She knew an opening for negotiation when she saw one, even if the Dwarf didn't realize he was making it. "It's not magic," she said, not without pride. "It's called a guided missile. Simple chemistry, advanced engineering."

  "Call it what you will," Ghalrak said. He eyed her with renewed, if grudging, respect. "Some of my kin would give an eye and a beard to see how you built this ship. 'Specially the guns—they've got more bite than a cave-troll in heat."

  Kingley nodded. “Thank you. Perhaps after this is all finished, we can arrange a tour,” she said, her tone light but careful. “I can show you some of it, but there are parts of it I can't let you near. Security reasons, and all that." She gave a lopsided grin. "No offense."

  That raised her a slight notch in Ghalrak's estimation. At least he wasn't dealing with a bunch of naive idiots. "None taken," he said, and meant it. "And not to put too fine a point on it, but while we stand here gabbin', my men are working like rhinoxes trying to keep my ship from takin' on any more water. The lad there," he jerked a thumb at Hunley, "said you'd help us get her steady again. If you're gonna help, do it now."

  “Of course,” Kingley said. “We’ll offer whatever aid we can. We should have some canvas and other things in the ship's stores we can use to help patch Stonebreaker enough to stop it taking on too much water, at least for now." Her tone turned apologetic. "I'm afraid we don't have the tools to repair your vessel fully." She diplomatically didn't mention that back on Earth, such tools hadn't been in use on most naval vessels for more than a century. "But with your permission, we'll rig a tow line and bring it into our nearest port. You can get more extensive repairs done there."

  The idea of heading into the port of a foreign, hitherto-unknown nation, to say nothing of a nation that possessed such powerful weapons, immediately made Ghalrak suspicious. But then, what were his other options? Right now, the best he could do was keep Stonebreaker from foundering. If the Dwarves still had tools of their own they could've fixed the ship themselves, but they'd been swept out into the ocean or destroyed when the damn sea monster made the breach.

  Ghalrak recoiled at the notion of having to accept what amounted to charity. But he was also responsible for the lives of the Dwarves under him, and even a Dwarf's pride had its limits. He would not, could not, doom them for the sake of his own ego. "Fine," he bit out.

  Aisha nodded curtly. She understood his suspicion and didn't hold it against him. In his position, she'd probably feel the same way. She understood, too, how much it humbled one's pride to accept aid from a stranger. "Between the two of us, our crews should have no trouble getting your ship stable enough that it won't sink," she said. "And in the meantime, I'd like to extend an invitation for you and your crew to join us for a meal when the work's done."

  Ghalrak was instantly wary. Is that a trap? “No need. Got plenty aboard my ship, even after the fight." It wasn't true. Ghalrak was famished, and the seawater that rushed in through the breach made by the monster had ruined most of his ship's stores, but damned if he'd give the humans the satisfaction of admitting it.

  Kingley seemed to realize this and gave a wry smile. "You're not a very trusting sort, are you?"

  "Nope."

  "Why not?"

  "Experience," grunted the Dwarf.

  She held up a hand, palm-out, facing him. "I give you my word of honor, no harm will come to you or your men. It's an invitation of hospitality, not a gesture of pity or something more sinister."

  The Dwarf chewed it over. He didn't have a problem refusing free food and drink when offered, but he knew many of his fellows wouldn't share his reservations. An empty belly did a lot to humble a man, especially when that man was a dwarf. "Got meat?" he finally asked.

  Aisha nodded, a smile playing on her lips. "Yup. We've got burgers." Frozen burgers, yes, but burgers all the same. But he doesn't need to know that. Besides, when you've been at sea for months on end, any kind of beef looks good.

  Ghalrak frowned. "What the krak's a burger?"

  Aisha's smile widened. Oh, you're going to learn something new today, pal.