The Sooty Flagon

The Sooty Flagon was loud, hot, and thick with the smell of roasted goat-fat and spilled ale. It was the preferred drinking hole for the off-duty crews of the Ganekhaz engineering halls, and in a dark corner booth, Commander Thurgrom Stonefist and Warsmith Borin Rock-Heel were doing their best to lower the hold's reserves.

The Mountain Breaker was in the main hall, its ancient green-lacquered hull finally getting a new set of pistons. For the first time in months, its crew was at rest.

Thurgrom took a long, slow pull from his tankard, his scarred hands wrapped around the handle. "She fought well at Ironhead Pass. The new lads... Kili and Flinn. They'll do."

Borin snorted, wiping foam from his beard with a greasy forearm. "They're better than that last pair. Remember Dwalin 'Brightwork'?"

A rare crack of a smile touched Thurgrom’s lips. "The polisher."

"The polisher," Borin emphasized, his voice rising with comic indignation. "We were at the Siege of Black-Rock. Goblin Luggits swarming the legs, archers turning the howdah into a pincushion. I'm screaming for fire support because a Luggit is trying to jam a crowbar in the main knee-joint. And what do I hear from the howdah? 'In a moment, Warsmith!'"

Thurgrom’s shoulders shook with a silent laugh. "He was polishing the nozzle."

"Polishing the flame nozzle! In the middle of a siege!" Borin slammed his mug down. "I yelled up, 'What in Golloch's name are you doing, lad?' And he yells back, 'Can't fire, sir! It'll soot the finish!'"

"Transferred him to the Quartermaster's stores," Thurgrom said, taking another sip. "Heard he's polishing helmets now. Suits him."

"At least he wasn't as mad as young Bofur. The one who kept Steinor goat jerky in the cannon's primer box."

"The primer box," Thurgrom mused. "Always wondered why the first blast smelled like smoked meat. The Goblins at Red Fang certainly seemed to... appreciate it. Saw three of them stop fighting to try and eat a burning piece that landed on their sergeant."

"It's the Orcs I'll never understand," Borin said, signaling for two more ales. "They're brutish, but by the forge, they try to be clever. And it's always... messy."

"Black Gulch," Thurgrom said, his eyes distant.

"Black Gulch! Exactly!" Borin roared, leaning in. "That Warlord thought he was a tactical genius. Remember? We're stomping down the gulch, and he's got this massive, massive net strung between the cliffs."

"Made of Gore-hide," Thurgrom added, a note of disgust in his voice. "Greasy."

"Greasy! And he thinks he's going to catch us! A forty-ton Steel Behemoth! Like we're some kind of... of... sky-rat!"

"The look on his face when we just... walked through it," Thurgrom said.

"It wasn't even the worst part!" Borin pointed a finger at his commander. "The ropes got tangled in the front-left piston assembly. Took me three days to cut them out. The smell... and the grease..."

"Better than their other plan. The one with the mud," Thurgrom grunted.

Borin visibly shuddered. "Don't. Don't you dare bring up the mud. I'm still finding that cursed mud in the main gearbox. It was... insidious. How they managed to make mud that sticky..."

"But for all their stupidity," Thurgrom said, his voice lowering, "they're not the worst. Not by a long shot."

Borin’s expression darkened, all humor fading. "No. The worst are the rats."

Thurgrom nodded slowly. "The rats."

"Siege of Caregmere. Holding the Deep Road against the Abyssal Dwarfs. We'd been static for three days, holding the choke-point. The engine was cold." Borin stared into his ale as if reliving the moment. "You were asleep in the viewport. I was doing a pressure check. And I hear it."

"The skittering," Thurgrom whispered.

"The skittering," Borin confirmed, his skin crawling. "Not on the hull. Inside the hull. I light my torch, and... by my Fulgarias' forge... they were everywhere. Ratkin. Dozens of 'em. They'd come up through the floor grates from a tunnel they'd dug under us."

"Vermin," Thurgrom spat.

"But they weren't trying to fight us!" Borin said, his voice a mix of fury and disbelief. "They were... they were eating the Breaker! One was chewing on the main fuel line! Another was trying to make a nest in the cannon's traverse gears! A whole family of them was pulling the insulation from the main boiler!"

Thurgrom grunted. "Good thing we had Kili then. He hated rats."

"Hated them?" Borin let out a bark of a laugh. "The lad went from mild-mannered loader to a red-cursed Berserker in one second. He was in that engine room with a wrench in one hand and his pistol in the other. It was a whirlwind of soot, fur, and curses. Cleared the entire compartment in thirty seconds flat. Never seen a loader move so fast."

"I remember," Thurgrom said. "We had to replace every hose. The cabin smelled like burnt rat for a month. And Kili wouldn't stop washing his hands."

The two Dwarfs sat in silence for a moment, the roar of the tavern fading into a dull hum. They thought of the crews they'd served with, the lads like Flinn they'd lost, the new ones like Kili they were training, and the ancient, stubborn machine that had carried them all.

Borin raised his fresh tankard. "To the mad lads. Dwalin 'Brightwork' and all."

Thurgrom raised his. "To the rats we've squashed."

They both drank, then Thurgrom gave a small, gruff nod and added one more.

"And to the Mountain Breaker. May she always hold."

"She always holds," Borin agreed, and they drank deep.