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TWL Chapter 359: Shattered Stone and Broken Trust
🕑 Added 2025-04-13 00:19:55 +0000 UTCThe first rays of Mahakam’s sun finally spilled over the mountaintops, gilding the snow-covered peaks. The golden light sank into the year-round frost, dyeing the entire mountain range in warm hues.
At that very moment, the Elder in Chief returned to Mount Carbon.
Without pausing for even a breath, he immediately ordered someone to knock on Lann’s door.
“I never expected you to be in such a hurry—or to care so much about Cintra, Elder.”
Though awakened at dawn, Lann looked alert, fully dressed, and clearly prepared.
“The first thing I did after returning to Mount Carbon was come looking for you, Lannister. Not because I care so much about your people—just because I want to get your business over with quickly, then go home, drink a barrel of malt ale, and finally sleep in peace.”
Elder Brouver Hoog was still wrapped in his travel-worn cloak, the cold of Mahakam clinging to its fabric. But his explosive temper kept any chill from touching him.
“Lann—Lannister,” Brouver muttered the name, “You’ve really caused me quite a mess. You wandered around Mahakam for a bit and managed to wipe out one of my clans, the Zigrin, take away nearly half the Fuchs, and even cost us our emblematic red dragon!”
“Tell me, Lannister—why does trouble follow you everywhere you go?”
“At least I left you with more than half of both the Fuchs and Zigrin clans, didn’t I?” Lann replied calmly, unshaken by the hostility in Brouver’s tone. “If not for me, I suspect neither clan would’ve survived in the end.
“As for Keltullis, by the time I met her, the conflict between her and Mahakam had already become irreconcilable.”
Brouver grumbled and scratched at his beard. “Ferenc… I’ll deal with them later!”
“You’ve gotten more soldiers than you bargained for, plus enough weapons and raw ore. Are you satisfied now, Lannister?”
“Thank you for your generosity, Elder,” Lann said sincerely. “But if possible, we still hope to become true friends with Mahakam—to establish a lasting trade route.”
This had already been discussed at length by House and Mahakam’s quartermaster, but without Brouver’s approval, the quartermaster would never have dared to take initiative.
“Lannister, son of the Elder Blood…” Brouver shook his head. “I don’t like you. But even so, I must uphold the traditions of Mahakam. I can’t reject your request for trade.
“However, to formalize this agreement, we must go to Mount Carbon and sign it under the witness of our ancestors and the goddess.”
Lann responded with perfect tact. “Actually, we’re already at Mount Carbon. We could finalize the agreement right here and now.”
“That’s not how it works. This is tradition!” Brouver’s eyes bulged. “The agreement must be signed at Mount Carbon! Even I am not allowed to break tradition.
“Damn it, I don’t like it either, but tradition is tradition! So go rally your retainers and horses—we’re heading to Mount Carbon. The sooner we wrap this up, the sooner I can go home and sleep in peace!”
“Don’t think I didn’t notice—your retainers started packing their supplies overnight. They’re ready to leave at a moment’s notice!”
...
Tradition was the cornerstone of Brouver's rule in Mahakam—something even he himself couldn't violate. And Brouver's explosive temperament was legendary; even in the early hours before dawn, he had no interest in resting. All he wanted was to quickly complete the formalities and see Lann and his party depart from Mahakam.
Brouver disliked Lann, and Lann felt equally cold toward Brouver, so they traveled in silence.
They moved swiftly through the early morning mist, crossing the single bridge that connected Mount Carbon with its neighboring peak.
The dwarves displayed remarkable ingenuity in architecture, metallurgy, and engineering—but there was one area where they showed a surprising lack of creativity: naming things. The imposing structure that joined Mount Carbon and its adjacent peak had simply been dubbed 'the Long Bridge'.
"Lannister, I don't like you. You know why." Walking side by side with Lann, the Elder in Chief abruptly broke their long silence.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Lann replied quietly.
"No, you're not," Brouver snapped. Then, softening slightly, he continued, "But since things have reached this point, we must endure each other—help each other even. I'm doing this for Mahakam, and you're doing it for your Cintra."
Perhaps the quietness of the journey had tempered the Elder's mood; his voice grew deeper, more thoughtful.
"I rushed you through these traditional proceedings, partly because I genuinely want you out of here as soon as possible, but also because you genuinely need to leave, quickly."
Lann was startled. Picking up the deeper implication, his expression turned serious. "Are you referring to the war in the North?"
The Elder in Chief nodded grimly. "Mahakam isn't some isolated backwater; our information network is better than most—"
But before the Elder could finish his thought, an urgent, desperate warning pierced through the air: "Stop! Stop immediately! Don't go any further!"
A shrill warning cry instantly drew everyone's attention. Lann's sharp gaze pierced through the crowd, landing on the dwarven guards leading the way at the front.
They had just reached the end of the long bridge, and from the slopes of Mount Carbon at the opposite side, several dwarves suddenly emerged, each adorned with decorative squirrel tails.
The Scoia'tael! Lann’s pupils shrank sharply.
In the next instant, a thunderous boom resounded in everyone's ears—the roar of detonating explosives. The bridge trembled violently at both ends, chunks of stone shattering and breaking apart, plummeting into the abyss below.
The earthquake-like shock forced all dwarves onto the ground, clutching their heads in panic. The guards surrounding the Elder-in-Chief threw themselves on top of him without hesitation, shielding the leader of Mahakam from any sneak attack.
The Cintrans, mounted on horseback, found their animals panicking and rearing in terror. Only Lann's mount, Blackwind, suddenly grew excited, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
However, the Cintrans reacted swiftly. Those adept at riding had their frightened steeds under control in less than three breaths, quickly adopting combat stances. Those less skilled decisively dismounted and regrouped around Lann, forming a tight circular shield formation.
When the tremors finally subsided, the dwarven bridge had been reduced to a mere isolated platform, leaving Lann, the Elder-in-Chief, and their respective groups stranded.
Trapped.
…
The Elder-in-Chief was known for his eccentric nature, yet everyone also knew him as the staunchest guardian of Mahakam’s traditions. Moreover, Mahakam had hosted diplomatic delegations before; Cintra, having stayed in Mahakam for so long, clearly had earned the dwarves’ friendship—at least, openly.
Thus, every dwarf knew the Elder-in-Chief would soon accompany Lann to Mount Carbon to finalize trade agreements. Predicting this, it became an obvious and logical strategy for someone to plant explosives along the route and await their arrival.
The simplest method would have been detonating the explosives precisely when the delegation passed, plunging unsuspecting dwarves and shattered rocks together into the abyss. Yet, the Scoia'tael seemed hesitant about something, opting instead for a safer approach—merely isolating and trapping their targets.
Now, both the Elder-in-Chief’s guards and the Cintran entourage were stranded helplessly on this small remaining section of bridge, like targets on a platform. From their hiding spots, the Scoia'tael dwarves leaped out, drawing their bows in unison.
Eyes filled with hostility and malice.
The Elder-in-Chief shoved away the dwarf guards piled atop him, hefted his enormous battle-axe—nearly as tall as himself—and roared furiously at his unseen attackers:
“Who dares ambush me here in Mahakam? Who has such audacity—”
His fierce curses suddenly froze in his throat as he recognized their faces. His grip on the axe trembled slightly; then his face flushed a fiery crimson, as if flames were blazing just beneath his skin.
The leader of the Scoia'tael, a dwarf with three braids, quickly assessed the situation and issued orders to his companions decisively:
“Leave Brouver Hoog unharmed—no arrows aimed at our kin!” His finger stabbed toward the Cintrans standing at the rear. “Kill the humans first! Let their blood inaugurate our cause!”
A war cry starkly different from Mahakam’s echoed from the Scoia'tael dwarves, momentarily drowning out even the wind.
The chilling hum of bowstrings stretched taut reverberated endlessly through the valley, as the Scoia'tael unleashed all their pent-up hatred toward humans in a single moment.
They had been discriminated against, humiliated in human society; now, they felt they were here to claim their due. It didn't matter who these particular humans were—as long as they were human, that was enough.
But reality would soon prove this method of selecting opponents was a fatal mistake.
