The Shatterspine Mountains

  The sentry’s name was Borin Kazgor, and he was bored. His post was a tall, fortified stone tower carved into the sheer face of the Shatterspine Mountains, overlooking the treacherous pass known as the Serpent’s Coil. Below, the jagged rocks fell away into mist-shrouded depths. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, heavy with the promise of snow.

  Borin stamped his feet, trying to banish the chill that seeped through his thick boots and into his bones. Three weeks on surface duty. Three weeks of watching clouds scud across an alien sky, of listening to the mournful wind howl through the crags, and of seeing nothing but the occasional mountain goat or distant, circling griffin. Up here, the world felt too big, too empty, and far too quiet. He, and the thirty other Dwarves who made up the garrison had little to do to break the tedium but drink, swap tales, and occasionally brawl.

  Sentry duty, to Borin, was like jury duty to humans: a tedious, annoying, time-consuming but ultimately necessary chore that one did as part of his or her civic duty. The wind moaned through the Serpent’s Coil pass below, a sound like a giant beast sighing in its sleep. It was so bitterly cold up here, even by Dwarf standards. The Under-kin were a resilient race, hardy and able to weather all sorts of extreme environments, but the bitter wind and thin atmosphere taxed even Borin's stout constitution. He was layered in furs and wore a thick, heavy cloak, but it still wasn't enough to keep the chill out. He shifted his weight and leaned against the cold stone parapet. His eyes scanned the horizon. Nothing. Just the same jagged peaks, the same sky, the same swirling mist and thick clouds that wreathed the mountaintops in an ever-present bank of heavy mist.

  Borin would have given anything for a proper goblin raid. At least that would be something. But no. There was nothing up here, and nothing below. Few beings other than his own kind dared the mountain passes, especially at this time of year. He sighed and watched the puff of breath turn to a white tendril of fog.

  "At least the view's nice," commented Hjalti Razortooth, coming up to stand alongside him.

  Borin grunted. "Nice? It's rocks and sky. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow." He squinted into the distance, where the setting sun painted the peaks in shades of rose and violet. "Waste of good stone, this tower. Nothing ever happens out here."

  "You never know," Hjalti said. "Perhaps one day an army will attempt to pass this way."

  Borin guffawed. "A likely story! Nae army could cross this way without walking in almost single file through that pass below. It'd be suicide!"

  He gestured downward at the Serpent's Coil—a narrow, winding defile flanked by sheer cliffs. It was a natural killing ground, easily defended by a handful of determined Dwarves. Borin often imagined enemy forces marching into that death trap, only to be crushed by rockslides caused by his comrades and cut down by arrows. But it remained a fantasy. The only invaders were boredom and cold.

  "Humans might try it," said Hjalti. "They've tried dumber things than that in the past, ye ken. Look what happened to Ghorr."

  Borin shuddered. The tale of the Fall of Ghorr was one his people knew well--and one they didn't like to discuss. The story of the folly of that once-mighty realm was a case study in human arrogance and hubris...and the fate of its people too horrific to contemplate. Even now, the lands of that blighted, blasted place were accursed and tainted, and not even the bravest Dwarf would dare go near it.

  "Humans are fools," Borin muttered. "But even they wouldnae be stupid enough to try this pass. Not in winter. Not without--"

  He paused, narrowing his eyes at something in the distance. "What the krak is that?"

  "What?"

  Borin pointed. "See? There! Something's coming toward us, out of the mist. See?"

  Hjalti looked in the direction he indicated and, sure enough, there it was: a tiny, dark shape moving against the wind. It was flying in a straight line, heading directly toward the tower. Borin squinted. "Too small tae be anything dangerous," he muttered. "It looks like a bird, but something about the way it flies is...off. What in the Ancestors' names?"

  The object drew closer, and as it did, Borin realized why it looked off. It wasn't flapping its wings like a living creature; instead, it glided with an eerie, unnatural grace. It was made of metal, he could see now—copper and brass, gleaming dully in the fading light. A hearthstone core gleamed in the center of its chest. Once it got within earshot, Borin and Hjalti could hear the sound of gears and clockwork mechanisms clicking and whirring.

  The bird-thing circled the tower once, then landed with a soft clink on the stone parapet beside Borin. Its eyes glowed with a faint blue light as it studied the pair.

  After a moment, it seemed satisfied that the two sentries fit the simple mission parameters its creator had given it. The whirring and clicking of its body grew louder, then its chest opened up to reveal a piece of paper. Not the parchment Borin was familiar with, but a bone-white, crisp sheet of paper.

  Borin stared at it. "What the krak?" he repeated.

  Hjalti leaned closer, squinting at the clockwork bird. "There's a seal on the paper, look. Not a wax one either. It's made in ink. I guess whoever made it didn't have any wax handy." He studied it for a moment but shook his head in defeat. "I don't recognize it. Do you?"

  Borin peered at the hastily-scrawled sigil. For a moment, it looked foreign to him, but after a moment, his eyes widened. "That's cousin Ghalrak's seal!"

  "Who?"

  "My cousin, twice removed on my father's side. Ghalrak Dramz! He commands a ship, a trading ship, the Stonebreaker. He's been away on a trading voyage for almost a year now. I haven't heard anything from him in months!"

  Borin snatched the paper with trembling fingers, ignoring the clockwork bird's indignant whirr. The first part of the message was brief, written in hasty Dwarven runes:

  "??????? ????? ???? ?????? ???? ???? ?????? ? ???? ????? ?????."

  "For the King's eyes only. Deliver unto the King's own hand."

  Borin didn't dare read any further. He rolled the paper back up into a scroll, stored it beneath his cloak, and turned to his companion. "I need tae get back to the Thafar-Gathol immediately. Be the lift working?"

  "It should be. The gnomes have mixed most of the lifts by now, I'd imagine."

  "Good." Borin was already hurrying down the winding stone stairway, descending from the tower's parapet into the garrison below. He pushed past off-duty sentries playing cards near a crackling hearth, ignoring their curious stares.

  The lift, waiting at the tower's base, consisted of a square-shaped, reinforced box large enough for a dozen dwarves to fit inside it at once, with doors fashioned from heavy bronze and etched with Dwarven faces. Upon activation, the lift used a complex system of gears and pulleys to descend rapidly into the depths of the mountain. Borin Kazgor entered the lift and slammed the gate shut behind him. The activation lever on the lift's control console was heavy enough to require a two-handed grip as he yanked it downward with a grunt of effort.

  Gears groaned. Steamed hissed as pneumatic pistons engaged. The lift shuddered, then plunged downward into the mountain's heart with speed that would have made a human dizzy or even sick. But Dwarfs were made of sterner stuff. Borin Kazgor felt only the familiar thrill of descent, the comforting embrace of deep stone closing in around him like an old and dear friend. The damp chill of the surface tower vanished, replaced by the warm, mineral-rich air of the Under-Realm. Glowing crystals embedded in the shaft walls cast flickering amber glows onto his face as he hurtled past level after level – garrison barracks, ore processing chambers, storage vaults, and many more.

  Deep, deep into the mountain he went. Past the great foundries and forges of the Second Deep, past the breweries and tuber-farms of the Third Deep, past the echoing residential caverns of the Fourth Deep. He caught a whiff of sulfur as he went past the Fifth and Sixth Deeps, where Dwarven innovators were constantly testing new machines and arcano-tech.

  Down, down, down. Past the Seventh Deep, where the endless mining tunnels began. Past the Ninth Deep, where huge purification plants filtered water from underground rivers so it was safe for Dwarfs to drink.

  The Royal Keep of Thafar-Gathol was seated in the very heart, the very dead-center of the mountain in which Borin's race had made their grand capital. Borin had been there once before, but even so, it took his breath away when the doors of the lift clanged open.

  He stepped out into a vast, cavernous chamber. It was immense beyond Borin's comprehension. The ceiling soared so high above him that it vanished into shadow, lost in darkness. Pillars of gleaming marble, each as thick as a siege tower, rose from the polished stone floor to meet the heights above. They were carved with intricate scenes: scenes of forging, mining, and great battles against giants, dragons, and other foes. Torches burned in sconces along the walls, casting flickering golden light that danced across the obsidian pillars and reflected off the polished stone floor, and from the mouths of carven faces high overhead, waterfalls poured in silvery cascades, plunging into the blackness and out of sight. Everywhere Borin looked, he saw Dwarves: hurrying scribes clutching scrolls, armored guards standing stiffly at attention, miners returning from shifts deep below, their faces smudged with grime, and nobles in rich robes embroidered with gold thread.

  Through the center of this gargantuan place stretched the Avenue of Ancestors, a path of gleaming gold bricks flanked to either side by fifty-foot statues of past Dwarf-kings, which showed the way to the Adamant Throne. Borin knew many of their names. There, to his left, rose Dalgi the Dragonbreaker, who'd slain the great fire-wyrm Skaladrak and driven the dragons from the Shatterspine Mountains so the Dwarfs could claim them at the dawn of days. So many of the beasts had fallen to his rune-axe that he'd made armor from their bones and weapons from their claws and teeth. Even now, he peered out from beneath a helm fashioned from the jawbones of some long-dead foe. To his right stood Throrin Ironhelm, who'd led the armies of the Under-Realm to glory against the goblin-kin in the War of the Crags. So great was the slaughter he inflicted that the goblins still told tales of him to frighten their young. Gundar Stonehand stood with his famous prosthetic granite fist raised high. Kazrak the Unyielding stood with his hammer held overhead to deliver a mighty blow...the list of names went on and on.

  The statues seemed to watch Borin as he hurried past them. He clutched the scroll tightly beneath his cloak, feeling the rough parchment against his calloused fingers.

  As he approached the final citadel where King Firebeard held court, he found the way inside blocked by a dozen warriors of the king's own Adamant Guard. The elite of the elite of the Under-Realm's warriors, they took an oath of silence as part of their service and vowed never to speak nor remove their helms until death claimed them. They were covered head-to-toe in solid, enchanted steel whose runes blazed faintly with dim multicolored lights. The edges of their spears and swords were likewise enchanted. The heat from the forges that birthed them was eternally trapped to glow red hot--enough to melt armor to slag and cleave through flesh and bone with equal ease.

  The guards crossed their spears in an X-shape as Borin drew near.

  "I must see the king," he panted. "It's urgent!"

  The guards gazed back at him, silent and unmoving. Their expressions were hidden behind their visors, but Borin felt the weight of their scrutiny. He fumbled beneath his cloak, pulling out the scroll. "Look, I have a message, see? For the King's eyes only! It says so right there!"

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  One of the guards nearest him leaned in a little to read the section Borin pointed to. After a moment, he turned to his companions and nodded. The spears uncrossed, and they resumed their stance at stiff attention.

  Borin nodded his thanks and hurried into the hallowed depths of King Firebeard's sanctum sanctorum. The air grew thick with the scent of molten metal and ozone, the rhythmic clang of hammers echoing like a heartbeat from distant forges. Several sharp turns took him into the very throne room of the Under-Realm...then Borin stopped.

  Ahead, the Adamant Throne loomed atop a raised, tiered dais—a colossal seat carved from a single chunk of metal from a fallen star, its surface etched with glowing runes that pulsed like embers and inset with diamonds cut and polished to a mirror sheen. The visual effect was blinding, like looking at the sun, and seated upon it, the High King seemed haloed with stunning radiance.

  He was every inch the warrior-king. With repairs to the Under-Realm well underway, Firebeard was no longer the strained, weary monarch he had been mere weeks before. Now, he sat straight, his eyes keen and observant. He wore a dark blue robe with cloth-of-gold embroidery, and atop his head sat the crown every king of the Underfolk had worn since time immemorial: a circlet of eight curved, conical teeth taken from the last dragon of the Shatterspine mountains, each inset with a large, square-cut Hearthstone and sheathed in one of the Under-Realm's sacred metals: iron, steel, brass, bronze, copper, gold, silver and tin.

  Borin could not look upon his glory. He shaded his eyes and turned away, dropping to one knee with fist pressed to his chest. "My lord, forgive my intrusion--"

  Firebeard waved a hand. "No need for all that, laddie. Rise, rise. What's so urgent?"

  Borin approached the throne and held out the paper. "Lord, I was on sentry duty at the tower overlooking Serpent's Pass when I received this. 'Tis from my cousin, Ghalrak Dramz. I read only far enough to learn that its contents be for yer eyes, and yours alone."

  "I know of Ghalrak Dramz," said the king. "A trader of some renown, so I've heard."

  "Aye, lord. He commands the Stonebreaker." Borin handed the scroll to the king, who promptly unrolled it. Firebeard's eyes scanned the runes. The more he read, the more his bushy eyebrows knit together.

  The letter's contents were as terse as one could expect from a Dwarf, straight and to the point. In Dwarf-script, it read:

  "???? ??? ???????? ??? ???????? ??? ?? ?? ????? ?? ??? ??? ? ??????? ????? ??? ?? ???? ?????? ??????????? ??? ???? ?????? ????????? ??? ??? ??? ?? ????? ??? ??????? ????? ???? ?? ???? ??? ????, ?????? ??????, ?? ? ??????? ?? ?? ????? ???? ?? ?????? ???????? ??????? ?? ???? ??? ??? ???? ????? ?? ?? ??????????? ?? ????? ???? ?????? ???? ? ???? ??????? ?? ?? ??? ???? ???????? ?? ??? ??? ?????? ? ???? ?? ???? ???? ?? ???? ???? ??? ?? ??????? ??? ????? ??? ???? ???????? ??? ?????? ?????? ?????????? ???? ?? ?? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ???? ???? ?? ???? ????? ????????? ???? ?? ???????? ?? ???? ???????? ??? ????? ?? ????? ??? ?????? ??? ??????? ? ???? ?? ?????? ?????? ?? ????? ??? ????? ?? ????? ?????? ??? ????????? ???????? ?? ???? ??? ?????? ???????? ??? ?????? ???????? ?????? ??? ??? ?? ????? ?? ????? ???? ? ??????? ????? ??? ???? ??????? ?? ???????? ??? ???? ????????? ????????? ???? ??? ??? ??? ???? ???? ??????????? ????, ???? ????? ???????, ??????? ???? ????? ?? ??? ????? ???? ? ?????? ???? ? ?????? ???? ??? ?? ???? ???? ??????? ?????? ??? ???? ???????? ??? ????? ??? ??????? ???? ? ?? ???? ??? ???? ????????? ?????? ???? ???? ???? ?? ???? ??????? ???? ?? ???? ??? ???? ????? ???? ??? ???? ?????????, ???? ? ???? ?? ????? ???????? ????? ?? ????????? ?? ?? ?????-???? ????? ??? ???????? ??? ?????? ??????? ???? ??? ?? ?????? ?????????? ?? ?????????? ??? ???? ??? ??? ?????? ??? ?? ???? ???? ???????? ??? ?????????? ???? ?? ?? --??????? ?????."

  In English, it was just as curt:

  "Hail and greetings, King Firebeard,

  Let it be known to you that I, Ghalrak Dramz, and my crew aboard Stonebreaker did sail across trackless seas and journey far to trade with foreign lands,

  That we were set upon, without warning, by a leviathan of the deeps,

  That we fought valiantly against the beast, and yet were saved by the intervention of others.

  That humans from a realm unknown to us did come suddenly to our aid, aboard a ship of iron,

  That by their hand was the leviathan slain, and these strangers did render further assistance unto us, in the repair of our ship,

  That we were thence conducted unto the homeland of these strangers, and found it large and filled with wonders,

  A land of soaring towers of glass and metal, of roads choked with horseless carriages,

  Of great and strange machines, and weapons powerful beyond all ken of Dwarf or gnome.

  That I, Ghalrak Dramz, did make concord the strangers, who call themselves 'Americans.'

  That they say they have been transported here, from parts unknown, dropped into Loriath as one might drop a hammer,

  That I convey unto you, my lord, their sincere desire and great eagerness for trade and alliance,

  That I am even now being conducted across their vast realm to their capital city, to meet with their leader, whom they call 'President,'

  That I will, in every instance, serve the interests of the Under-Realm during this conclave,

  And humbly impress upon you the utmost importance of friendship and peace with his people.

  May my lord King send instructions back to me.

  --Ghalrak Dramz."

  Firebeard stared at the paper. His mind was racing. An entire realm...transported? Then...

  Realization crashed over him like an avalanche. Of course! That must have been what caused the disturbance that shook the Under-Realm to its core. That cataclysmic tremor hadn't been some arcane accident or an attack or divine wrath from some slighted god. It had been the violent arrival of a nation uprooted, tearing through the fabric of reality to crash-land atop Loriath. The magical energy unleashed from such an event would have been enormous! That was why the Hearthstones overloaded, why every Dwarven arcano-tech device touched by magic went haywire!

  Firebeard's knuckles whitened as he gripped the parchment. An entire nation—armed with weapons powerful beyond Dwarven understanding, if what Ghalrak claimed was true—had simply just...appeared, as if in a puff of smoke. Wish I'd known all this before I wrote to the bloody Dark Elves to ask about it, he thought sourly. But there was no use crying over spilled ale. What was done was done. The question now was, what next?

  The King stood, and when he did, the entire court stilled and went silent.

  Firebeard swept his gaze across the assembled lords and advisors as he issued orders. "Summon the Master Engineers and the Lorekeepers. Immediately." His voice echoed through the suddenly silent hall. "Fetch quill and parchment, and the swiftest messenger-construct we have."

  "The construct which delivered the message is still up at the watchtower," Borin supplied helpfully. "I can have it brought here, tae convey yer words back to my cousin."

  "Do so," Firebeard said, and Borin was off like a shot to do his lord's bidding.

  "Sire?" Chief Engineer Fizzwizzle asked. "What has happened?"

  "Much and more," came the King's curt reply. "Too much tae explain right now, Fizz. We must act quickly." He paced before the throne, his heavy boots echoing in the silence. "Put simply, a new and alien colossus has appeared upon distant shores. An entire realm, torn and uprooted from...well, somewhere else, I suppose, and dropped here. To Loriath."

  "That's impossible," Fizzwizzle protested.

  "Aye, and yet, it happened all the same." Firebeard gestured sharply toward the messenger-construct. "Ghalrak reports cities of impossible scale, weapons that slew a deep leviathan in moments, and machines that move without beast or magic. The people of that land call themselves Americans." He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in. "And they wish for trade, aye, and alliance."

  One of the other Dwarf-Lords present cleared his throat. Gorki Halgeir was a crusty old silver-bearded Dwarf, cantankerous even for one of the Under-Kin. His rheumy eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Lord, why should we take what this sailor says at face value? He may be a prisoner, forced at sword-point to write such words tae lure you into a trap! Aye, something about all this smells rotten to me, mark my words. It be a mistake tae extend an open hand to these strangers. Better a mailed fist instead!"

  Firebeard shook his head. "Ghalrak Dramz is nae fool, nor easily cowed. He writes plainly and with conviction. If he were held prisoner, he'd have found a way tae let us know--some code or sign embedded in his letter. Nay, this is genuine."

  Another Dwarf, this time from the city of Angbar, spoke up. "Yet, my lord, we must ask ourselves this: if these foreigners, these Americans, truly possess such power, why seek alliance and trade at all? Why not simply conquer all before them and seize the wealth of other lands for themselves? It makes no sense!"

  "Perhaps they have no interest in conquest," Fizzwizzle suggested.

  "I've never known a human who wasnae interested in conquest," Gorki shot back. "Greed has burned a hole in the hearts of all their race that can never be filled. They're worse than dragons!"

  "Aye," agreed another Dwarf--a dour, stocky lord from Khar Morok. "We've had our beards singed from dealing with humans in the past. Remember the Great Betrayal at Ironhold?"

  A round of angry murmurs filled the throne room. Several years ago, a group of Dwarf traders had arrived at Ironhold, the capital of the Empire of Morghast. The humans of that realm welcomed them with open arms, gave them rooms to sleep in and food to drink, offered their hospitality--then slaughtered the entire caravan in their beds and seized their goods. It was a slight that Firebeard still fully intended to repay, and he might have done it already if more pressing matters hadn't demanded his attention.

  Firebeard raised a hand for silence. "If there be any chance of that happening, Ghalrak would've said so. Yet he has written nothing, no hint of any such betrayal. Instead, he speaks of their assistance against the leviathan and their aid in repairing Stonebreaker." The King's gaze swept across the assembled Dwarves. "And he writes of weapons powerful beyond our ken. Weapons that slew a deep-sea leviathan in moments. If they wished us harm, why save our kin? Why escort them tae their capital? Why seek trade? They could have destroyed Stonebreaker and taken everything aboard her, but they didn't. If they're tryin' tae fool us, they're playin' a very long game. An' humans are nae much good at playin' the long game."

  Everyone present had to admit that was true.

  "So...what shall we do, my liege?" asked the Angbar Dwarf. "What is your command?"

  Firebeard rose to his full height. A full four and a half feet, which was very tall by Dwarf standards. "We do three things," he declared, his voice echoing through the throne room. "First, we send word back tae Ghalrak immediately and instruct him tae do everythin' possible tae earn the goodwill of these strangers. Negotiations with the Americans are tae proceed with all possible haste, with my royal seal of approval. I will instruct him tae convey my goodwill and earnest desire for trade and peace, aye, and alliance too."

  "And the Sarnathi? What shall we tell them?"

  "Nothing," Firebeard grunted. "If they press further on the letters I sent tae Argonar asking about the disturbance, keep the answers vague. And finally..."

  He paused, knowing what he said next would stun all who heard it. "I, through Ghalrak, will send the American leader my invitation tae host him here, in Thafar-Gathol, for face-to-face negotiations, as soon as such can be arranged."

  There was a collective gasp of shock from everyone. Fizzwizzle's jaw dropped. "S-sire, that...surely that is not necessary. No human has ever set foot within the Under-Realm!"

  "It is an outrage!" added Gorki, his whole body quaking with fury.

  "Silence!" Firebeard's roar echoed off the stone pillars, instantly quelling the murmurs. "Of course it's necessary! If these Americans possess weapons capable of slaying deep leviathans and cities that rival ours, they could become the greatest threat—or ally—the Under-Realm has ever known. Would you have me treat with such power through intermediaries and messengers? Through letters?" He slammed his fist against the throne's armrest. "I must look their leader in the eye, get the measure of him! And in turn, he will see our own might and power, and know we are not a simple people ripe for conquest! We are the Under-Realm, and the writ of our empire runs wherever a vein of ore flows through stone! We will meet them as equals, and we will deal with them as equals! And if it comes indeed to war, then none will say we were the first to unsheathe our swords!"

  In unison, everyone standing before the throne bowed. The King, like any competent leader, was willing to hear a wide range of views from those around him...but when he made a decision, that was the end of all debate.

  He accepted a sheaf of parchment from Fizzwizzle, along with a charcoal pen. Firebeard's hands shook just the tiniest bit as he penned his reply. "See that this returns tae Ghalrak, by whatever means his letter was delivered to me," he instructed.

  "Yes, sire." The gnome bit his lip. "Everything will change, won't it?"

  The king gave a rumbling sigh. "Aye. I suspect so. And that troubles me most of all."

  Yet, despite his misgivings and private doubts, Firebeard was not dissuaded. Soon enough, every city and hold in the subterranean empire heard of the King's decision. The decree was read aloud in every square and every home:

  "By decree of Azaghal Firebeard, son of Zardak Giantsbane, High King of the Under-Realm, Sovereign of the Deep Places, Lord of Endless Mines, Monarch of the Mountains and Protector of All Who Dwell Beneath the Stone, let it be proclaimed throughout all holds, halls, and hearths of Our eternal and everlasting dominion:

  That upon the far horizon, beyond the wrathful sea, there has arisen a realm unknown to Our chronicles, yet vast in strength and rich in wonders,

  That this realm, called the United States of America, has sent forth its word and will across the sundering waters, and in so doing has extended unto Us the hand of amity and concord, of trade and alliance,

  That We, in turn, accept this with honor, and do declare Our sincerest desire that bonds of peace and fellowship shall henceforth be forged between their people and Ours, for the betterment of all,

  That envoys of the Under-Realm even now journey across this distant land to speak with their leader with Our voice and authority, and more shall follow,

  That safe passage and all hospitality shall be granted within Our halls to any and all envoys of theirs who venture here in turn, and gifts given unto them, as tokens of Our goodwill,

  That embassies of friendship shall be raised in both their land and Ours,

  That we extend unto their leader the honor of standing before Our throne, that they might enter into discourse with Us directly, and in so doing witness the might and majesty of Our dominion,

  That their enemies shall henceforth become Our enemies, and Our enemies theirs,

  And that no foe of this friendship shall find shelter in Our halls, nor shall any tongue speak treachery against it without reckoning.

  Let all this be done.

  By Our hand and Our seal, and by the grace of the Adamant Throne,

  High King Azaghal Firebeard,

  So sworn and witnessed in the year 5,372 of the Third Era."