"You've got nerve, bloodsucker," snarled the dwarf seated upon the great throne of chiseled granite.

"We had an agreement, Lord Bristlebeard," Baron Ulrek reminded calmly, standing before the firepit-flanked throne. "An alliance in exchange for the right to work the ancient dwarven mines in the Weald. A favorable agreement for Sturin's Folk, but now the time has come for you to uphold your end of the agreement. Ten thousand fighting dwarves for three months, not a day longer." The dwarven lord's face quivered in anger.

"You come to our lands, to my very house without invitation! And you come before the throne my great grandfather, Sturin Irontooth, and make demands! By the honor my ancestors, I ought to give you a horsewhipping, Ulrek!"

"I mean no offense to your ancestors. It is entirely within your rights to deny my request. Of course, should you deny me, I will renege on my end of our bargain as well. Naturally your people would be excluded from the Weald forever, and no longer would your people mine the tremendous riches from those great mines within my lands. A pity, but perhaps some day I will find crews of locals capable of extracting the mithril, gold, and silver for me."

"Those were dwarven lands before, and if you provoke our wrath they will be again." Bristlebeard threatened. The dwarf's face coiled with fury and venom, but underneath his visage, Ulrek could sense extreme anxiety. The Baron knew that the dwarf lord was backed into a difficult place. Probing his mind, Ulrek sensed the dwarf lord exploring the possibility of invading the Great Weald, deposing Ulrek, and reclaiming the dwarf mines. Bristlebeard knew it was impossible. His vassals would mutiny if they lost their source of precious mithril and also had to send their soldiers off to die in a fruitless invasion.

"If that were possible, we would not be having this discussion, as your father or grandfather would have invaded generations ago if they could. Such threats are naught but delusions of grandeur."

"We know what this is all about, Ulrek. You want soldiers to help settle this inheritance dispute with your father. Deny us our mining privileges and we'll fight for Edward."

"Lose your mining privileges [i]and[/i] send your warriors to fight a protracted conflict with nothing to gain just to spite me? I doubt your vassal chieftains would much appreciate that. Why, it would not surprise me if your vassals mutinied against you for such a move."

"My chieftains are loyal!" Bristlebeard proclaimed rather defensively. "They would never disobey me!"

"Dwarves are not known for their loyalty... but their [i]greed[/i] is notorious. Speaking hypothetically, should mining rights in the Weald be offered to any dwarf who rebelled against you, I think that it would be another dwarf sitting upon that throne."

Bristlebeard suffered a long and uncomfortable silence. Somehow Ulrek knew just how precariously he sat upon Sturin's Throne.

"I can't give 10,000 warriors," Bristlebeard admitted. Ulrek probed the dwarf lord's mind and knew he was not lying.

"I understand. It is a great many soldiers to muster, certainly with such little notice. To be frank with you, Lord Bristlebeard, it is not soldiers I need so much as siege engines. You already know full well I intend to march on my father's throne at Castle Bathory. The Capital of our Imperium has a sturdy wall of its own, and the citadel within boasts some of the finest ramparts in all the land. I believe dwarven masons from these mountains were consulted for their construction. Trebuchets and catapults will do nothing against such masonry. It took dwarven ingenuity to raise the ramparts of Castle Bathory, and it will require dwarven ingenuity to bring them down. It is known that the dwarves are proficient with the use of firedust, and have built machines capable of focusing its explosive and destructive energy."

"Cannons," Bristlebeard recognized.

"Indeed. I need them as big as they can be built, and as many of them as I can have."

"We do not possess such machines," said the dwarf lord. "But there is a dwarven lord in a distant valley, Orrin Goutfoot of Muin's Folk, who is fascinated with firedust and possesses a great many cannons. He owes me a favor, and would likely relish the opportunity to see his cannons used against actual fortifications even if he were not in my debt."

"Send word at once that his is to bring his cannons and all the dwarves needed to operate them to Castle Bathory with haste. If they are arrive in three fortnight's time, I will be satisfied with 5,000 levied dwarves from your people." 

"I can agree to that, Baron," said Lord Bristlebeard with a heavy sigh.

"I am glad we can keep our current arrangement intact," said Ulrek. "Now, before I return to my keep, there is something else I need. I had commissioned some items from your master smith."

"Yes," Lord Bristlebeard recalled. "Send Dolmur Redhammer in!"

The dwarven chamberlains opened the doors to Lord Bristlebeard's throne room, permitting entry to a bulbous-nosed dwarf with an unkempt, wiry beard, curled and singed by exposure to fire. He wore a filthy linen shirt stained with numerous sooty smudges under a well-worn leather apron. In his arms was a bundle of sooty rags wrapped around something nearly as long as he was tall.

"Baron Ulrek Bathory," the dwarven blacksmith greeted cordially as he sauntered up to the vampire lord. "A pleasure to meet you at last. You've been keeping me and the lads awful busy, but we're awful proud of what we're putting together for you. Perhaps my finest work yet."

"Is my suit of armor ready?" Ulrek asked.

"'Fraid not, sire. We've got much to do for all that yet. They'll be ready soon enough, I can promise you that. However, I have finished [i]this[/i]."

Dolmur Redhammer unwrapped the linen sheets around the object in his arms and from its furls drew a magnificent longsword. A three-foot long blade shimmered in the glow of the twin fire pits, dazzling everyone in Bristlebeard's court - even the normally stoic-faced Ulrek. The blades facets shone with a mirrory sheen that could only be achieved with silver. In the central bloodgroove, exotic glyphs cut out of the silver exposed a darker bluish-gray metal underneath. Intricately detailed upon the crossguard were wolfsbane leaves in silver bas relief.

"Solid mithril," Dolmur admired, "covered in a patina of silver, as requested. You'll see there's no silver on the edges - exposed mithril there to really cut through that armor and bone. In capable hands that blade will cut through chainmail. A deft jab will pierce platemail. And once it's cut through, that silver will be in contact with all the innards of the enemy combatant, as specified." The dwarf presented the blade to Ulrek and with an almost-reluctant hesitation, allowed the vampire to take the blade into his long, bony fingers.

"Magnificent," Ulrek declared, gripping the handle and caressing the blade. The silver running across his fingers elicited almost no pain anymore. He was nearly completely immune now.

"A fine blade, sire," said the dwarven smith. "Fit for a king. But it needs lacks just one thing."

"And what would that be?" Ulrek asked, watching the flames dance in the blade's mirroresque reflection.

"A name. A sword like that needs a name."

Ulrek continued to admire the blade silently for a time, watching the orange firelight dance over the coals of the fireplaces situated on either side of Lord Bristlebeard. Golden rays of light, Ulrek thought, not unlike a sunrise.

"[i]Pthaalmâ.[/i]" Ulrek uttered at last in a strange language, spoken deeply from the bottom of the throat.

"I beg your pardon, sire."

"Long ago, my people did not speak this language. Vampires once had a tongue of their own. It is, in fact, still spoken today by ferals though in a crude and vulgar dialect almost unrecognizable from High Vampiric. My father suppressed its use long ago in the Imperium, and the language as it was once spoken is known only to foreign scholars. But I have learned the words of my ancestors, and from those words I choose one to name this sword."

"It is an ugly word in Vampiric. A dreadful word, evoking great danger and death for vampires. But it also speaks of new beginnings, of a new day."

"[i]Pthaalmâ,[/i]" Ulrek repeated once again, admiring his new blade before translating. "The Dawn."