It didn’t take us long to round up the others and, with the former thralls in tow, we headed back down the elevator and piled into the room Wulfgar had given us back at the Holly Hearth. All of Nikoli’s prisoners seemed to be in much better spirits after a round of hot showers and good eating—though they looked a little out of place. Instead of wearing fur lined coats and arctic survival gear, most of them sported T-shirts and jeans, taken from the store.

  They brightened even more, when I ushered them out of the crammed room and guided them triumphantly down the stairs and into the common room, which was already packed to the gills with people, drinking, eating, and generally being rowdy as hell. The merriment died as we descended, though. The scratch of silverware faded, the singing guttered, and the clink of coins fell silent. It was like we’d turned up with an army of ghosts, dredged up from the past.

  Hannah—Wulfgar’s wife and the Inn’s proprietor—immediately spotted a familiar face among the crowd of gaunt survivors. She leaped over the counter, and elbowed her way through past the others, tears streaming down her face as she called out for her son.

  “Eirik! Eirik! Is that you?”

  A boy of maybe eleven or twelve hurriedly rushed down the stairs and the crowd parted for him as he flung himself at his mother. He was nearly as tall as she was, but she wrapped him up in strong arms and pulled him tight, visibly weeping into his chest.

  “Lo, mother,” he said in a soft voice, stroking the back of her hair with a hand that was missing several digits.

  No one spoke. Instead, they just watched, thunderstruck by the scene unfolding.

  “Heart of my heart,” she said, finally pulling away long enough to look up at him. She studied his face as if to ensure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. “I thought… I thought I’d never see you again. Not in this world.”

  “I never gave up hope,” the boy said. “Even when I thought Nikoli would break me, I held on for you. For Dad.”

  She shook her head in disbelief then glanced at the others. “Sven, Mariah, Kasper…” she trailed off, her eyes skipping through the faces of assembled survivors. “You’re here. All of you. But how? Is this a dream?” She reached up and slapped her cheek as though she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Is this some trick? And what of Nikoli?”

  “Dead,” Sven said solemnly, moving to the forefront of the crowd. “Thanks to the courage of this man and his friends.” He dropped a hand onto my shoulder. “They went to a great deal of effort to punish him for his crimes against this Safe Harbor… And to save us. Now,” he said, breaking into a wide grin, “where is my wife?”

  Hannah broke into a large toothy smile, then wiped away her tears with the back of one hand. “Yes, of course. What am I thinking?” She turned to some of the assembled onlookers. “Dmytro,” she said to a ruddy face man the size of a warhorse, “go ring the bells. Anya”—she turned toward a petite woman in a heavy yeti parka, “go alert everyone at the front gate. Make sure you get Rebecka. Luka,” she said to a third man, this one whip thin, “go fetch Wulfgar. He’ll want to be here for this, I think. Go, now.”

  The others made way for the three, who quickly pushed through the front door and disappeared into the swirling snow outside.

  “Carla,” she barked at her assistant, who was now behind the bar counter. “Fire up the ovens, we have a feast to prepare for!”

  ***

  In less than half an hour the bells of Kringlegard were ringing, not in warning but in celebration, and the tavern was packed with bodies. Men and women, both young and old, were crowded around the tables sharing meals and drinks with their missing loved ones. Rebecka—the tough as nails old woman from the guard house—was curled up on Sven’s lap, her arms entwined around the man’s neck as they giggled and kissed like teenagers.

  “You don’t think I’m hideous,” Sven asked over the ruckus.

  “Of course not,” she said, reaching up with an arthritic hand and stroking the place where one of his ears used to be. Now it was only a lump of ruined scar tissue. “I think it makes you look distinguished. Fierce. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to be too pretty or the rest of the girls in this town wouldn’t ever leave you alone.”

  He grinned, stroking her prosthetic leg in return, then gave her a big kiss.

  I turned away from the pair as Wulfgar finally arrived. The big man was huffing and puffing, as though he’d just sprinted across the entirety of the town, which was probably close to the truth. I watched from a distance as he pushed his way toward Hannah and his missing son, who were sharing a table near the hearth.

  “My boy!” he trumpeted, his voice carrying over the din of music and celebratory voices.

  Eirik scampered away from the table, a huge grin splitting his face, before darting toward the burly man and leaping at him with arms outstretched. Wulfgar caught him like he weighed nothing at all and hoisted him into the air, then squeezed him tight in the bear hug to end all bear hugs. The gruff man was crying openly and didn’t try to hide it.

  Didn’t seem to care in the least.

  He twirled the young boy around a couple of times before setting him on his feet and ruffling his shaggy hair—which was uneven and badly in need of a trim.

  “Can you believe it?” Hannah squeed. “Back to us alive and in one piece.” She paused and reached out, gently caressing the boy’s hand. “Mostly.”

  “How can it be?” Wulfgar asked. “Nikoli would never let them go. Not willingly.”

  Hannah nodded toward me. “You have that lot to thank, love of my heart.”

  Wulfgar seemed to sober at the words, then nodded. “Son, join your mother. I’ll be with you shortly. I must have words with the outsiders.”

  “Dad,” Eirik said, tugging at the big man’s arm. “They saved us, even when they didn’t have to. And they have this shop.” He shook his head, his eyes as wide as saucers. “You wouldn’t believe all the stuff they have. Food. Candy. Relics. Even hot showers.” He paused. Hesitated. “Please be nice.”

  “Of course,” the big man replied. “I would never dream of hurting the heroes of Kringlegard. They have done us a great service, and I will find a way to repay them in kind. Now,” he swatted the boy on the bottom, “off with you. Go eat! You’re nothing but skin and bones!”

  As the boy scampered off to rejoin his mother by the fire, Wulfgar tromped over to me and the others, sitting at a table near the back of the common room. He looked like a man on the warpath—one who intended murder—and the others made way for him. Despite his words of reassurance, I was half expecting violence based on the look on his face.

  But instead, he dropped to a knee and bowed his head.

  “You’ve done the impossible,” he said, voice cracking a little. “You brought my boy back from the dead. Saved us from a terror far worse than even Krampus. Though you are not one of us, the rules of the 49th floor are ironclad. Might makes right, and since you slew Nikoli, it is only right that you should become our new Jarl.” He drew his battleaxe and carefully laid it at my feet. “As the next most powerful Delver in Kringlegard, you have my axe, my arm, and my undying loyalty.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  I was thunderstruck by the declaration. It also made me more than a little uncomfortable.

  “Woah,” I said, “let’s just pump the breaks there, bud. I appreciate the offer, but I don’t need the headache of running a Safe Harbor.”

  “Of course,” he said, before glancing at Temp, Harper, and Jakob in turns. “Then one of your lords or ladies, perhaps?” He suggested. He stole a look at Croc. “Even the mimic dog? Surely one of them is fit to rule in your stead?”

  “What?” I asked. “No, we’re not like Nikoli. We didn’t come here to take over. As nice as this place is, we’ve got business down on the lower floors.” I shared a look with the others who all nodded their agreement. “Besides, none of us know the first thing about Kringlegard.”

  “Other than it is colder than a witch’s tit,” Temperance muttered.

  “Right, other than it’s colder than a witch’s tit,” I repeated. “The point is, we aren’t part of this community, and we don’t know what it needs.” I reached out a thread of mental power and lifted the axe. It rose from the floor and floated back into Wulfgar’s hand.

  “But you?” I continued. “You do. You know this place better than we ever could. You know it’s people. The challenges it faces on a daily basis. And you’re a good person,” I finished, “which is more important than anything else. I can tell that by the way people look at you. The way they treat you.” I shook my head. “We killed Nikoli, sure, but if anyone should be Jarl, it’s you.”

  “You honor me too much,” he said, accepting the axe but dipping his head even deeper. “But is there nothing we can offer you in return for the service you’ve done for us? Surely there must be something?”

  “About that,” I said. “There is one thing.” I stood and the room grew quiet.

  I reached out a hand and summoned one of my doorway sentinels. It lurched through a rift of darkness and scuttled forward on arachnoid crab legs, before finally coming to a stop. I turned the knob and pulled the door open, revealing the brightly lit store beyond.

  “I’m hoping to form a partnership with you,” I said. “With all the people of Kringlegard. This”—I gestured to the store beyond—“is my shop. Discount Dan’s Backroom Bargains. Your son was telling the truth. We’ve got food, water, supplies, and necessary utilities. Bathing facilities, a dedicated laundromat, a place to buy and sell Relics and Artifacts, and trade information. If you’ll allow it, I’d like to establish a permanent doorway here in the Holly Hearth.

  “The doorway will allow anyone from Kringlegard who wants to come, to come. But it’ll also mean Delvers from other floors can visit here as well,” I warned. “We’ve already established a trade alliance with another Safe Harbor down on the seventh floor—Howler’s Hold. And we plan to connect more locations. You and your people will be allowed to freely travel to any level that is connected to the storefront, through spatial gateways.”

  Wulfgar squinted, seemingly confused by the prospect.

  “That is all you ask?” he said. “A trade alliance that will benefit my people? Surely there must be something more. This… Well, it sounds more like you are doing a favor for us than the other way around?”

  I grimaced. “It’s a little more complicated than that,” I said. “I don’t want to bullshit you. I’m at war… with the Flayed Monarch. That assbadger is targeting me and he’s sending his army my way. If you take a deal with us, it’ll put a target on your back, too. The Aspirants of the Skinless Court could target Kringelgard, just the same as they’re targeting my store and Howler’s Hold.”

  Wulfgar didn’t even bat and eye.

  He just barked a rough laugh. “We are of the 49th,” he said. “We are not afraid of the Aspirants. Their ilk are already unwelcome in our Safe Harbor. And if you need men at arms to wage this battle, you will find no shortage of recruits here to help you in your efforts.” He rose to his feet and turned toward the rest of the assembled Delvers. “But do not take my word for it.” His voice rose to a thunderous bellow. “What say you people of Kringlegard? Shall we forge bonds of friendship with Dan?”

  The crowd erupted in a cheer, the Delvers drawing their weapons then clanging them against shields and tables.

  “You see?” Wulfgar said. “We are not afraid of death, and we will not kowtow to another tyrant. We also remember our friends. And you, Dan, are a friend of Kringlegard for what you have done for us. Let the Monarch break his teeth against our walls. He will find they are not so weak, and that the men and women of Kringlegard have steel in our veins. Now let us feast! War may come for us all in the end, but tonight we celebrate a great victory!”

  The proclamation was met with another booming cheer as Delvers stowed weapons and raised glasses in salute.

  ***

  The party that followed could’ve made even the Marines of the 14 Area Barracks jealous.

  Raucous music thundered from the corner stage, where a trio of Delvers—one playing a beat-to-shit electric Fender stratocaster, another on drums fashioned from repurposed cooking pots, and a third whistling through a bone flute—kept the tempo lively and the crowd on their feet. Laughter and shouts bounced off the timbered walls. Platters of smoked reindeer, steaming root stew, honey-baked rolls, and roasted mushrooms were passed hand-to-hand, and no mug stayed empty for long.

  Temp dove into the chaos like a shark in a kiddie pool.

  She quickly joined a group of hard-bitten Delvers at a table cluttered with dice, cards, and an intimidating pile of Loot Tokens, immediately hustling them with such efficiency that I started to worry for Kringlegard’s economy. After wiping the floor with the gamblers, she challenged a barrel-chested brute named Ragnor to an arm-wrestling match. His bicep was bigger than her entire torso. She still beat him—twice—and celebrated by downing three tankards of mead in a row.

  He passed out. She kept drinking. Which only resulted in more hearty cheers of encouragement.

  Harper and I danced—or tried to.

  I had all the rhythm of a busted shopping cart, but she was patient, laughing as she gently guided my hands to her hips. Her touch was warm, her smile radiant in the flickering firelight.

  “I never thought I’d feel this way again,” she said when we paused to catch our breath, sweaty and far too close to step away from each other. “After Noclipping, I pretty much gave up on the idea of being happy. Of being fulfilled. There’s so much death here and it’s all so bleak. But then you came along and changed things. Reminded me that it’s not really about where we are, but who we are.” She paused and stared up into my face. “And who we’re with.”

  I watched her face soften, her gaze distant.

  “Tonight reminded me that I can still help people,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “That I can matter. And that’s because you brought me along. I know it was a risk, but I’m glad you took a chance on me, Dan. Thank you.” She reached up on her tippytoes and lightly kissed me.

  Her breath was warm and tasted like honeyed wine. When it finally ended, I was swaying on my feet, more than a little lightheaded.

  “Wow,” she said, pulling away, though her body was still pressed tightly against mine. “You’re a better kisser than I imagined.”

  “And you must be drunker than I thought,” I replied with a lopsided grin.

  “No,” she said shaking her head. “I’m only tipsy. Besides, I’ve wanted to do that since the moment we got back to the store after Concourse Null.” Red crept into her cheeks. “Now, how about another dance?”

  She pulled me forward as the next song began. I didn’t know what else to say, so I just followed her lead.

  Meanwhile, Jakob had found his spiritual brothers in Wulfgar and a stout old brewer named Klaus. The three were locked in a passionate debate over the merits of juniper-infused mead versus classic honey-brewed ale, with each round of debate punctuated by a round of tasting. By the time I walked past their table, Wulfgar was slurring cheerful threats at a laughing Klaus, and Jakob was hiccuping out a song in what was definitely in German.

  Croc, somehow, had gathered a small cult following. Several women—including Carla, Hannah’s assistant—were clustered around as the mimic held court near the bar, gesturing animatedly with a copy of Twilight. The margins were heavily annotated. “And this,” the mimic declared, “is where the emotional stakes really bite!”

  They listened with rapt attention. Someone asked when the next meeting of Croc’s Book Club would be. The dog who wasn’t really a dog beamed in pride.

  As the night began to crest, I found myself dragged—bodily—up onto the tavern’s small stage by Harper and Jakob.

  “Come on, Discount Dan,” Harper grinned. “You owe us.”

  “For what?”

  “Where do I even begin,” Jakob slurred.

  I sighed, accepted the rune-etched microphone, and let out a resigned chuckle. “Fine,” I said. “But you’re singing with me.”

  The opening bars of “Sweet Caroline” blasted through the tavern, and for the next four minutes, we belted our lungs out, the entire tavern chanting along to every beat.

  BAH-BAH-BAAAAH.

  Temperance stayed in the back, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but when I caught her eye, she smirked and raised her drink in a silent toast.

  When the last verse faded and the laughter died down, I walked to the hearth with Wulfgar and unveiled the final gift.

  With a sharp click, I mounted the small doorway anchor plaque to a storage closet.

  “By the bonds of blood, sweat, and beer,” I said, holding out a ceremonial bottle of Kringlegard’s finest mead, “I declare this portal… officially open for business.”

  With a triumphant crack, the bottle shattered against the doorframe, golden ale trinkling down and puddling on the floor.

  More than a few of Kringlegard’s residents immediately took the opportunity to head into the store and have a look around.

  Hours later, full to bursting with food and drink and song, we finally made our way back into the shop. The warmth of the tavern still clung to us like a second skin, laughter echoing faintly behind as the door shut on Kringlegard.

  I trudged down the main aisle toward my room, rubbing my eyes and barely holding back a yawn. For the first time in a long while, the world felt a little less broken.