A LESSON IN LIFE

The first memory that came back to Gunnar dated all the way back to his early childhood. He was seventy years old.

That day, sitting on the broad shoulders of his father, Hagard, he was discovering Kar-Dhum for the very first time.

There was something almost impossible about the dwarven capital. At its summit still stood the castle of Allistaire the Prolific, built upon the rocky peak that had welcomed the first dwarves. From up there, it was said, one could gaze toward all four points of the compass.

But the centuries had transformed the mountain.

Generation after generation, dwarves from every family had settled along its slopes. They had carved into the rock, built houses, opened streets, and connected the different levels with stairways, tunnels, and bridges.

Kar-Dhum had never truly been built.

It had grown.

And even today, it seemed to be slowly making its way down the mountainside. To Gunnar, perched on his father's shoulders, it was simply enormous. But on that particular day, Kar-Dhum was also celebrating.

Hagard struggled through a tightly packed crowd making its way toward the summit. Stalls stood at every street corner. Beer flowed in abundance. Market stands overflowed with sweets of astonishing shapes and colours, while the smell of roasting meat drifted through the air.

Dwarven women danced. Children ran between the adults. From windows and terraces, great handfuls of confetti were thrown over the crowd, until some streets were almost completely covered.

Gunnar hardly knew where to look.

It was also Hagard's first visit to the capital. Judging by the accents ringing out around them, one might have thought that the whole of Nidvara had arranged to meet in Kar-Dhum.

Then, suddenly... The light faded. An enormous shadow had fallen across the street. Thousands of heads turned upward at once. A tremendous cry of "WOOOOW!" rose from the crowd.

Gunnar looked up.

Seraphina.

The greatest of the female dragons had just flown over Kar-Dhum. Aedragon stood upon her back. Behind her flew a much younger dragon, its glowing red scales seeming to catch fire beneath the sunlight. Scarlet. The legendary Red Dragon. And riding upon his back was Cassandra, Aedragon's new wife. Then the entire sky seemed to come alive.

The other dragons arrived in their turn. They circled the peak, diving toward the city before soaring sharply back into the clouds, as though they too wished to take part in the jubilation that had seized the capital.

The people cheered their new sovereigns.

For thousands of years, the Red Dragon had been regarded as the herald of the destruction of dwarven civilisation. In the end, the prophecy had proved true. But not in the way the dwarves had imagined. The old order had disappeared.

For the first time, a king had been chosen for his deeds rather than his wealth, his ancestry, or the votes he could afford to buy.

That day also marked the birth of the seventh and final great dwarven family:

The Dragon Riders.

But Gunnar was only seventy years old. Political upheavals interested him far less than the dragons flying above his head... And the sweets he could see on the market stalls.

The day was hot. After several hours of climbing the streets of Kar-Dhum, Hagard finally lifted his son down from his shoulders.

"Come on. Your father is dying of thirst."

Hagard took his son by the hand and headed toward the glass doors of a tavern.

Above the entrance, an inscription proudly proclaimed:

"Established in 1291."

An establishment that old could only be respectable. At least, that was what Hagard thought.

No sooner had they stepped onto the entrance mat than the doors slid apart with a long "Psssssssh," releasing a gust of warm air filled with enticing smells.

For Gunnar, it was a moment of pure wonder. His eyes darted in every direction, unable to settle on any single detail. Enormous windows stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a panoramic view of the outside. One could watch people walking along the street without those people being able to see inside. Gunnar thought that was absolutely brilliant!

Along the left side of the tavern, comfortable booths stood at regular intervals, fitted with soft, padded benches upholstered in reddish-copper leather. Neat rows of stitching formed perfectly regular little honeycomb patterns.

Judging by the way the customers lounged on them, some with their legs stretched out beneath the tables, others with their legs crossed on the benches, they must have been exceptionally comfortable.

On the right, an enormous bar occupied almost the entire length of the establishment. A discreet strip of light ran beneath the counter, illuminating the stools without ever dazzling the customers.

The stools were upholstered in the same leather as the benches, giving the whole place a pleasing sense of harmony. The countertop was made of zinc, polished with almost obsessive care. A beautiful dwarven woman regularly leaned against it to chat with the customers. She smiled, joked, tossed a witty remark to one patron and a wink to another, all while keeping a watchful eye on empty tankards.

A cloth rested permanently on her left shoulder. Whenever she served a drink, she instinctively wiped the counter. As she moved from one end of the bar to the other, she used the journey to sweep her cloth across the zinc in one long, even motion. After so much polishing, the metal shone like a mirror.

But what struck Gunnar, beyond the beauty of the place, was its atmosphere. The tavern was bursting with life. A warm hubbub filled the room.

Conversations overlapped, bursts of laughter rang out, and tankards clinked together amid cheerful cries of "Cheers!" Dwarves had come from every region of the country, and Gunnar amused himself by recognising certain accents, while others were completely unfamiliar to him.

The air was filled with a mixture of smells that made his mouth water. Roasting meat dominated, accompanied by the aromas of fried onions, warm bread, and sauces that had been simmering for hours. To these were added the scents of fresh beer, roasted malt, and that distinctive smell of hops which seemed to have seeped into the very walls.

A light haze of smoke floated above the tables. Several customers puffed peacefully on long wooden pipes, releasing curls of fragrant tobacco smoke. Others preferred thick cigars, their tips glowing red each time they drew on them. The smells of dark tobacco and burning wood mingled with the aromas from the kitchen, giving the establishment that special atmosphere found in taverns where one immediately feels at home.

In one corner, four dwarves were absorbed in a particularly lively game of cards. One of them, with a grey beard and a red nose, slammed his cards onto the table.

"And there you have it! Who's the boss?"

"Certainly not you, you old cheat!" his neighbour retorted, setting everyone roaring with laughter.

A third dwarf, who clearly had not enjoyed losing, drained his tankard in one gulp before demanding a rematch.

Farther away, two dwarves were arguing with such passion that they seemed ready to come to blows. Yet only moments later, they burst out laughing and noisily clinked their tankards together.

Waitresses darted between the tables and the kitchen, carrying enormous trays laden with plates overflowing with food and tankards of beer whose foam threatened to spill over with every step.

Suddenly, a tremendous crash rang out from the back of the room. A plate had smashed onto the floor, scattering its contents at a waitress's feet. For a fraction of a second, the conversations stopped.

"IT WAS EMPTY ANYWAY!" shouted a customer.

A thunderous burst of laughter immediately followed. The waitress rolled her eyes, made a distinctly rude gesture at the joker, then gathered up the broken pieces to the applause of a few regulars.

Gunnar watched everything with wide eyes. He no longer knew where to look. Hagard, who had already settled into a booth, beckoned him over to sit on the bench opposite.

The young dwarf had remained standing in the middle of the aisle, so fascinated by the spectacle that he had not even noticed his father sitting down. It was only once he was seated that he discovered something which would complete his sense of wonder.

Behind the bar, beyond the beautiful dwarven woman who continued serving her customers with astonishing ease, stretched an enormous glass wall.

And behind that wall stood... A real brewery! Huge copper vats occupied almost the entire space. They were so clean and shiny that the workshop lights reflected off their rounded surfaces. Pipes ran along the walls and ceiling, connecting the installations in a maze that somehow seemed perfectly organised.

From time to time, a jet of steam escaped from a valve with a high-pitched whistle, briefly enveloping the machinery in a white cloud before vanishing. Dozens of pressure gauges were mounted on the pipes and vats. Their needles moved slowly under the watchful eyes of the workers. All the workers wore yellow uniforms, the distinctive colour of the Graindorge family. Some checked the instruments, while others tapped the gauges with their fingertips before carefully recording figures on their clipboards.

A dwarf with a neatly braided beard opened a valve, studied an indicator for a long moment, then signalled to a colleague, who responded with a thumbs-up. Another, standing on a small metal platform, watched the inside of a vat through an illuminated inspection window. He exchanged a few words with a worker on the ground, who operated a control.

Immediately, a low rumble could be heard, followed by a slight tremor through the pipework. Everything seemed to operate with remarkable precision. Gunnar knew the principles of brewing beer. He knew how malt was brewed, how fermentation worked, and why master brewers attached such importance to temperature. But seeing all these installations working before his eyes, right in the middle of a city, separated from the customers by nothing more than a glass wall...

That was something else entirely!

His gaze constantly shifted from the enormous vats to the workers in yellow, then from the pressure gauges to the pipes, as he tried to understand the purpose of each component.

On one side, customers laughed, ate, smoked, and drank. On the other, the Graindorge worked with almost military discipline to produce the beer that flowed so freely into the tankards. Two worlds brought together under one roof.

To Gunnar, it was simply the best of the best.

Hagard picked up his tankard. The glass was cold and covered with large droplets of condensation. A little white foam almost spilled over the rim. Gunnar watched his father bring it to his lips. He observed his father's Adam's apple moving up and down as he swallowed the beer.

His father was his hero. And a few moments later, Hagard was about to show him why.

Two dwarves entered the tavern.

They were obese. Roaring with laughter. And judging by the way they walked, it was obvious that this was far from their first beer of the day. Their richly decorated clothing also indicated that they were not ordinary visitors who had come to celebrate the coronation. They reached the bar.

Only one stool remained unoccupied. To its left sat a young recruit from the Sons of the Kraken, a dwarf of impressive build who showed absolutely no inclination to give up his seat. To its right sat a very old dwarf. His skin resembled a piece of crumpled old parchment. He was as thin as a nail and, judging by the almost empty glass in front of him, probably a regular. One of the newcomers took the empty stool. His companion looked around.

Then he simply grabbed the old man by the collar and pulled him backwards. The old dwarf fell heavily to the floor. The newcomer took his place. Both men burst out laughing.

The red-haired waitress immediately rushed over to help the old man back onto his feet. He seemed more embarrassed than anything else. He looked around, almost apologising for the disturbance he had caused.

Hagard then placed his huge blacksmith's hand on his son's head.

"Watch carefully, son. Here's a lesson for you."

He stood up. Gunnar watched his father cross the tavern.

Hagard might not have been the tallest of dwarves, but years spent working at the anvil had given him arms and forearms as thick as hams.

He stopped behind the two men.

"Gentlemen, we're not going to let you treat this poor fellow like that."

The two dwarves turned around.

They looked at Hagard.

Then behind him.

To the left.

To the right.

One of them slowly rolled up his sleeves.

"Who's 'we'? You're all alone."

Hagard looked at the first dwarf.

Then at the second.

"Me, my right, and my left."

The right came first.

Then the left.

Both uppercuts struck almost simultaneously. The sharp crack of bone echoed throughout the tavern. The two dwarves collapsed from their stools like sacks of grain.

Silence. Nobody moved. Then someone applauded.

A second person joined in.

And suddenly, the entire tavern erupted in applause.

The young Sons of the Kraken recruit calmly stood up, grabbed the first unconscious dwarf by the collar, and dragged him to the door. He threw him out into the street. Then came back for his companion.

Hagard, meanwhile, had already turned toward the old man. He invited him to come and sit with Gunnar and himself. The old dwarf refused. He did not want to be a nuisance. He thought it would be better if he went home.

Hagard gently took him by the arm.

"You're not bothering anyone."

And without really giving him time to protest, he escorted him to their table. Then he looked at his son.

"First lesson in life, Gunnar. Always respect your elders. If we can live the way we do today, it's because others before us worked, suffered, and fought to leave us this world. Never forget that."

Gunnar nodded solemnly. Then, clearly still troubled by something, he frowned.

"Yes, Dad... but there were two of them."

Hagard looked at him.

"So?"

"Well... you were all alone."

A smile appeared beneath his father's beard.

"That was their problem."

Gunnar waited.

Hagard once again placed his huge hand on his son's head.

"It's not the numbers that matter, son. It's determination."

The pretty waitress returned to their table.

This time, she was carrying three beers.

Gunnar watched the third tankard being placed in front of him. Then he looked at his father. Then at the beer. Then back at his father.

Hagard picked up his own tankard.

"You're seventy years old today."

Gunnar continued staring at the beer with wide eyes.

"But you said I was too young."

Hagard studied his son for a few seconds. Then he smiled.

"There are days when a father discovers that his son has grown up."

He pushed the tankard toward him.

"Today, you can."

Gunnar carefully wrapped both hands around the glass.

Hagard leaned toward him.

"However..."

He glanced around the table, as though making sure nobody was listening.

Then he whispered:

"Your mother must never find out."

The old dwarf burst out laughing. So did Gunnar. Three tankards were raised. And Gunnar tasted his first beer. They spent a long time together after that.

The old man told them that he had once served in THE SHIELD, among the dwarven elite troops. And so he began to tell his stories. His campaigns. His comrades. His battles. The places where he had fought.

And Gunnar listened to every last word. Only minutes earlier, two men had seen nothing in him but a skinny old dwarf needlessly occupying a bar stool. Gunnar, however, now saw a proud dwarven warrior.

Throughout his life, he carried his father's words with him.

Respect those who came before you.

It's not the numbers that matter. It's determination. They remained engraved in his memory as deeply as a grudge in the Book.

And now that Death was waiting beside him... Gunnar could still remember his father's voice. The weight of that enormous hand resting on his head. His first beer. And an old warrior whom two fools had mistaken for an insignificant old man.