Paul's stomach turned as he clutched the handrail of the wagon. A wooden wheel was suspended in mid-air, dangling over an abyss. Certain death awaited them at the bottom of the valley should the wagon tip over. The coachman frantically lashed his whip at the donkeys and yelled, but the exhausted animals could barely remain on their feet. Across from Paul sat Kaan, his face buried in his hands, wincing every time the whip slashed against the donkeys' backs. The wagon suddenly lurched forward, sliding a few more feet towards the precarious edge of the canyon.

  "Get off!" barked the coachman, a man with weathered features who had lived a life of lawlessness since childhood. He had joined the rebels a mere week ago, filled with enthusiasm at the prospect of plunder and loot that the rebellion promised. The rebels scrambled off the long, creaking benches on the wagon and jostled past Paul as he struggled to his feet. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the coachman as they mounted the winding mountain road, the team of donkeys drenched in sweat and froth, their stubborn attempts to move forward failing miserably. In dismay, the rebels watched as the empty wagon precariously teetered backwards, reaching a critical point where the entire world seemed to pause. In one swift and terrifying motion, the wagon plunged over the edge, dragging the miserable animals down with it into the abyss below.

  Leon came charging down the road, his bare feet slapping loudly against the rocky ground. His already-angry expression was pushed to new heights as he pointed an accusing finger at the coachman.

  "You promised this would be an easy ride up the mountain," he seethed in a voice laced with frustration. "You said you once drove a coach through a swamp!"

  The coachman pushed a finger against one nostril, blowing his nose loudly, before hawking a wad of phlegm over the edge of the road.

  "I did, didn't I? But that ain't no easy feat. You need proper horses for something like that," he replied gruffly.

  "Idiot," snarled the elf..

  The coachman was the kind of man who only knew one way to deal with insults. He fished a jackknife out of his pocket and twitched his hand to unfold the shining blade.

  "You fucking animal," he hissed, baring his teeth.

  Leon's movements were too fast for Paul to capture, but suddenly, the coachman lay face down in the mud. The elf held the knife in one hand and whipped the dust off his trousers with the other. He kicked the groaning coachman and flipped him over with his bare heel. Blood poured from the coachman's nose and his right eye dangled from its socket.

  "Go back to the ditch we found you in and dig yourself a hole in the mud. You never saw us and you don't know who we are. Never cross paths with me again," Leon said. He walked away from the man and surveyed the other rebels as he passed. No one dared to meet his harsh gaze.

  "The lot of you, squeeze together on top of the other wagons. It will slow us down, but it can't be helped. Kaan and Peter, walk with me," he said.

  They all jostled onto the two remaining wagons. Paul sat squashed between a lawless villain who, for obvious reasons, went by the name 'the skunk,' and a young man with a flaccid face and a protruding belly, whose name he had forgotten. He assumed the young man was one of the students. That one looked too prudish for a bandit. He still failed to understand why the university youths had joined their gang, but he knew that asking them again would make no difference.

  The wheels creaked under the heavy wagon as they continued their slow ascent up the Rusty Mountains. Paul's eyes wandered from one rebel to the next, hoping that no one would snarl at him for staring. Opposite him sat a muscular elf with long blond braids. The being had worked at a forestry in western Anland before he murdered his master and joined Leon. Next to him was a young woman around Liv's age who looked like a boy with her short, blond haircut. Her name was Helen, if he remembered correctly. She, too, was a student and only spoke to the other humans. Paul suspected that she was there because she liked the fat student Simon, who sat next to him. The muscular elf beside him had joined the rebellion because he admired their leader, Peter, and would follow him blindly anywhere, even to death or Armageddon. To the elf's other side sat a short, broad-shouldered man with a pig-like nose. He was half-dwarf and an outcast among humans. Paul had watched the half-dwarf and the elf sparring with sharp steels, skillfully parrying each other's violent blows. When the time came for battle, he would stay close behind them.

  The gnomes they had rescued from the factory were not with them. Some gnomes had taken refuge on an uninhabited island in Verd Lake, where they were training to build weapons. However, most of them had journeyed south. Leon believed that the little beings were too slow and would attract too much attention if they joined the mission in the Rusty Mountains. Paul didn't understand why the elf wouldn't let him stay with the gnomes when he asked. He knew he would only get in the way with the other rebels. Yet a part of him was relieved that he hadn't stayed behind. He felt uneasy in the gnomes' presence. The suspicious glares from the elves and humans did not bother him. He had a lifetime of experience dealing with that. But being the tallest figure in the group was an unusual experience for him. Here, he moved around unnoticed amongst the elves and humans.

  He realized that Finn had vanished and stretched his neck to see the other wagon. The young elf was nowhere to be found. As the road widened, he felt the anxiety in his stomach dissipate as they rolled away from the edge of the canyon. The group entered a plateau covered in a thick layer of sharp gravel, which made it difficult for the already exhausted donkeys to make progress. As the sun ascended from the center of the sky, the wagons bounced and swayed, lulling him to sleep. He did not wake until they stopped to set up camp.

  Though they hurried, the sky darkened well before they had raised their wind-breaks, assigned guards, lit a campfire, and cooked supper. Leon expressed his irritation with their slow progress and inadequate discipline. Despite Leon's growing impatience, neither the human nor the Being laborers were able to work any faster, and they kept a respectful distance from the elf. Eventually, the camp took shape in a wide circle around him. Paul, being of smaller stature, received less food than the others and had to make do with only half a slice of rye bread and half a bowl of oatmeal. No one seemed to mind that the small ration was insufficient to satisfy Paul's hunger.

  He ate his meager meal in solitude on a round stone, roughly a dozen strides away from the fire. With every passing day, he found himself yearning for his former life as a farmer. Fond memories of his trusty ox keeping him company flooded his mind. These days, Leon found himself constantly surrounded by rebels, yet paradoxically felt more isolated than ever before. If they succeeded in their seemingly insurmountable revolt, he would purchase a larger farm than the minuscule plot he had previously leased, but not so large that he couldn't plow it with his own hands. As a rebel, every day held a new set of challenges that Leon abhorred. Constantly shifting hiding places, a rollercoaster ride of triumphs and setbacks, and low-stakes attacks on wealthy victims who might put up a fight. The inescapable truth was the unrelenting danger that hung over his head like a dark cloud.

  More often than not, he wished that Leon had never come to him—that none of this had happened. Sadly, that ship had sailed. The rebels' rallying cry was to alter the status quo, and it seemed they were making progress with that. In fact, the number of oppressed Beings enslaved in Anland surpassed anyone's expectations. Daily, there were fresh accounts of Beings launching assaults on their masters. Although most of these attempts were unsuccessful, the successful ones were substantial enough to shake the humans to their core and give courage to the oppressed. Somewhere on the west coast, a duo of elf girls who were line dancing sparked a fire, igniting a circus tent during their performance, resulting in the death of hundreds of spectators. A Frostport-based fisherman, who corralled fish into his nets using chained naiads, met a tragic fate when the Beings pulled the boat into the abyss, resulting in the drowning of all involved. In Tarum, a kitchen gnome poisoned a whole household at the child’s birthday celebration. No one knew what happened to the gnome, but some rebels claimed that he had died a martyr, whatever that meant.

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  Peter walked past Paul with food to one of his friends on guard duty. The student greeted him and asked if everything was well.

  "I’m fine. A little frightened for tomorrow, to be honest."

  "Don’t worry, we all are," said Peter and stopped beside him. His words made the half-gnome feel better. The young man was a master at encouraging people.

  "Leon isn’t."

  Peter chuckled. "True. He doesn’t know fear.".

  The humans had told the Paul that riots were taking place on universities across the country. Hundreds of students had been expelled, some even sentenced to prison, but the uprisings only grew more violent.

  "Peter," said Paul when the young man started walking again. "Why did you decide to help us?"

  "Because it’s the right thing. I believe in a future where humans and Beings live together as equals. For that, we need strong leaders."

  "Strong leaders such as yourself?"

  Peter smiled. "Leaders like Leon."

  *

  The next morning, the rebels woke up before dawn and washed down tasteless hardbread with cold water, then set off toward the mine. After an hour’s march, they left the road and sneaked through a sparse wood. Where the trees ceased to exist and bare hills spread out in front of them, they split into smaller groups. Paul joined the humans thugs and bandits. Another hour later, they crouched at the edge of a crater the size of many lakes. Countless axe blows had dug away small chunks of rock and ore, forever scarring the mountain. Even with dynamite, the work effort was unimaginable. On the far side of the crater lay a collection of barracks and a large pen surrounded with a high fence. Beings, as small as ants from where Paul stood, moved inside it. Trolls, he assumed. How many stones could one of those carry compared to a human?

  He realized that his companions lay hiding on the ground and quickly followed their example. They spent the whole mid-morning crawling along the edge to the other side of the crater. Paul scrubbed his knees against the sharp flat rocks which covered the ground. Sweat drenched his back as the sun climbed to the center of the sky, although the mountain air was cold enough for puffs of mist to form with every breath. Every minute, the mountain shook beneath them, followed by dull bangs.

  "The bedrock beneath us is filled with caves and tunnels. Over the years, the ore hunters have created endless labyrinths stacked upon each other," whispered a student beside Paul. "The odds of finding your way out if you get lost are slim."

  They were now close to the buildings, old ramshackles with roofs repaired so many times that they resembled scruffy patchwork quilts. Inside the pen, a couple of trolls slept on the stony ground, sharing an enormous blanket big enough for at least a dozen more Beings. On the mountain wall below them was a large black opening, like an entrance to eternal darkness. Two pale, sinewy trolls walked out of it, dragging a cart filled with gray ore. Behind them followed three guards carrying whips and rifles. The men bantered with each other and squinted their eyes as they stepped into the midday light. It was no good job for a human, to spend his days in a mine where the sun never shone, but the guards seemed to be in excellent conditions, at least in comparison to the trolls. One of the Beings stopped for a moment and took a deep breath, but started coughing as the cold air filled his giant lungs. He dropped the cart’s handle, and a dozen chunks of ore shattered to the ground.

  Paul spotted the elves on the crater’s floor. The agile Beings sneaked through the shadows beneath the edge with their backs hunched under the weight of spears, swords, and bows. Leon and the forest elf with the strong arms ran into the open area behind the guards. The trolls caught sight of them and grunted in disbelief. Leon knocked his bow and released an arrow into the back of the closest man. The other two guards turned around, but before they could comprehend the situation, two more arrows whistled through the air and struck their chests. One of them called for help before he collapsed to the ground, twisting in a growing pool of blood.

  The trolls panicked. They gave forth a hoarse bellow, then hurried back into the mine, still dragging the cart with them. The elves dropped their bows and charged toward another group of guards that came running out of the mountain. Two men with rifles stopped in the opening and took aim, but the elves threw themselves aside the moment the shots fired, and the bullets ricochets against the ground, striking the buildings instead. The next instant, the Beings were amidst the men. Leon dealt heavy blows with the sword in his right hand and stabbed with a dagger in the other. The forest elf danced around with a spinning long spear, wounded guards falling to the ground in a circle around him. A bell rang, and more people rushed out of the ramshackles. One of them jumped onto a horse and galloped away on the road leading away from the fight. Simon lay in ambush for the rider as he left the crater, but missed his arrow by many strides. Finn, Kaan and two of the students ran down the slope behind the pen and attacked the other humans from behind. The men around Paul crawled to their feet and shuffled down to aid the elves in the fight below them. Paul came last and hurt his bottom as he bumped down the gravel slope. Five riders galloped out of the tunnel, chopping with their sabers at the unfortunate bandits in their path. Armed men on foot followed the riders and charged into the cloud of dust and shining blades. Whips slashed, guns fired, and the people screamed with pain. A pack of trolls clumped in and out of the mine entrance, and some even ran down to the pen and locked themselves in. Paul focused on not being stamped to death under the trolls’ warty feet and avoiding their giant pickaxes. He never even came within a guard’s sword range. Not that he tried hard, either.

  Soon the panic was total, then equally soon the battle subsided. During the fight, the female student and another young man with glasses had attached a string of dynamite to the beams supporting the entrance. Once they lit the fuse, they screamed for everyone to take cover. The explosive cascade sent massive shockwaves throughout the tunnel, and a deafening roar emanated as the tunnel collapsed in a waterfall of rocks. Everyone watched as the dust settled, then an even larger blast echoed from across the crater. The houses exploded into a thousand pieces and turned into a cloud of fire and burning rubble.

  Paul scanned the scene, unable to spot any surviving guards. He strapped his little battleaxe to his belt, awaiting orders. Leon and Peter soon organized the rebels. Paul and the dwarf were tasked to loot the dead bodies for valuables, while the remaining uninjured rebels tried to assume control of the frightened trolls. After a few chaotic minutes, the lawless men used their long spear to herd the big Beings into the pen.

  "These trolls are unusually dim," complained Leon.

  "You only let the dumbest males reproduce, the others are castrated. In that way, the owners avoid sly creatures that cause problems," Peter explained and gave him a meaningful glance.

  Many rebels were wounded, including Finn, who had been cut across his face. It did not look fatal, and the young elf stroked his fingers along the wound as if it were made of the finest silk. Only one rebel had died. The forest elf’s blood-stained body lay surrounded by dead humans, his face ruined by a bullet, yet still holding his spear in a firm grip.

  From inside the mine came anxious voices and the huffing sound of men showing rocks aside. Leon gathered them in a circle around the dead elf.

  "He fought bravely for our cause, for the liberation and restitution of all Beings. No one deserves to cross the Fields as much as he does. Our forefathers await him on the other side, and they will honor him for doing what they never dared to do."

  Paul thought the words were utter nonsense. No elf had ever seen those special Fields, of that he was certain. But he acted like everyone else, and folded his hands and stared at his feet. Leon stroked the dead elf’s shattered face and shut the one remaining eye. He stood up and walked away without looking back.

  "Take their rifles with you when you leave," he commanded.

  They stared at their leader, surprised, but no one dared to protest. He had forbidden anyone with Being-blood from using man-made weaponry. Paul remembered Leon hailing harsh judgment at Kaan after learning that his brother had shot their innkeeper in Saint Rafael with a gun. The half-gnome did not mind that their leader changed his mind, however. They needed every weapon they could get hold of, and he would be happy to avoid close combat.

  Later in the afternoon as they marched back toward their camp, Paul at a comfortable distance behind the others, Leon stopped by the side of the path and waited for him to catch up.

  "Take this," he said, and handed him a rifle half the size of a regular one.

  The half-gnome pressed the gun stock to his shoulder, and it felt like an extension of his arm. He knew zero about weapons, but he assumed he and the rifle were a perfect match, and he gave an approving nod.

  "Make sure you use it," Leon said. "I saw you today. Next time, you’ll be the first one into battle, or you’ll be fighting me."

  "I’m sorry," Paul said and clenched his weapon. His hands were shaking, half in fear, half in rage.