The Iron Hills rose from the northern horizon like the bones of the earth laid bare. Jagged peaks of gray stone crowned with snow stretched as far as the eye could see, their slopes scarred by centuries of mining. Great plumes of smoke rose from countless forges hidden within the mountains, staining the sky with a permanent haze of ash and industry. Even from miles away, the distant clanging of hammers on anvils could be heard, a rhythm as eternal as the mountains themselves.
Lord Darl Harrow, senior envoy of the Snowe family, pulled his cloak tighter against the cold wind as his horse picked its way along the ancient road leading to Khaz-Dorum, the greatest of the dwarven fortress-cities. Behind him rode four other messengers, each bearing the banners and seals of House Snowe, along with a small escort of twenty mounted soldiers.
