The fifty soldiers of the Demiurge's troop were replaced by four times that number of dour dwarves dressed in iron and steel armor. The long-bearded mountain dwarves dealt summarily with any predatory creatures foolish enough to approach them. Gord and this small army of dwarves trudged upward into the mountains, going ever higher. Soon, Gord recalled, the very air seemed so cold and thin that he felt like he was being strangled. The broad-chested dwarves appeared not to mind the rare atmosphere, but they deferred to the young human, taking a path through the mountains that was not the shortest but which enabled the group to avoid climbing to even higher elevations. Gord was glad when their path led downward, and some of the deep breaths he took were genuine sighs of relief.

He was surprised that the dwarven company remained with him when they all finally left the mountains, four days after beginning their descent toward less rugged ground. They had come to the rough foothills on the north side of the Barring Mountains, an area called the Pen-Wilds, where few folk lived and game abounded. Gord hunted with success and greatly enjoyed the wild lonesomeness of the place. Noticing this, the dwarves warmed to him a little.

"Do you, Gord of Greyhawk, roam thus in your own lands?" the captain of the band asked him one night as they camped. Gord replied in the negative, but then told the broad dwarf of his adventures in other places, his hunts, his combats with monsters.

I see why you are a Chosen One," the fellow rumbled when Gord had finished. "Our gift to you is this," he said, and held forth a broad armlet of varicolored gold. It was a work of odd design, its material being gold of hues like palest sunlight, deepest sunset-orange, gold-green, and violet-gold intermixed with the usual yellow gleam of the ore.