"IN THE DARK OF GAUNTLGRYM'S THRONE ROOM, A SHIFTING STONE STOLE THE quiet. Then came a grunt, and more sounds of rocks sliding against each other. A black-bearded dwarf crawled from under the pile, then reached back and grabbed at something he had left behind, grunting with exertion as he tried to extricate it. "Durned thing's stuck," he muttered, and with a great tug, he pulled free a most curious helmet, one set with a long and oft-bloodied spike. His effort sent him flying over backward to crash against the stones of the nearest cairn, where he lay on his back as the dust settled. "Durn it," he cursed, seeing the trouble he had caused, and he rolled to his feet and began replacing the dislodged stones. "Don't mean to be desecratin' yer tomb ..." The words caught in his throat, and the rocks fell from his hands. There in the disturbed tomb before him was a curious helm, with a single curving horn, the other having long before been broken away. The dwarf fell to his knees and dug the helm free, and saw too the face of the dead dwarf interred within. "Me king," Thibbledorf Pwent breathed. Nay, not breathed, for creatures in the state of Thibbledorf Pwent did not draw breath. He fell back to his bum, staring in shock, his mouth wide in a silent scream. If he'd had a mirror, or a reflection that would actually show up in a mirror, Thibbledorf Pwent might have noticed his newest weapon: canine fangs."