It took them an eternity to approach. The battle had ended long ago, and my supposed enemies rested in one corner of the plaza—right where the communal anvils were. These were built by the king along with the common-use forges. The idea was that anyone who wanted to practice the smithing trade could do so at no cost. Here I had trained. I still remembered what it was like to crawl among the twisted, dry mushroom forests, looking for pieces of wood or coal to use for the forge. To run, grimy, and stand in line, endure fights until my turn came. To feel the heat surrounding me, the vibration in my hands with each strike. To know that I had to make a good piece that would help me survive when I used it—still unbearably hot, but without complaint. Those who wanted it were waiting, as were those who only sought to steal it. They were difficult times. But just when I married my wife, things began to worsen. The arrival of these squadrons, these cheaters sent by the king along with their stupid judge, who challenged consecutively until, breathless, you collapsed, and then they charged you for the battles, and the buyers demanded compensation for the material they had given you for the forge. We fled with nothing but my hammer and a few copper coins. After weeks of desperation, I arrived at Stormhammer. There, I worked cleaning horse dung until I saved enough to buy the forge where I lived, where my wife—who never complained—languished and died, just when we had money to live, not just survive. But she left me a child... who was taken from me by a different kind of jackal.
The first to come was an old man. His beard was twisted and gray—evidence of the hardships he had endured. He asked how much I wanted for one of the knives I had in the pile. Stripping them of their armor had not been easy; most were not their size, so I broke them and placed those skeletons in the corner near them. But all their weapons—poor quality but abundant—were there. He approached me with a feverish look. In his hand, some pieces of Miser's Bread, made from mushrooms found in distant caves. The only thing eaten when there was no money. You knew they ate it when their skin was a little redder—proof that this mushroom was part of their normal diet. But they were completely red. He offered me the loaves, saying he needed the knife to prepare good bread. Another arrived and, rummaging a little, pulled a smith's hammer from the pile. It was in very poor condition—evidently not used as a weapon or tool. Most likely, it was used to strike corners in the mines. But something caught my attention. So I called him over. The dwarf's eyes widened when he heard me, and then a tear fell from his eye. It was Caliza—my brother-in-law, my friend.
While all took a weapon and placed before me what they considered maximum payment according to their resources, the line was so short it took me a while to realize all who were not there. My city had a population of over a thousand dwarves when I left. Now only a fifth remained. Caliza told me how it continued—the deaths from exhaustion, facing enemies with kitchen tools or bare hands for food of horrible taste—the misery mushrooms were only nutritious; they had no pleasant taste, like biting raw ginger with clove. The visits of tax collectors and the wretches like those I had just defeated—these rotated among caverns, extracting whatever little they could. Caliza was a shy man, often confused by his feminine name. More an artisan than a smith, he used his hammer to create beautiful iron figures that were the pride of the city. But it never went beyond that. Now he had used his hammer to make poor knives from rusted iron scraps, thus meeting the city's tool needs. Yet on the last visit, they had taken his hammer. Unarmed, he had ventured a couple of times into the closed caves that were once mines. He faced many dangers, found a piece of coal and copper without tools to work with. So that was what he offered in exchange for his hammer. I wanted to refuse. I needed nothing of what they barely kept. But they were dwarves—pride would not allow them anything free. I had to do something. Then I saw the elf hidden in the upper part of one of the houses in moderately good condition.
Seeing the Dark Elf gave me an idea. I stood up and shouted that what they brought was little, but it would serve for me to lend them whatever weapons or armor they wanted. I told them my interest was for them to regain themselves. So they could choose—weapons or armor—but that as soon as the dwarves who attacked me woke up, they must attack them, by their rules, to win the money and life taken from them. They would do this every time they came—whether they were mercenaries, bands, or the king's soldiers. They did not have to fear. They were strong dwarves, so I was only lending. So they chose... No one cheered, no one smiled. All showed that their attention was focused only on choosing weapons. None looked at the armor. They were berserkers—consumed by the same rage that had made me strong. But I had means and mentors; they were only warriors. The best I could ask for.
By the time the stripped dwarves woke up, I showed them their belongings. Once dressed, I showed them their enemies. Pleading, whimpering, cries of pain, attempts to appeal to their sentimental side were useless. Some were children of these artisans, but they had forgotten what it meant to be a dwarf. They had become hyenas, jackals. Their families, armed for the first time in decades, took care of showing them their ways. If any survived, I would send him to the king. He needed no written message—the body of the wretch would carry all the relevant information.