While the meeting with the king continued, I prepared everything for the arrival of enemies. Because we knew they would come. Chapatrueno asked me—me—to wait for the mercenaries of the great dwarven houses, who would come with the mission of eliminating all opposition in the city before the Deathbringer returned. That way, they would have plenty of justification to eliminate him and would recover all the weapons they had lost trying to do so.
The main access tunnels were barricaded. The dwarves of Rocaceleste had been working all night to improve their weapons. The only protection they wore were their helmets, and some had pauldrons and a small breastplate covering only their hearts. From what I heard, "that way it doesn't matter if they are hit or wounded—they won't die quickly, and they can keep wielding their weapons." That was inconceivable to my people. What was the point of eliminating many enemies if you were destined to die? But Forest Elves and Dark Elves did not have what the dwarves had. The red color of their skin, caused by a diet of highly pigmented mushrooms, intensified when angry. At this moment, they were glowing. Their magic was reinforcing each of their bones, their skin. I doubted a normal arrow would cause more than minor wounds. At two in the morning, just when most living beings were resting, footsteps began to be heard. It was a synchronized march—slow, heavy. I guessed they all came heavily armed. That meant my fight had not yet begun.
Around four in the morning—strange, here there was no sunlight as such, but they guided themselves by some flowers that followed the sun even when they received neither light nor heat from it, only eating insects and telling the time—a horn sounded with an impressive low note. I called the citizens. He said he was the High Arbiter, leader of the Mediator guild, and that since the city was corrupt, the brave warriors of Chief Engineer Copperhorn had decided to stake the city. Something like that we expected. It seemed they thought they could easily handle those who inhabited here. There were three hundred dwarves in fighting condition—not many, I admitted. But if we added that there was only a small opening in the barricade, it was possible only about ten dwarves would pass at a time. I had to be sure they would hold. Their strategy was the same as when they entered mines invaded by dead dwarves.
Each mine was closed by a magical field that only the dwarf of the family who owned that mine could open. It was their only possession, and when they died, the field faded. So when they entered and there were enemies, they tried to eliminate as many as possible, retreated to the entrance, and fought there, knowing they could exit their tunnels to safety. But most did not—they fought with the exit within reach. When hobgoblins, snakes, and other parasites were not a threat, the reanimated arrived. But their strategy also worked well against them. Yet many of the current artisans were miners who had been stripped of their mines in unfavorable battles. So all knew how to fight like this—with salvation at their backs, refusing to surrender. Frankly, they were incredible.
The first thing I saw emerging were full shields, over a meter and a half tall. These shields were solid iron, protecting the user from arrows, spears, axes, and swords. Watching a core of ten impenetrable dwarves march was intimidating. But that was what they expected, from what I saw. Most of these dwarves would come out in blocks, and once inside, they would protect the entrance for the arrival of the rest. That was not what happened. As soon as they left the entrance, several of our warriors launched themselves from below the line of sight. Unarmored dwarves ran very fast. Their one-handed axe blows were not aimed at the shields—they were aimed at the feet. Several strikes pierced the boots of those invaders. Barely had the screams of pain and rage begun when several dwarves climbed down from the walls, throwing them off balance and to the ground. I stopped watching—the strategy was working. These shield dwarves had a good attack; they used their protection to impact hordes of enemies. But they were nothing against beings who knew how to counter them. I stopped paying attention; my battle was beginning.
I ran to the ventilation exits. The tunnels were small, but it was possible attacks could come from there. That and the main entrance—where we arrived—were places any strategist would attack. So I waited. I set some traps with sharp stones—they would not resist more than one use, but that was enough. I placed several. Two hours into the battle, I began to hear sounds of enemies approaching. For an ambush, they were very noisy. That did not matter. What mattered was that they were not speaking Dwarvish, nor any language I knew. They were mixtures of grunts and wheezes—disgusting. I drew an arrow from my quiver and waited.
Screams of hatred and pain echoed throughout the site. Now I knew they were small—smaller than dwarves. My traps did not catch their legs; they were embedding in their stomachs. Their language was a mix of human with something else—it sounded obscene even when they lamented. It did not matter. My battlefield was dangerous. There were three entrances. I had active magic traps only two meters from where I stood, and some already charged with fire and ice at the exit of those tunnels. That required me to consume a few potions of Dark Forest mushroom bark. That left me with only three potions and my magic. I hoped it would be enough.
The first to emerge was a child—something like that. Long arms and a yellow tone. His reptilian eyes were bloodshot. He carried a rusty knife in one hand, clutching his guts with the other. Clearly, that one was no longer my enemy. But what was that? He reminded me a little of the goblins with whom we had an alliance in the forest. Yet those seemed willing to flee—they fought only if it would save their lives. These, even with their wounds and on the verge of death, kept advancing. Behind this wretch, I heard all my traps being activated—screams of pain, endless curses. Finally, those who had not been affected began to emerge. There were many—more than the three hundred we defended or the eight hundred attacking us. But my traps were ready. One by one, the magic circles I had been tracing and energizing began to activate. One of them stopped all movement. It might look like a freezing trap, but I did not seek to incapacitate—I sought to eliminate. Fifty traps I placed along the esplanade to the first house, all connected. Inside the tunnels, I had placed another hundred and fifty. So there were two hundred fewer enemies. The ice ones tore enemies apart; the fire ones cremated them. But they kept coming—like cockroaches. When the first passed the trap line, my arrow was already on its way. A precise shot between those disgusting eyes. I did not let him fall. I jumped, and upon landing, I ran to the nearest house, where I had placed the last of the lines I had carved, leading to the attack circles. A line in each of the nearby houses. Inside, some elderly women and children waited for me. I entered and signaled them. This was a vital part of the plan. My strength could only energize those fifty circles over several days. But now that they were empty, they were just stone carvings—or they would be, if not for something I learned from our lady Lilith.
It took me several days to explain it. When I found out the dwarves handled magic—Chapatrueno told me as a vital secret—they could imbue magic into earth and stone. That is what I taught them. While they charged the circles' runes, I began a frenetic dance. I ran in and took down six of those little bastards with arrows. The idea was to keep them within the circles' area. A line connected each of them, but they were written so that one charged first, then another. There were over twenty dwarves charging these traps. Even if they did not have much magic, they would manage. I did my job. When there were too many, I drew my swords and began spinning among them, cutting heads, slashing chests, dodging darts, teeth, and knives—all in the center of the esplanade. My armor had resisted the few blows that reached me. A poisoned dart grazed my arm, and I felt it go numb. But I did not give up. More fell, but I could not hold them much longer. So as soon as I saw about forty circles had been charged, I began jumping between them, avoiding interrupting the magic lines or activating them by mistake. I reached the safe place and began applying bandages with antidote. It was a paralyzing venom—I imagined that was how they immobilized larger victims before finishing them. But with me, they failed. Now, to watch them die while they reached me.
The fighting at the entrance seemed to have stopped. I had several wounds on my arms and legs. Around me, countless piles of frozen and carbonized remains testified to a bloody battle. The bodies of the dead were scattered. There were no more hobgoblins alive. When we eliminated more than half, they began to fight to return to their tunnels. Perhaps they thought I was some kind of demon and would write songs about it... I think their venom was already affecting me. I was not thinking clearly. I was sure I had applied the antidote, but something must have remained. How was it that one of them without a head got up... No, there were several. I must have killed more than a hundred, but they were rising. It did not matter the wounds. Oh no! I recognized that look—they were reanimating with the Lich's dark magic! I was too tired to attack them. The dwarves who had helped me must be exhausted. In the end, without magic, they came out with weapons to join the fray. Several fell, but twelve of them remained by my side. I was sure we would die, but none were determined to let them advance. The fact that we knew we were going to die did not stop us from trying... Who would have thought! I was also a berserker.