This should not be like this! The king was stupid, but we dwarves respect the king! No pack of idiots should come here demanding anything. Yet when I opened my eyes, here they were—like insects, like a plague on our delicacy crops, like worms in the fruit or unfruitful alloys. Thousands of them surrounded Java's walls. My soldiers, brave warriors, were having problems. Their shiny armor looked ridiculous against the bare torsos of commoners.
First, I thought it was a matter of time. The arbiters had disappeared, so I thought they would come for us—the great guilds, revenge for having been suppliers. Our fortunes were not very "good," but in the affairs of businessmen, whether they cried in my house or theirs... well, the thing was, they came. We, inside the walls, could only laugh at the idea of an invasion. The archers celebrated when one of those inferiors asked to speak with us. When he was carried away with an arrow in his belly, I think we all celebrated. That was where I saw we had done wrong.
Wave after wave of dwarves suffered at the foot of our walls. None sought to kill us—they tried to tear down the walls, to break our long-range weapons. In short, to force us to come out and fight. I marveled at their capacity to resist. None wore more than helmets, gloves, boots, and a crude breastplate. That protected them—it was enough. None fled from wounds. Come on! We did not flee from things like superficial cuts either. But this was impossible—dwarves without arms, without legs, eyes—it did not matter. They seemed to orient themselves by sound and charged. What at first seemed a ridiculous charge became almost a tide that would sink our commercial center.
My father paced back and forth. His armor was magnificent in terms of showiness—gold plates and gems covered his body of over two hundred years. But that was all it offered. Strutting, he demanded the mercenaries keep killing. But we only had stones left! All projectile weapons lacked ammunition. Some warriors were already clad in black iron armor, far superior to my father's. I was a warrior. Like the mercenaries, I wore weapons and garments for their protection, not their beauty. I saw them preparing to go out. My common sense told me it was not right, that perhaps we should have listened to them. But dwarves fight—for money, for survival, with fists, laws, words. Such a limited situation would not stop us.
I saw my father at the front. When did he go down? He was a damned usurer—I admitted it. But from there to being a great warrior was far. He was fat, puffy, and old. Yet he was my father. So I descended from the observation post and threw myself into battle. But before reaching the stairs, an explosion in a well distracted me. From there, brown lizards emerged—horrible! Each measured the size of five dwarves and destroyed everyone in their path. Their claws opened chainmail and bronze plate armor. Teeth shattered helmets, torsos, reaping lives.
I began to shout orders. It was useless—no one heard me. Everyone was in a rat cage, jumping on bodies. Some launched to attack, but they were suicidal. They did not coordinate, only struck where they could before a claw the size of their arms reaped their life. With attack on this side and death waiting on the other, it was almost impossible to face. With all the pain, I preferred to surrender to the dwarves rather than face death alone.
While giving orders to open the gate, I heard my father in the distance ordering them not to listen to me. I ignored him until a scream shook me from my purpose. It was his scream. The earth dragons had reached the gate and taken him between their teeth. At the front, five had come out, but from the mine entrance, a sixth was heard—a huge one, much larger than the ones outside. If these could decimate experienced warriors, I did not want to imagine what this one would be capable of. But I could not give orders—my father was in the claws of one of them. With my axe in hand, I jumped onto one of the dragons destroying the gate, which had defended our lives and was now responsible for hundreds of deaths.
When I fell to the ground, the last pieces had fallen. The beasts rushed out. I managed to glimpse the one carrying my father. From afar, I saw he was dying—his insides fell from his sides. But as I approached, I saw that the "inferiors" were facing them better than we were. Their fight was organized. They used speed. Each attack was consecutive. They defended and withdrew the wounded. Since they came out, they had lost fingers, and one could no longer see. Much to my dismay, I had to say they were good. But it was my father I pursued. The creature had not attacked anyone, but when I got close, it began to squeeze him tighter. His look of valor crumbled, and his screams of pain were terrifying. I think even he did not realize he no longer had his legs—he had lost them a dozen steps back. Hatred boiled within me. I ran, but it was too late—that beast had just swallowed my father. Filled with hatred, I launched myself at that beast.
My axe struck many times. Its skin was hard, but I did not stop. My fatigue was great, but I continued. Muscles ached, yet I kept going. That creature must fall—I must recover my father. Yet a backhand of its claw knocked me down. I rolled as fast as I could, but my armor prevented it. I could only see a claw falling. I closed my eyes for an instant, but I would not let my death be that of a coward!
I could see my death in slow motion—the black claw, the giant splintered nails, the impressive scales. But like a blur, someone interposed, and blood fell into my eyes. I wiped it with the back of my hand. The small, reddish body, with a bandage on its waist, a huge axe stopping the claw, and one finger buried inches from my ear. I got up, but now I was not going to fight inferiors, not going to recover my father. Shoulder to shoulder, I was going to defend dwarves from their destruction, because we were one. The enemy would not resist!