Two fewer enemies—the battle was nearing its end! I looked at my body; it was the closest thing to a sacrifice pile. One after another, the enemies of my people arrived and crashed against me—abominations that only the most deranged existence could create. But they were not enough. The hammer I carried, as well as my arms and legs, testified to my toughness. I was no weakling. I defended this passage for an important reason. Oh, chaos bastards, you shall not pass!
The legions arrived with virulence at nightfall. But now, with the help of several dwarven devices and goblins, light was brought to the entire Silver Pass. Whenever that happened, I could see the result of my battle—various pieces of impossible insects, poison, anonymous entrails. At least there, I stopped seeing the nighttime terror, acting only using my instincts. The flames that consumed me in rage illuminated only what my arm could reach. But the pass was important—it connected half the mountain to the rest, where the dragon had lived, where its remains lay. The Overlord's stupid princess was responsible for these attacks. She constantly sought to recover the body of the one who had helped this continent so much. The mere reason for her search made me fight to ensure she did not succeed. Several dwarves wanted to help, but it was too risky—death lurked in these places. I was always fighting, alone, far from my original goal, but not from my purpose. Those who attacked the defenseless should fear me. Chapatrueno was no weakling. I awaited them at nightfall.
With morning came the troops of the Dwarven Council. The king's fall was little celebrated in the great families. But I gave them options—they could form a council where everyone had voice and vote. At first, they accepted, thinking they could buy or intimidate those who opposed them. But at the first attempt to do so, I let my hammer fall, and three important families ceased to be important. Since then, they came without bodyguards. When armed, they tried to intimidate the small city of Green Quartz, their representatives—seasoned berserker warriors—showed them it was better to use words. Today, the cities prospered, and everyone was discovering the importance of greater reward in equitable portions. The troops came to replace me. They were homogeneous—dwarves armed with maces, heavy armor coexisting with those wielding axes and bare torsos except for a cap for the heart. I wanted to sleep, but it was not yet time. From here, I would go to the trade center—my students awaited me.
Good! Watch your defense! Again! That last attack came well aimed. These warriors had improved impossibly in five years. I fought with them daily for at least an hour. Most ended up on the floor, but for the first time, I saw them as a threat to my hammer skills. This last one hid behind three and, from nowhere, jumped to attack my neck with a hardened wooden axe. That was a very good move, and I was tempted to take it head-on. But that would make them overconfident. So with the shield, I struck the three decoys while my other hand caught the axe. I smiled at him—I won it. Then I slammed his head into the shield—nothing definitive, but he would miss one or two teeth. I stopped the training. I told them what they had been waiting to hear: they were finally ready to graduate as deadly warriors. Everyone shouted, but no one mentioned alcohol. They knew it would be forbidden for life—that was the vow they made when joining my ranks. It was midday. I accompanied them, eating some lean bread and mole meat. Compared to what was eaten in these caves, this was a delicacy. Then I dragged my body to the smithy—other students awaited me there.
Fire welcomed me like an old friend. Inside, the hammer blows were deafening—hundreds of lesser smiths came to be as good as me... They were crazy! I told them, but it was not useless. Most shared mutual knowledge and allowed them to grow even when I taught them nothing. Today, they came after traversing last night's battlefield. In their sacks, they carried many chitinous scales from the enemies I had faced. For two hours, I worked that material. In the end, they had what they sought—each took from the forge breastplates, shields, and maces of highly resistant scales—weapons and defenses that those protecting the pass would use when I left. No one expected me to stay long. I was not a king, I owned no mines, I did not want to take any of the wives who courted me from afar. I had no time for children. The hatred I harbored would not take long to demand satisfaction, and I could not allow anyone close to me to suffer that consequence.
I went to sleep in a small obsidian cave. The floor was cold and hard, but I dared not seek another place. Night always came with images—Moon Reflection, his death, his smile, the exhaustion, the agony of the burns, the call to arms to defend the dragon's body. But today, there was something more—a voice that always shouted, now whining: "Come save my people," said Phaladine. I would laugh at his patheticness, but I could not. Instead of appearing majestic as always, he only showed me his people—fleeing in the forests, pursued by men dressed in white, being tortured, killed, marked with some kind of rhombus. The few who survived lost their souls. That was pain—it was irrational. He told me those were the servants of the pagan god Justine, who had arrived just over three years ago and had methodically eliminated every city where they worshipped his person. He told me only a few settlements survived. He asked me to save them, to save his existence. When I woke up, for the first time, I was not in a circle of flames. The obsidian was bluish from ice—from sadness, from disgust at myself, because I was not going to let anyone die if I could help it.
I sent notices to all representatives. I indicated that tonight would be my last night guarding the pass. As soon as the light died at the pass, they began to emerge—small, nameless balls, with only a scent indicating to everyone where I was. I kicked them and smashed them against the walls. That way, they always came looking where the scent was strongest—that gave me a few seconds. Then came the mutated moles and all the creatures that had fallen victim to Morgana, mistress of the Chaos Marks. Behind me was a palisade they had reinforced—there, the other warriors waited in case I fell. But I had not, and I would not.
As I fought something that looked like an earth dragon mutation, something with many tentacles attacked me mentally. I could see my wife and my son—I saw them in the daylight. I knew the responsible party was a small corrupted dryad; I had defeated them before. But I did not want to—I only wanted to see a little more of those I loved. What did a few bites or losing an arm matter? I missed them.
A sound brought me back to reality—a darker shadow had just cut that creature in two. I wanted to complain, but I saw that behind the insignificant dragon were several warriors. I did not recognize them—they were dressed in skins and looked like a disease. But the one who saved me was an elf—a Dark Elf, from the Dark Forest. A fleeting smile appeared on his face as he drew two sabers and joined the fight. Decapitating a corrupted dwarf, he turned and said:
"I will not let you die. I am Breeze of the Forest, former wife of Moon Reflection, and according to our laws, your wife until the day I kill you... husband Chapatrueno."