For Chapatrueno, waking was more painful than strange. Every part of his body felt like it was burning. He raised his hand—always encased in thick leather gloves—and found it pale, weak, and missing several fingernails. In that moment, he remembered his exile in depressing detail. But more than that, he remembered his inability to take revenge. The very thing that kept him alive was far from home. He knew this because he could not smell the sea, nor even the forest. The air was dry and harsh, the scent of the plains.
He walked without direction, more to occupy his mind than anything else, trying to distract himself from the terrible pain in his stomach. Back at the forge, when something went wrong, he had a habit of cursing. Here, not a single word left his lips—partly to conserve moisture, but mostly to keep himself from crying. After walking a great distance without seeing anything but barren land, he came across a small cave, about three or four meters deep. At the back, a small pool of water let him wash the metallic taste of blood from his mouth. He still did not dare look at himself, let alone bathe, so he set about finding wood for a fire.
The firewood burned well. Apparently, there was a crack in the ceiling of the cave that acted like a chimney. Hunger gnawed at him after several days of living on alcohol and others spent in a cell. Looking for food was useless. The land was eroded. What little wildlife there was would be skittish, and even if he found any, he had no tools to hunt with. He picked up some small stones inside the cave and, in the process, discovered a few centipedes. Skewered on twigs, they were roasted and eaten. Chapatrueno knew he still was not thinking straight, and that his fury was not extinguished. He simply needed to eat to live—one more day, at least.
The dwarf felt like he was going mad. A week spent shut in the cave had given him enough strength to go out and explore. About four hours from his home in exile lay the edge of the Dark Forest. Unarmed, he did not dare enter, but even at the edge, he could find plenty of peat. Feeling strange, he gathered as much as he could carry into a satchel made from his shirt. Retracing his steps, he picked up every stick he could find. Back at the cave, he began building a crude forge out of stones. He worked for hours, even through the night. Every now and then, he laughed to himself, remembering that he had no tools to work with, but still he did not stop. Come morning, he contemplated his work. It was then that tragedy struck him: he was alone, in hostile territory, unarmed, and all he wanted was a forge. It was then he felt his sanity waver. Nevertheless, he started digging, searching for a slab of stone that could serve as an anvil. That was when he saw the hammer.
He touched it carefully, afraid it might disappear. It was a dwarven war hammer—crude, perhaps, with a copper head, impractical. Yet to him, it felt like the promise of life had returned. He slept the rest of the day hugging his hammer. That night, he drew a large amount of water and mixed it with mud to shape his furnace. Digging a little more, he found a broken copper knife—his first project.
By the end of the week, he had several knives engraved with runes of speed, some crude shields, even a helmet. Everything was copper and low quality, but to him, they were imbued with deep meaning. No one had taken away his right to be a smith. With a bit of luck, he might unearth something powerful enough to let him face the accursed wolves. Deep down, he knew it was a foolish dream, to say the least, but he wanted to cling to a future. Whether it took years or centuries did not matter. He intended to make it happen.
On the morning of the fourth month, by his count, he began to notice silhouettes watching him as he went to gather more peat and wood for his forge. He was getting the hang of working where the smoke was so thick it made him cough all night, and he was preparing to make a couple of spears by melting down the knives. He still did not have stone molds or anything of the sort, yet he felt moderately optimistic. He was not one of the most popular smiths for nothing. But when he saw those silhouettes, a chill ran down his spine. They were not human—the tallest did not reach his eyes. They were not dwarves—they looked scrawny. But they were armed, at least with some wooden staves. He hurried back to his cave, afraid that none of his weapons would be left. But everything was there. Breathing a sigh of relief from every pore, he equipped himself with his round shield and hammer and began working even harder. He needed armor, and the lack of tools made him search for ways to adapt several mail coats he found on the corpses of many men who, he understood sadly, had been sent into exile just like him. Only they had not wanted to live. They had not gone far. He was going to travel—that much he knew clearly. There were still deaths to deliver.
Although he stayed awake for most of the night, he dozed off an hour or two before dawn. A bird's cry roused him from his half-sleep, and he found himself facing an extremely strange scene. On his ironstone sat a bundle of spears with broken tips, arranged from the most intact to the one with its tip completely shattered. Beside them were some bricks and two freshly killed rabbits. Whoever it was, he had his first customer.
He worked like that for three months. His customers—he was sure they were gnomes or very friendly goblins—brought him things they thought he could use, and in return, he repaired their weapons. The first few nights, he feared for his life, but as the payments arrived punctually, he began to venture out of his shelter to sleep under the stars. One particularly noisy night, he woke to find that a couple of good shields and about seven or eight bronze-bladed knives were missing. But he did not check his inventory. All his attention was fixed on some sword molds, a real anvil, and piles of coal. He did not want to ask where they had come from. Now he could truly work. And so he did. He turned scrap bronze into sheet metal and then into dwarven plate armor. His war hammer received some improvements, and a riveted wooden shield completed his first warrior set. This time, they would not catch him off guard. With great patience, he carved every magical rune he could think of. It was exhausting to charge each rune and balance them, but his customers fed him, and he only repaired scraps, so he had plenty of time to focus on his goal.
A week had passed since he finished all his equipment. Part of him did not want to leave. The goblins—now that they had lost their fear of him, he often saw them bringing him work and even paying with metal ores—but it was time to go. He did not dare. He knew the goblins had no skill for working metal and would return to hunting with only sticks in a few months. But he needed to go after his revenge. Lost in these thoughts, a sharp cry put him on alert. When he looked out, he saw the goblins caught in an uneven fight. A company of armed men with spears was killing every enemy they came across, while those behind merely cut off ears. Despite the horror of the massacre, he recognized the banner they carried: a great mouth with teeth. Hesitating for a moment, he almost attacked two large goblins who took him by the hand. Seeing them, he assumed they were the leaders, for they carried some of the copper swords he had forged using the molds. With an imperious gesture, one pointed into the distance. When Chapatrueno nodded, the other made signs and handed him a bundle of skin filled with food. Then they left to join the fight.
In that moment, he considered his options. Flee? To where, if his enemy was right here? Attack the goblins? But despite what they said about them being evil, they had done him no harm and had simply paid for his services like anyone in his old village would have. He knew this was wrong. He had to follow the path of righteousness, save the weak, help those who could not help themselves. It was then that he saw a light.
"You have the will to serve the Light." He did not know if he was looking at a massive star, but its light was warm, comforting. "Become a paladin. Help and serve with honor and rigor those who need you." At that moment, he heard a melancholy, cynical laugh. Turning, he saw a man with a coffin, surrounded by intense darkness.
"You do not need the Light to enact justice," the figure said. "It did not help you when you needed it most. You have the potential. Stop thinking about what others consider righteous. Only you should choose—without codes or anything—what best helps your fellow beings... These goblins are dying, and you do nothing to defend them. Choose my path. Visit me among the Dark Elves. There, you will learn the truth."
The dwarf turned and asked the Light, almost pleading, if following the paladin's path would allow him to punish the wicked.
"That is not your role. You would become a paladin who upholds the rules, respects authority, forgives the mistakes of others, and is strict with himself. What do you offer me?" he asked the shadowy knight of the night.
"I offer you no rewards. Justice needs no payment. But you can achieve vengeance—not by my hand, but through your own power."
Both voices rose together: "Choose!" He did not even have to think.
The warriors of the Steppe Wolf Clan smiled nervously. Every half year, they traveled to the steppes to collect the bounty for goblin ears from the constable, but this time was a little different. They were fighting back. Previous times, the goblins had just fled. Once in a while, one would try to attack, but against iron armor and spears, it was pitiful work—except for the fifty silver pieces per ear. Now, they had already gouged out the eyes of a couple and were slashing the tendons of the warriors. At this rate, they would end up killing someone from the clan. So he gave the order to release the wolves—starved for weeks—and they surged forward, leaving a trail of death in their wake. He was about to ask for his wineskin when, with a yelp, one of the wolves fell. The others began to retreat.
Looking up, he saw a fury of a figure wielding a maul and shield, advancing and killing wolves with a single, precise blow to the head. The few wolves that, mad with terror, lunged at him met his shield or a protected forearm. In no time, the goblins joined in, finishing off the remaining wolves. Now thoroughly frightened, the team leader pulled out a couple of scrolls he had paid a Redcap a fortune for. Each was loaded with various attack spells. He pulled out the cheapest one, activated the rune, and pointed at one of the goblins wearing something like armor. "Burn," he spat. The charged scroll released its spell, and a fireball streaked toward the unfortunate leader, who ignited without mercy. He pulled out the next scroll, and just as he was about to use it on the remaining leader, a cry rang out: "Drain!" The scroll went inert.
Chapatrueno cursed as he saw he was too late to save the burning leader. He was furious. He could not let both of them die, or the rest of the pack would flee. The words left his mouth before he realized it, and suddenly, more than a ray of light, a negation of it burst from his maul and struck the scrolls. An unfamiliar power filled him, allowing him to press the attack. The runes on his hammer began to alternate: one strike dealt additional lightning damage, another hit with ice or fire, and a couple left the unfortunate mercenaries paralyzed. All they could see now was the need to escape, but he would not let them. He pursued them with the wild joy of doing what he had been seeking for months. He was returning the pain he had felt, and he was exultant.
When the scrolls stopped working, the wolf leader turned his head and realized only a few of his men stood between him and the dwarf, whose armor now gleamed with black light. As if in a nightmare, he watched each of his men fall to a single blow from the hammer, while the goblins behind finished off the fallen. He drew his sword and launched an attack from the comfortable position his horse gave him. It struck the dwarf's shield, and instantly he felt a minor blow to his back. He could not turn, because the dwarf was attacking both the horse and the human's legs equally. Another blow, this one with full force, fell on the wooden shield and left a considerable gash. It was then that he saw the shield was covered in black runes—though he did not know the Deflect rune, he certainly felt it when he hit the shield. A deflected spear caught him in the shoulder and threw him off balance. He fell, cursing, only to find himself alone. The few remaining wolves had fled, abandoning him. Even his horse had galloped off, unwilling to stay a second longer in a losing battle. Two blows from the hammer struck his spine, leaving him numb, immobile.
Terrified, he begged for mercy. Chapatrueno approached to look him in the eyes. Before delivering the final blow, the last thing the unfortunate raid leader saw was a pair of eyes black as eternal night. Then, nothing.
The dwarf supervised the looting of the dead and the burial of their loved ones. Everyone watched him without giving thanks—he had involved himself in a fight he had not been asked to join. He said nothing, wiping his hammer clean as he surveyed the carnage. Over twenty dead wolves, weapons and armor for the goblins. But he could not stay any longer. He had a mission with the Dark Elves. Taking a smith's hammer that the mercenaries had carried, and working despite his exhaustion, he climbed back to his cave and announced from above: "In two months, I leave. Anyone who wants to make weapons and armor like the ones I carry will have to learn from me. The tribe will prepare food for a long journey. I will teach you, but you must be ready to become good smiths."
They looked at each other. Chapatrueno wondered with some unease if he would have to teach them his language when a couple of hands rose from among the youngest. He set them to work the fire. There was no time to waste if he wanted his vengeance fulfilled… and he wanted it badly.