The destruction unfolded without ceremony. There was no harmony, no orders that mattered, no logic or common sense. They were stupid mercenaries looking to kill. They did not ask why they were being paid to invade a forest that no one cared about before. They would receive money for objects the Night Elves kept, for ears of their enemies, for the heads of their leaders—and I made sure that was not easy!
I could see the panorama from all sides. Inside the forest, the enormous mushroom stalks hid enemies and allies alike. The reports they read or shouted in haste gave me strength to keep hammering at the forge. The shields came out little by little. The armor with rivets and the helmets were being made imitating my techniques. They were not yet close to what I could do with a little iron, but at least they were not only protected by magical resistance. There was a +5 defense against physical damage. Yet I could hear the screams of agony of the dead, of those wounded with their stomachs split open by a sword or with limbs severed by axes. But there were more screams and curses from those who had entered unknown terrain, loaded with ambition for the rewards, not distinguishing the various creatures that had taken refuge here. Not only because it was a forest where a manticore would not be attacked, but because there was magic there—magic they had not felt in the plains, in the mountains, and in the forests. For creatures limited to their physical strength, being able to use magical fire again, petrifying wounds, poisons, not to mention their camouflage abilities, it was understandable that they sought to defend this bastion. And they defended it—I was sure of that. This was a dream.
My body tensed at admitting the fact. I knew what came next. I did not want it to happen, but there was little I could do. Suddenly, a horrible amount of released magic was felt, and then something unpleasant, sickening. Something had happened. The Dark Lord did not want us to accompany him. We could not go if we expected to find anyone alive upon our return. Lilith was in charge of driving enemies to desertion. If necessary, she could kill many, but she preferred they not fight. I prepared and repaired the armor as soon as they brought it to me. But Lilith's scream, her magical field expanding so fast, blocking the passage of all those without abilities above +10 magical resistance—seeing many of the enemies thrown out of the forest was something akin to admiration for the enormous power the Queen of the Succubi possessed. But I had no time to celebrate. If the previous dreams were correct, now it begins.
It was a fire, burning from the belly. The whining howl accused me of having killed people, of having killed his children. I shouted back, told him they were vicious people who, taking refuge in the appearance of the sacred, killed and harmed everything nature had given life, not to mention the creatures the elves created. While this happened, he screamed that I was punished for denying him. In that moment, I saw everyone—the dead, the living taking a breath. I was running to find the Dark Lord when a human crossed my path. A very slow sword. Without thinking, without seeing clearly, I struck a mace blow to the solar plexus—not very strong. I did not want to kill him if possible. Perhaps he was a novice who had arrived somehow. But the hammer broke his ribs. I could hear it with terrifying clarity. It sounded loud, surpassing the screams of an offended god, surpassing the beats of my heart. Then, amid that silence, a groan—guttural. The creature had not even fallen. He raised his sword, and I could see he no longer had the other arm. An arrow in the neck was something dwarves did not appreciate in a human fifty centimeters taller than them. I covered myself with my shield. The sword strike rebounded without problems, but I felt the blow was very heavy—heavier than what could be delivered at that speed. Yet it was not the only thing getting up. The screams had turned from attack to terror.
From there, I did not remember much. None of the organizations, the defenses, the evacuation of troops, the hundreds of fallen warriors, the countless corpses rising from their graves—not only from this battle started by greed, but from centuries of dead species, of elves annihilated by their own kind, of species that no longer existed on our continent. Were it not for the keep's shields and that many of the elves began to climb the trees, only I would have survived. Yet during this dream, the god Phaladine took pains to make me wish I had not. He showed me all the skeletal claws emerging from the earth, all the men and women attacked by their dead comrades, me running like a madman, not looking to see if I could help anyone or anything, just a small bundle shining in black. He did not show me my fights. I was sure he wanted me to feel bad, so all the blood, all the agony was displayed for me. There was so much suffering I wanted to wake up, but I did not—not because he was keeping me in the dream, but because I was looking for answers.
The sun hit me behind my eyelids. It was a beautiful morning. Yet I could not appreciate it—I had only one desire. I cursed that so-called god of justice, then drank from my waterskin. The wine diminished the taste of fear in my mouth a little. The nightmare—which was not truly a nightmare since it actually happened—faded a little with the dawn. I was near the mountains. Thanks to Lilith, I could leave the keep—she used a kind of shield that repelled the undead within a five-hundred-meter radius. I would gladly have gone for the Wolf Clan, who had abandoned all the humans traveling with them as cannon fodder to their fate. But I could not—not after the messenger who arrived before we deployed our forces to annihilate all the undead in the surroundings and recover the villages that had been founded. It reached my ears that a badly wounded dwarf was in the southern part of the keep. He spoke, but no one understood his language. When I went to him, he was agonizing on a straw mattress at the entrance. His armor was a disaster. His words in Dwarvish were not understood by the elves. He kept saying, "Bring the leader of the wolves, or the elves—we are dying in the mines... the dead are annihilating us." Without telling anyone a word, I left the keep. I recognized the inscriptions on the armor. Tracking, I found other comrades of the fallen one. Some were already rising. I had to eliminate them, give them rest. Further back, I found the cargo. They were carrying more than forty ores of black iron and several magic-amplifying jewels. Such an expensive and rare mineral, combined with all these precious stones, could only have come from the mines where I was born... Even though I sought vengeance for my son's death, I could not let all those poor bastards die without a fight.
At least I did not leave without good news. Our lord was alive, very wounded from the battle. For the moment, he had not regained consciousness, but the Queen of the Succubi was already taking matters into her own hands, learning magics that could eliminate those scum instead of crushing them into a bloody pulp. It pained me to admit it, but Lilith would be a much better support for the Dark Lord. I used the ores to teach the elite elf warriors to prepare their armor, to give an iron bath to enchanted wood, to have a better chance against whatever awaited them. I carried some provisions and finally set out for the Black Mountain—home of those poor dead dwarves, my birthplace.