"Killing those lizards was easy—easier than this, at least." The voice sounded annoyed, also weak. I imagined the distance from where it was communicating was very great and heavily laden with residual magic. Even receiving the message as if it were the complaint of some disinterested, banal person, I knew it was not. The voice belonged to the Dark Lord, which meant he was under great strain.
Over the last few nights, I had received dreams—I imagined Lilith had too—where our lord informed us of his progress in entering the castle. Many of the protections required long elven readings, or using his magic to energize the runes of doors and locks. The magics he sent us were so we could use his knowledge. For example, that last one he used against the false lizards—I did not think it existed. A great explosion, then each non-incinerated fragment, still burning, spun around the user, providing armor that dealt great damage while protecting. I still felt in my hands the tension of his sword when he cut off the last creature's head. He asked that some dead controlled by Lilith be sent to recover the scales, which could mean a great improvement for the keep. Here, facing a civil rebellion, they were not even good for breakfast.
Upon waking, I faced the usual problems—nothing to envy any mayor (which I was not). We went out to breakfast—a mushroom stew, sometimes with the meat of some mole they found. From there, giving instructions on how to prepare defenses, detect their forces, how to use their own magic. Then two hours teaching smithing techniques to the youngest. There were still no quality materials. Wood for the forge was nonexistent. Coal and peat were all we had, but we could not waste them. Until we obtained better minerals, we heated the forge with heat enchantments. They depleted them, but they took turns—while one improved their magic handling, another worked on smithing. The defenses, composed of women and the elderly, prevented the mercenaries from entering. That was what we had been doing for four months, because the real threat was not at the front—it was in the mines.
I understood this when we were at the only open tavern. Everyone was celebrating. Mole meat and even a pig they had protected were enjoyed. I was in a dark corner, analyzing everything. Most felt happy. With weapons, entering the mines would no longer be a matter of luck. Yet before, it was not either. I remembered that we entered with a piece of stone in each hand, and at least water and mushrooms could be obtained without suffering more. When I asked why no one was extracting iron from the mines, why it seemed everyone was locked up here in Rocaceleste, the party ended. They began whispering—all about uncles, grandparents, children awaiting them in the shadows, in the deepest parts of the mines where only our eyes, strained to the limit, could distinguish another passage. Materials for lamps were expensive, oil even more so. The idea of using torches in a tunnel like humans did terrified us—we would run out of air! Our tunnels were not large—holes of one meter and a half at most—but occasionally they opened into wide galleries. That was where we placed our dead after cleaning the veins of interesting minerals. There, the first attacks occurred.
The people were no longer drunk. That night, no one else tasted beer. It was a moment of release. They explained that things had been difficult—at least as I remembered them. But what was truly bad occurred once the dead added to the problems. Suddenly, even going to the water wells or gathering mushrooms could be a journey without return. The dead did not abandon the area at least, but unlike hobgoblins or some of the predatory beasts—after all, the mines contained hundreds of enemies for dwarves—these were not so easy to eliminate. Not when you slid a hundred meters on your knees to reach a possible cave, only to discover that someone had buried their family there, or some adventurer who had died long ago, whose remains awaited you with a putrid beard and an expression of hatred in their eye sockets.
From there, things went from bad to worse. The king continued with this custom of robbery. Since there was nothing to produce with, little by little they stripped citizens of their utensils, of food, of hope. But if we wanted to face the reprisals, we would need more material. I told myself that day. I explained it to everyone in the following days. No one objected. Now only the most experienced were outside—armed, with the knowledge I gave them to eliminate the various threats, with determination. Meanwhile, I faced the few mercenary troops who came with the gleam of greed upon my hammer. I faced them all, took their armor and weapons, eliminated the judge who always came with them. The armor we recycled into weapons. Thus, little by little, we improved the quality of our defense. All the dwarves, besides being red-skinned from eating these "poverty mushrooms," had begun to tattoo runes like on my armor. The young understood how, and some were already beginning to use magic shields. They did not last long, but they preferred them so they could have a steel weapon. For this, we did use some of their coal reserves, but since they were so miserable, they needed to bring more from the mines.
As the day progressed, I kept checking everything. The Night Elf informed me at night of the movements of all enemies—not the ones outside, but the few merchants who paid mercenaries to protect them. They did not look kindly on me giving things away for free. I was sure they would seek to get something in return by informing on me. So I was not surprised to feel a breeze behind me—and her disturbing forest scent. Curiously, I did not like the forest, but somehow she reminded me there was something outside this madness. She said in a low voice that there were guests. With a gesture of boredom, I asked if they were more mercenaries. She said no—it was an invitation. I had better go.
In front of the plaza, a dwarf in clean, elegant clothes awaited me—fragile was the word that came to mind. He handed me an envelope and ran off. On the wrapping, in gold letters, was the invitation I expected. With pompous words: "Master Smith Chapatrueno" and ending with "Your most affectionate Son of Platinum, secretary of King Gold Mountain the Third." While everyone was excited, for me it was a sensation of imminent crisis. But I would not miss it for anything. Finally, I would meet the impostor king.