The battles were being won. Little by little, peace breathed in the caverns since the new king took possession. My people's tasks as the cornerstone of this liberation were small, but for that very reason, they represented the most important. As the new leader of the dwarves of Rocaceleste, I, Caliza, had to bring these conversations to a good end.
I was close to Java—the quintessential city among all, except for the king's. We dwarves admired the beautiful works made with the jade veins found at the beginning, before the Thunder Clan took the entire city for themselves. Rocaceleste was child's play, more because we did enjoy the backing of a being as powerful as Lord Chapatrueno, who insisted on being normal, but for publicity measures, he accepted. The procedure with the other cities was simple. We arrived, identified the bands of all the mercenaries living there, fought for their things—their weapons mainly—and when they were just fellows suffering with their dented armor and the referee fleeing, seeking reinforcements, we brought that scum to the main square. There, we offered weapons to every dwarf with nothing in their hands but the determination to keep living. We gave them what they needed. None asked for armor. None gave clemency. None killed. But the damage to bodies, bones, and muscles—after two weeks of battles, each village had its people armed, the mercenaries annihilated, and the referees facing a crowd that saw all the partialities they made and how they took advantage of them. Few of those could be found, I feared. That was the fate of those who took advantage of us.
The cities were not anarchist—at least, I was sure of that. We always left wise people in charge of guiding everyone in new modes of commerce. For the moment, stop seeking to be rich; first, families' needs must be satisfied. Schools reopened. There, all those who had lost arms, eyes, legs—in short, those who could no longer fight, or the very elderly—took education very seriously. Artisans were transmitting their arts, hidden for centuries. Smiths, cooks—all those who taught also had facilities to practice. But none of them stopped being survivors, so it was not surprising that they kneaded dough and then used practice axes during rest periods or while waiting for the oven to show how much they were learning.
But this city was different. Here, all were entrenched—mercenaries, master merchants, mages, and soldiers who opposed losing their positions of power. We were more than five thousand dwarves, but assaulting a fortress without using siege weapons was difficult. Worse now that we did not have our mentor. He had gone to pursue all those hiding in the mines—including the dead and all those creatures he called "Chaos Spawn," similar to the others but toxic, inedible. Adding that they were resistant and very violent, I preferred he be the one to clear those tunnels. I hoped he was still alive when he returned.
When I opened my eyes, it seemed I had been asleep for a long time. But the pain in my belly reminded me we were still at war. I had barely arrived at the entrance of Java when they began launching enchantments. Their weapons shot arrows, their mouths insults. Nothing allowed me to be heard. Hatred, fear, and the courage to attack us unprotected was typical. But this time, I did come out injured. I was sure I had remained out of their range. I only wanted to tell them it was important we negotiate. This city was made up of millionaires and workers from various guild leaders. No one was held by force, but they would not leave. Outside that city, the economy was one of survival. That was why they thought to defend it. We were only interested in establishing trade contracts. When I say we, I fear I speak for my village and a few more. The rest had suffered much under their rulings; they sought their bodies. I was the only one who could defend them, but I could not get up. I had a crossbow bolt hole in my guts. They had taken me out before I could save them from themselves.
I looked out and saw exactly what I feared. Dwarves were tough. But when we lived hunting and gathering the mushrooms of poverty, we hardened our spirits as much as our muscles. Now everything came together, and the berserker dwarves used their agility to avoid attacks. If that failed, they had Harden—simple magic that provided magical and physical damage resistance. It could be used for a long time, not on weapons, but it made them easier to control. Right now, I saw an old dwarf—over one hundred eighty years old—running like mad. His double axes covered him from shots to the face. Some of the emboldened dwarves had opened slits in the wall to shoot at those who approached. It was a terrible mistake. In that slit, a hand covered with chainmail and gloves would not fit, but the old man's thin hand entered easily, and whatever it found, it began to pull—beards, ears, teeth, anything. But he was not stupid. Berserkers were fearsome, but they believed they attacked without noticing anything around them. That was not true—they saw and used their experience. That old man did this so they would try to aim. When they tried, one of his hands already gripped a thin knife—something that did not exist in ordinary dwarven ranks. It was made from a corrupted serpent's fang—thin, sharp, and exuding venom. The impact against the crossbow and its tip burst the tooth, which spilled venom that evaporated on contact with the air. I almost felt happy before a stone thrown from above crushed his skull.
Thus the battle continued. For every weapon destroyed, every axe that shattered shields and helmets, every mace blow on the door, one of ours fell. I tried to coordinate them, but they were so full of rage they barely listened to me. The bodies of hundreds, not thousands, of ours already lay on the ground. Yet Java had not come out as well as they expected. Their weapons did not expect to break stone on the first try, but the impacts affected their hinges. A door like that would not fall broken, but if they kept at it, the fastenings would loosen, the supports would break, and everything would fall. That, added to all the ranged weapons that had broken—not counting the archers who wielded them—soon they would have to come out to defend themselves. That was when they would fall. Suddenly, horrendous screams came from inside their city. The cries for pity and mercy were so loud that even our ranks retreated a little. As best I could, I got up. My tent was in the highest part of the cavern's entrance. From there, I could not see the city's interior, but I could see its warriors, who had stopped attacking us and were now shooting inward.
As best I could, I gave orders. We withdrew and stayed to recover weapons, bodies, and shields. I carried my hammer, even though I was not good at this. I had offered my oath to protect the dwarves. At that moment, we saw the door—double-leafed, weighing several tons of solid rock—break. Something very large was striking from inside. Just as I began to tremble, another impact knocked off a very large piece of the door. In that instant, someone began signaling us. From here, I could not see well, but I thought that dwarf was the governor of Java. But I could not see more—his golden armor became a blur. Something caught him, and from his powerful leap, he fell into the esplanade. It was horrible. While the governor asked for help for his people, with blood in his mouth, with resignation in his eyes, the animal looked at us with a stupid expression. It did not know about politics or distinctions of dwarven duties toward others. It was just hungry and, distractedly, tore the governor apart with its powerful jaws. It measured four meters, dark brown, with predator claws. But it had not caused the noise—something kept tearing down the defense that was now ours. Most had already launched to attack; they knew who it was, the evil it harbored, the gluttony. That was a young earth dragon, so lethal that even one of that age could destroy entire cities.
The door burst and crumbled. From inside, several eyes gleamed with anticipation. I did not believe in gods, but I believed they hated us if they existed. The mother of the earth dragons, Gaia, was coming with her litter. We were her dinner. They had come through the mine and the water wells, with skin as hard as the purest steel and as mean as stale beer. I did not know what to do. The Overlord had only asked me to take care of my people. I had done that. I had tried... but it was not enough. Now there was no time for failure. I had to gather our forces. Once done, I would ask everyone to take refuge in nearby villages. We would flee as we promised never to do! But these were assassins so ruthless they would not eat all their enemies, but so that no one would eat them, they would bathe them in their feces. My father did not raise Caliza to be shit on by a dragon. We would run and regroup. To have a chance, they would have to trust each other. If my people must survive, they must!