"...he is your lord—do not kill him!"
What? Little by little, I returned to seeing. The last minutes, I only saw those black lines—they were annoying; they had to be destroyed. But they were gone. Now I could only see the gloom—a small light in the distance. That and fatigue. I could feel the fatigue.
I was sure I had been moved. The heat that had kept me active now immobilized me. I was a burnt log—I burned with fury, burned my enemies. But now I was ashes. Suddenly, I was in the cave where I had fought the dragon. But knowing I had won gave me no satisfaction. I was empty. Yet the flames inside me still burned—I was hot, very hot. I had asked for water, mead, beer—anything to take away the feeling of breathing fire. Hands covered in blisters gave me several liquids, but it did not work. I felt the vapors—my body was so hot it evaporated any attempt to cool me. I feared I was dying.
I regained consciousness—I was a little better. I was surrounded by luxurious installations. I lay on the stone floor, but the texture was very smooth—it was some wealthy person's house. Above me was Moon Reflection. His black body was cold. When he touched me, some of the burning diminished. Then he withdrew his hand, and the heat was less but still unbearable.
I tried to tell him to stop, but no words came from my cracked lips. Drops of sweat beaded on this elf's forehead—or was it an elf? He had always seemed very masculine to me, but he had been there to support, even now. I should thank him—if I survived.
A sharp pain jolted me from my stupor. Something had just been torn from my hand—it hurt, a lot. So I was not dead yet. I half raised my head—there was that elf. He had just removed one of my gauntlets and the forearm protection. There, I could see the spikes. I never thought that once I used them, I would have to remove them. But they came out with flesh—my cooked skin. The elf continued applying ice magic. It relieved my body, but it was not enough. He lacked the power to achieve what he intended.
I had fainted a couple of times. But I always heard his voice. It calmed me—said I was suffering injuries because my body temperature was very high, that he had already reduced it to sixty degrees, but I kept generating more heat. So he had removed all my armor. He had already healed most of the wounds my method of staying upright had caused me. Man! Definitely not the best idea, but I had to. My brothers were dying from ignorance or fear—now neither was necessary. They would only have to grow.
I woke up, and even my eyes felt dry. Without realizing it, Moon Reflection had poured water on my face. When I looked again, I noticed he was also naked. He was a child, but his body was more blue than black. He hugged me. A delicious cold rose everywhere. It seemed incredible he could generate constant cold. I tried to speak, and for the first time, a growl escaped my lips. He turned to look at me with adoration in his eyes. He had tears. As my eyes managed to see a little better, I discovered he was covered in bloody blisters—all over... Of course! It was likely that to regulate the fire burning me, he had to absorb that heat. I tried to push him away—he could not continue like this; he would die. But he only smiled and told me that if I survived, no sacrifice was too great.
I did not know how many hours we continued like this. I still lost consciousness at times. But while awake, he told me everything—how he met me, followed my steps, drank his reserves of potion made from Dark Forest mushrooms. In his eyes, the marks of age were already appearing. I supposed the abusive use of magic was costing him a high price. But each time I tried to push him off, he clung tighter, spoke to me tenderly, asked me to wait just a few more hours—that the crisis had passed; I had survived. I asked if my lord was well. He said yes—that he had managed to save the dragon's child. But many dwarves died when the mountain rose... truth be told, I did not fully understand what he meant. But knowing I had not killed it gave me great comfort. And if I had also saved a creature from such a horrible fate, it was worth it.
I slept—this time with much peace. When I woke, I noticed that even the pain of losing my son had almost faded. I feared my days as the one who brings death were over. To face the dragon, I sacrificed my feelings. I remembered my son and barely recalled him—my wife, the people of Rocaceleste, all dead but strangers to me. None pained me. I felt empty except for the gratitude I had for that elf. Moon Reflection—no doubt he felt great affection for me. It was strange, I supposed, but as brave as few of the beings inhabiting this continent.
I woke and saw him again. He was asleep, exhausted. Beneath the mountains, you could not tell the hour. But I no longer felt the heat that had embraced me. I tried to move my hand—it obeyed but took time. I brushed his face—rougher than I thought, perhaps due to the burns. But he did not complain; he smiled. I tried to touch his hair, but there was none there. I feared that to be more effective, he had removed the effect over his hair, and it burned. I ran my hand over his scalp—my fingers looked clumsy compared to the elf's fineness. I owed much to this elf.
I was awakened by torches—dozens of them, all belonging to an entourage. The king, I feared. He was shouting—a lot. He spoke of destruction, of the evil I brought to the mountain, of the death of so many merchants, that they gave me shelter only because I killed the dragon. But because of me, the mountain had shaken, and now we were far above the sky. I did not fully understand, but I supposed something bad happened from eliminating a creature of its size and importance. I wanted to speak, but the shouting in the hall would not allow it. They did not listen to me. They asked him to leave me in the hall—they would pass judgment. Moon Reflection did not want to, but there were a dozen well-armed dwarves plus the king. So he returned to where he left his clothes and began to dress. When he turned his back to me, I finally saw how he managed to keep the ice magic going so long. He did not protect his back. He placed as much cold as he could on his body, but he also removed as much heat as his abilities allowed. He expelled it all through his back—that was why he was bald. If the front had blisters, the back was a disaster zone—pieces of burned muscle, wrinkled skin, layers of raw flesh, bone showing in other areas. With slow steps, he walked to the exit. Now I was in trouble.
Things happened as I thought—this was not a trial; it was an execution. With my armor at the entrance, with no magic to call my maul, with no strength to even stand, I listened. It was all nonsense. He accused me of everything from rebellion to damage to the commerce and housing of the wealthiest leaders. He insisted he would proceed to eliminate all resistance points, that he took into consideration the elimination of the dragon but that it was not enough—I had to pay for my crimes. He drew his knife—an excellent piece, topped with soul gems... Damn you! You were sold out! The people who died were because you did not have the courage to face the Lich. The king stammered a little but recovered. With a forced laugh, he asked where I got such ideas. I told him the soul gem was an elven creation—we dwarves never used those pieces because they are created from living beings, not from what we find in the mines.
Everyone was paralyzed. The guards, however faithful, knew what we suffered at the hands of the dead enemies. The king turned red, began to insult me. His councilor, whom I had not seen before—small with a great beard—asked him to let him investigate. The arrogant child lost his head and began demanding my death. He ordered the soldiers to come for me. No one listened. They looked at me, waiting for confirmation. With fatigue, I could only nod. Several lowered their weapons. One thing was protecting the most important of your leaders; another was knowing he was responsible for your brother's death, or your wife's—things that overwhelmed any dwarf.
Suddenly, I saw a golden blur. The king, out of his mind, came running. He wanted to kill me. My hands barely moved. I did not want to die, but I had avenged my people as much as I could. I supposed nothing more could be asked of me. Probably it was for the best—I would be a martyr. The soldiers could have doubts; I hoped it would help my people be governed by someone fairer. If I died, if I went to the place that Phaladine promised, I would keep fighting there. Vengeance would not be only earthly.
The edge was very close. But suddenly, a shadow covered it. Beautiful eyes looked at me. Their tears fell on my beard. Those eyes asked me not to die—there was still much to do, much to avenge. If I achieved a just place across the continent, then I could leave. He would wait for me on the other side. His last words were a whisper.
"I love you, Chapatrueno."
The king kept stabbing. Everyone took a few seconds to react. Several guards pulled him off. He had lost his head—his crown rolled on the floor. He did not care. He insulted me and the elf, said that aberration who loved people of the same gender had to die too, that I had betrayed my species, my people, and my king. I felt it boiling inside me—my interior woke up. Even though it hurt, it was a reminder that I was alive. I raised my hand and felt the runes flow. The maul flew, unstoppable. Its destination was my hand—its familiar weight. My bones were still damaged, but not my resolve. I was not to die yet. So naked, burned, wounded but determined, I got up and made the king retreat. He drew his axe, clad in his golden armor—so iconic of my race, so wrong. He shouted for them to defend him. I asked them not to move. This was not a lynching—this was a battle. I told the king to his face that I challenged him. He asked what I wanted, while I charged at him, shouting:
"I fight for your life! Your kingdom is mine!"