“My people …” said Drugar softly, “my people are no more.”
“What? Make sense, damn it, Blackbeard!”
“He is,” said Rega. “Look at him! Blessed Thillia! He means his people are all dead!”
“Orn’s blood,” swore Paithan, in elven, with reverence.
“Is that it?” demanded Roland. “Is that the truth? Your people … dead?”
“Look at him!” Rega cried, almost hysterically.
Minds confused, blinded by their own fears, they had none of them really seen the dwarf. Eyes open, they saw that Drugar’s clothes were torn and stained with blood. His beard, of which he had always taken great care, was matted and tangled; his hair wild and uncombed. A large and ugly gash had opened the skin on his forearm, blood had dried on his forehead. His large hands fingered the ax.
“If we’d had the weapons,” said Drugar, his gaze fixed black and unblinking, on the shadows moving in the tunnels, “we could have fought them. My people would still be alive.”
“It isn’t our fault.” Roland raised both hands, palms outward. “We came as fast as we could. The elf”—he pointed at Paithan—“the elf was late.”
“I didn’t know! How was I supposed to know? It was that damn trail of yours, Redleaf, up and down hundred-foot cliffs that led us right into the bastards—”
“Oh, so now you’re going to blame it all on me—”
“Stop arguing!” Rega’s voice screeched. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is!
The only thing that matters is getting out of here!”
*
“Yes, you’re right,” said Paithan, calming down, subdued. “I must return and warn my people.”
“Bah! You elves don’t have to worry. My people will deal with these freaks!” Roland glanced at the dwarf and shrugged. “No offense, Blackbeard, old boy, but warriors—real ones, not a bunch who’ve been sawed off at the knees—won’t have any problem destroying the monsters.”
“What about Kasnar?” said Paithan. “What happened to the human warrior^ in that empire?”
“Peasants! Farmers.” Roland dismissed them with a gesture. “We Thillians are fighters! We’ve had experience.”
“In bashing each other, maybe. You didn’t look so great up there!”
“I was caught off-guard! What do you expect, elf? They were Elven Star on me before I could react. All right, so we won’t bring these giants down with one arrow, but I’ll guarantee you that when they’ve got five or six spears through those holes in their heads, they won’t be asking any more of their stupid questions about citadels!…”
, . . Where are the citadels?
The question reverberated through Drugar’s mind, beat and hammered and pounded, each syllable physically painful. From his vantage point in one of the myriad dwarven dwellings, Drugar stared down upon the vast moss plain where his father and most of his people had gone to meet the giant’s vanguard. No, vanguard wasn’t the correct word. A vanguard implies order, directed movement. To Drugar it appeared that this small group of giants had stumbled over the dwarves, coming across them by accident not design, taking a brief moment away from their larger quest to … ask directions?
“Don’t go out there. Father!” Drugar had been tempted to plead with the old man. “Let me talk to them if you insist on such folly! Stay behind, where it’s safe!”
But he knew that if he had said such words to his father, he might very well feel the lash of that walking stick across his back. And he would have had reason to beat me, Drugar admitted. He is, after all, king. And I should be at his side! ’ But he wasn’t.
“Father, order the people to stay indoors. You and I will treat with these—”
“No, Drugar. We are the One Dwarf. I am king, but I am only the head. The entire body must be present to hear and witness and share in the discussion. That is the way it has been since the time of our creation.” The old man’s face softened, saddened. “If this is, indeed, our end, let it be said that we fell as we lived—as one.”
The One Dwarf was present, streaming up out of their dwellings far beneath the ground, coming to stand on the vast moss plain that formed the roof of their city, blinking and winking and cursing the bright sunlight. In the excitement of welcoming their “brothers” whose huge bodies were almost the size of Drakar, the-dwarven god, the dwarves did not notice that many of their number stayed behind, standing near the entrance to their city.
Here Drugar had posted his warriors, hoping to be able to cover a retreat. The One Dwarf saw the jungle move onto the plain. Half-blinded by the unaccustomed sunlight, the dwarves saw the shadows between the trees or maybe even the trees themselves glide with silent feet onto the moss. Drugar squinted, staring hard, trying to count the giants’ numbers but it was like counting the leaves in the forest. Awed, appalled, he wondered fearfully how you fought something you couldn’t see.
With magic weapons, elven weapons, intelligent weapons that sought their prey, the dwarves might have had a chance. What must we do?
The voice in his head wasn’t threatening. It was wistful, sad, frustrated. Where is the citadel? What must we do?
The voice demanded an answer. It was desperate for an answer. Drugar experienced an odd sensation—for a brief moment, despite his fear, he shared the sadness of these creatures. He truly regretted not being able to help them.
“We have never heard of any citadels, but we will be glad to join you in your search, if you will—”
His father never had a chance to say another word. Moving silently, acting without apparent anger or malice, two of the giants reached down, grabbed the old dwarf in their large hands, and rent him asunder. They tossed the bloody pieces of the carcass to the ground casually, as one tossed aside garbage. Systematically, again without anger or malice, they started to kill. Drugar watched, appalled, helpless. His mind numbed by the horror of what he had witnessed and been unable to prevent, the dwarf acted on instinct, his body doing what he’d prepared it to do without conscious thought. Grabbing up a kurth hom, he put his lips to it and blew a loud, wailing blast, calling his people back to their dwellings, back to safety.
He and his warriors, some posted high in the trees, fired their arrows at the giants. The sharp wooden points, that could skewer the biggest human, bounced oft the duck hide of the giants. They treated the flights of arrows like flocks of stinging gnats, brushing them away with their hands when they could take time from their butchery to remove them.
The dwarves’ retreat was not panicked. The body was one—anything that happened to a single dwarf happened to all dwarves. They stopped to assist those who fell. The older lagged behind, urging the younger forward to safety. The strong carried the weak. Consequently, the dwarves were easy prey. The giants pursued them, caught them easily, destroyed them without mercy. The moss plain grew soggy with blood. Bodies lay piled on top of each other, some hung from trees into which they’d been hurled. Most had been battered beyond recognition.
Drugar waited until the last moment to seek safety, making certain that those few left alive on that ghastly plain made it back. Even then, he didn’t want to leave. Two of his men had to literally drag him down into the tunnels. Up above, they could hear the rending and breaking of tree limbs. Part of the “roof” of the underground city caved in. When the tunnel behind him collapsed, Drugar and what was left of his army turned to face their foe. There was no longer a need to run to reach safety. No safety existed.