It's his turn on watch again. It's one of the rare moments he has to be alone with his thoughts. His people aren't known for being frivolous with their time. Their waking hours are utilized carving a living – carving their very cities – into the mountains themselves. Their delving has brought them safe homes and great riches, which are traded with the surface-dwellers for the few things they can not get below ground. They are hard-working and, together, they have achieved great renown.
“Together”. That's the word his thoughts now focus on. 'Together. They don't understand what a waste of energy it is to constantly worry about what everyone else is doing and when they should do it.' He thinks; his heavy brow furrowing. 'If they would have just let me do things my own way, they could see the advantage in it as they, too, would have the time to perfect their own endeavors.'
His thick, rough hands caress the large boulder on which he is perched. It's an absent-minded action: The feeling of cold, hard stone brings him calm. The still-foreign sensations of being above-ground and surrounded by forest – with its strange, sweet smells and constant noises – are things he's learned to tolerate. The worst is the open sky, hiding like a great upside-down pit, far above the forest canopy. The constant feeling you may fall up and never stop.
'At least it's now the time of night', he thinks. 'No infernal light from the sun to keep me from seeing clearly.' And seeing is what he is supposed to be doing, he sternly reminds himself; and hearing. For the remainder of this hour, their captain has given him the responsibility of overseeing their safety. “We have almost caught up to the goblin rabble and they are near,” the captain had said. “Be vigilant. If they wonder what happened to their rear guard, they may backtrack.”
He had great respect for the captain. It was he who saw the usefulness of individual skill and prowess. It was he who saw that his controlled rage was not a problem, but an asset, and had recruited him two years ago to be his apprentice and join his team of giant-hunters.
“I will be vigilant, captain,” he had confidently responded. “They will not enter our encampment on my watch!”
He relished his exploits with this seasoned team of giant-hunters. Oh, it wasn't always giants they hunted. Their were other races that roamed the surface and threatened trade between the dwarves and the other decent races who chose to dwell above-ground. He recalled how the orcs and hobgoblins were formidable fighters; large and strong. And, of course, there were the goblins, like the ones they had been tracking for almost two weeks. He found them to be a frustrating foe. They hadn't attacked with brute strength, like the larger races. The goblins attacked in numbers, swarming their enemies and attempting to drag them to the ground. It was why the dwarven warriors trained from day-one to use their low center-of-gravity to remain standing. If they were to die, it would be while fighting, not while pinned to the ground and torn to pieces.
The rustle of leaves at the edge of their small clearing pulls his mind back to the present. He stands brazenly upon his stone perch and peers into the darkness. It wasn't really dark to him. From generations of living below-ground, his race had developed their eyes to see up to 20 paces even when there was no light at all. There it is, the cause of the rustling: Some small, furry creature waddling through the underbrush. He relaxes, squatting back down and watches the creature as it wanders off. His hand remains gripping his axe just below its double-bladed head.
With his ears and eyes trained on his surroundings, his mind drifts back almost two weeks to when they had caught up with the goblins. They had found the goblin rear-guard easily. They were such noisy and undisciplined creatures. Still, they had heard the dwarves' approach and had rushed headlong and mob-like into their midst. Their surprise lost, the dwarves counter-charged, great axes and hammers swinging. Recalling how he had felt, he could feel his body warm as his blood began to race, just as it had during the small battle. He had allowed himself to become lost in the frenzy of instinct and watched, almost from outside his body, as his massive dwarven axe slid through goblin bone and flesh; the charging goblins impaled on the spikes of his heavy round shield. Time had seemed to slow, and yet, seemed to race at the same time. He had felt like a volcano: As solid as the earth, yet deadly and unyielding to everything within reach. The feeling was empowering. In those moments, he knew deep down that he needed no one at his side to achieve victory.
Only when it was over and every last goblin warrior lay dead about them, did he realize he had been wounded. Nothing serious; some claw marks on his legs and a spear tip had partially pierced his chain mail shirt. Still, once the fighting was over, he was fatigued from the exertion of putting all of himself into the brutal and bloody task. The pain from his wounds always seemed a bit amplified when he got that tired. Yet, it did not distract him. He had been hurt and tired before, often because he pushed himself harder than most, and he would be hurt again.
No, what had bothered him was the damage to his chain mail. There were only a few broken links and it was easily repairable. But he treasured this armor. The captain – his master – had it master-crafted for him, personally. It represented the captain's faith in his abilities and was, therefore, a great source of pride. He smiles broadly now, as he remembers how he had their group's armor-smith repair it before he had allowed their cleric to heal the wounds to his flesh.
His ears catch rustling in the underbrush again. Different this time, though. Something heavier...and with two feet!
Without thought, he releases the thrilling fury from inside him and roars loudly as he leaps from the boulder, his heavy boots carrying him quickly towards the sound. He is dimly aware that his companions all around him – sleeping deeply and snoring a moment earlier – are already rolling onto their feet, weapons in hand. He can hear the captain's booming voice beside him, issuing well-rehearsed commands to the men. At the same time, the forest all around them spews forth dozens of goblins, their high-pitched screams and the stench of their unwashed bodies filling the air.
The empowering feeling returns and time once again slows. He knows his eyes have gone wild and he can feel the tightness in his face from the maniacal grin now adorning it. He knows it because, even though the goblins attack with ferocity, he can see their hesitation when looking upon him. He laughs aloud in the knowledge that this visage will be the last thing they see in this world.
His axe and spiked shield slice, pierce and crush goblin after goblin, but their numbers do not seem to diminish. He finds comfort in this. It means he doesn't have to stop his rage and this feeling will continue.
Suddenly, he feels himself pulled backwards and almost off his feet. 'Too strong to be a goblin,' he thinks. Then he hears the captain's voice from behind him. “There are too many. I will not lose you to them. You must run.”
“Run!?” He repeats. Not believing what he is hearing. He is their fastest runner, but he has always run forward, never away. He struggles to free himself from the captain's iron grip, but to no avail. He is dragged, fighting, past the boulder from where he had stood his watch and finally to the precipice that was supposed to be the safe side of their encampment.
The captain turns him around, gripping his shoulders tightly and urgently saying, “This is a losing battle, my worthy apprentice. We will all die here, but not before destroying as many as we are able. I am ready for this glorious death, but I will not have it tainted by seeing you die prematurely. Go, achieve great renown, so that when your time comes, your death will be a glorious one.” Before he can find words to respond, the captain speaks again. “I know you are as tough as forged iron and this little tumble will cause you little harm. Fare you well, and speak of us who died here.”
He suddenly finds himself tumbling head-over-heels off the precipice and down the steep decline. His mind reeling more than his spinning body. Once at the bottom, he immediately finds his feet and claws in a vain attempt to climb the slope, ignoring the pain from the minor injuries of the fall and the wounds sustained during the battle above.
Then it hits him: He can feel the pain. He is fatigued. His body has given its all and willpower is no longer enough to get him back up and into the fight. He screams defiantly, and continues to scream, his voice weakening from the exertion. He screams his anguish and defiance at the unseen faces above: At the captain – his hero and mentor – for putting him here, and at the cursed goblins for taking the lives of his comrades and friends. Finally, the sounds of battle diminish and the cries of his companions are replaced by the celebratory voices of the goblins, he accepts his fate and moves off into the woods. The goblins won't follow him. The slope will keep them from him as much as it keeps him from them.
But he is a dwarf and will live for many decades. He vows out loud, “Listen to me, Moradin, god of my people. I swear to you this: That I will spend my days doing what I swore to help my master do. I will be a Giant-Hunter and I will do it my own way. The number of dwarves lost today will pale in comparison to the havoc I shall bring to all the evil races that threaten my Clan's way of life.”
With these words spoken and etched in his heart; with nothing but his axe, shield and precious chain mail shirt, the sound of his boots fade into the night.
mood:  creative |
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ragnvaldr's journal
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