By the time Tiegran made it up near the main gate, hundreds of men had already formed into tight columns in front of it. Daritus ranged up and down the ranks shouting out the glory of Druindahl and Havenstahl. Even limping the man appeared invincible.

Tarturan grabbed a hold of Tiegran’s arm and tugged him into the formation shouting, “You are with me. We fight until we have no fight left.”

The columns grew as men poured in from every direction. By the time the steady current of bodies rushing up the hill or from the castle or the trees surrounding the road up to the main gate slowed, more than three thousand men stood ready to fight with at least one hundred more on horseback. Some were grizzled men with years of battle reflecting in their hardened stares. Others were green, new recruits with fear in their eyes and innocence in their hearts. Tiegran thought back to his first battle. It had not been that long ago, and he remembered the feeling all too well, the fear in the eyes of those green recruits. It was nothing like what he felt standing in front of the gate at Havenstahl next to Tarturan. A chill of excitement shot up his spine. I have goosebumps. He nearly laughed out loud.

He looked over at Tarturan whose smile was just as big and shouted, “For Havenstahl!”

It nearly brought tears to his eyes when the group of soldiers formed up with him replied, “For Havenstahl!”

“For Druindahl,” he shouted back at them.

“For Druindahl,” they answered.

Tarturan let out a war cry as his heavy hand gave Tiegran’s shoulders a stiff pat. The crowd responded in kind. Tiegran hoped the giants could hear them. He hoped they knew Havenstahl would never surrender. As long as one man drew breath, they would fight until the Lake called them home.

Tiegran finally caught Daritus’ eye through the crowed. The general, the legend, gave him a wide smile and nodded. Tiegran shouted with all his might, “For Ouloos!”

The crowd answered, “For Ouloos!”

Then Daritus called the command, “Charge!”

Uneasiness swept over him as he neared the main gate of the small village. It was too quiet. There should have been something, a child playing or a man coming home late for the feast. Something. Anything. There was nothing. The entire town appeared asleep. Warily, he continued.

As he approached the first hut within the main gate, he noticed the door had been smashed in. He slowly strode inside. The stench of rotting flesh hung in the air. It seized him immediately when he entered and tugged at his attention while he quickly surveyed the room. One body, the body of a man of relatively large stature, lay sprawled out across a table occupying the center of the room. A large chunk was missing out of the poor bloke’s neck. The wound was rather dry and the corpse’s skin quite pale as if the body had been drained of all its blood. ‘Amatilazo’, he thought. A woman’s body lay curled around that of a small child in the corner. Her head lay a few feet from the rest of her. Her face grabbed his attention. It was frozen in a look of terror like none he’d ever seen in his short life. He looked back to her body still clinging to her baby’s lifeless carcass. He considered their embrace for a moment, frozen in death. She died trying to protect her own. Perhaps she could have escaped as her husband was being drained of his life’s blood, but she didn’t. Instead, she gave of herself in a desperate attempt to save her child. It was a completely selfless action. How strong must be the love of a mother.

His thoughts drifted to his conversation with Ymitoth about his own mother. He learned early on she died shortly after he was born. He didn’t have any details about her demise, but he knew he spent no time with her. He wondered if she had ever held him the way the courageous woman lying in front of him clung to her child. Did she ever cradle him in her arms, brush his hair back and sing to him? Ymitoth said she had a song sweeter than a chorus of songbirds. Had he ever heard that song? If he had he would never be able to recollect, as he would have been but a babe. A strange emptiness began in his belly as if there were a hole right through his mid-section. His head swam as dizziness swept through it and he thought he might lose his feet. He stumbled out of the hut and fell to the ground in a heap. If only there were someone to embrace him, someone to tell him everything was all right. His eyes burned as they filled up, but he fought back the tears. He struggled back to his feet. ‘Feeling sorry for yourself won’t do any good,’ he thought. He pushed back against the hopeless, empty feeling threatening to consume him and forced himself to move on.

Maelich leaned against the mighty oak crowning Keller’s Hill. The spot was a favorite of his, a place to ponder both days gone by and days yet to come. This particular occasion was similar to most. After a full day of rigorous training his mind often had a tendency to chase concepts rather than relive memories or form new ideas. Of all the concepts he mulled over while leaning against the rough bark of the great oak, mother earned the lion’s share of his attention. Of course, he knew what the concept meant. He simply had no experience with one. His died shortly after he was born. All he had were stories, and they were vague at best. There was something about a young woman and a great power. None of it was anything tangible. Nothing more than loose concepts and generic ideals.

“Hey there, lad,” Ymitoth’s voice shattered the quiet. “It be time for your feeding.”

Maelich waved his response, collected himself, and tromped on down the hill. Pink clouds caught his attention, painted by the sun setting behind him. He must have lost track of the hour. His stomach grumbled loudly as if to confirm the idea. He quickened his pace down the hill.

Admiration swept through Maelich as Ymitoth glanced back at him. His stern mentor looked like he had jumped right off a painting Maelich had seen once. It was an image of valiant men standing tall against a horrible dragon. Ymitoth could easily stand among heroic men like that. He was massive, a half-head taller than most and broad about the shoulders. The wind caught hold of his hair. It danced about the breeze glinting like rusty gold in the failing light of the setting sun. He was every bit the hero in Maelich’s eyes. There wasn’t a man who stood mightier.

Then something about Ymitoth’s expression changed. It was odd and unfamiliar. It resembled a smile the way it parted his beard from his mustache and plumped his cheeks out, but it didn’t quite fit, like a dwarf seated on a giant’s throne. Normally the sharp lines of his face looked like something that could cut stone. Accompanying the strange smile-like thing twisting up his beard was an uncustomary wave. The warrior almost looked…happy.

Maelich grinned and quickened his pace all the more. He puzzled only briefly over Ymitoth’s odd behavior as he worked to catch up to the man he had grown to know as father. There was a concept far more readily available to him. Ymitoth had always been very clear about the fact he and Maelich shared no blood. However, as far as Maelich could tell, his teacher, mentor, and trainer accepted him as a son. And, of course, Maelich loved and admired Ymitoth as he imagined any lad would love and admire the one teaching him to be a man. Ymitoth wasn’t one to fall victim to bouts of affection and show anything which might be construed as weakness. There were times, though, times when the rough and tough would crack just enough for Maelich to catch a hint that Ymitoth cared for him. The odd smile combined with the awkward wave equaled one of those times. Those brief moments were enough for Maelich. They had to be.

Every day was the same for him. Rise with the sun, take in the morning feeding, run the pastures with Ymitoth—who seemed to get slower as Maelich grew—and then bathe in Yester’s Pond. All those things were considered by Ymitoth to be, “the warm-up.” After the warm-up came sword training. Sword training always seemed to last forever. By the time it was finished he could barely lift his sword. He didn’t mind too much as he was but a lad of twelve summers and already close to being Ymitoth’s equal. The fact made him feel powerful. Stories of his master’s conquests spread as far as Maelich had ever been.

After sword training was complete it would be time for the midday feast, the nucleus of the day. Every other activity was planned around it, even the short nap that followed. Maelich’s workday ended with his book lessons, when he learned about how the world came to be and how to make your way through, “The great journey of life,” as Ymitoth called it. Once all his daily tasks were complete, Maelich was allowed a bit of time to himself before the evening feeding, which brings us back to where we began.

Pain can be a tricky thing, difficult to gauge. The same pain can be at one moment merely an annoyance detracting from one’s ability to focus on the task at hand while in the next moment the only thing on which they can focus. The throbbing in Doentaat’s leg when he woke in darkness so pitch blindness seemed the only possibility was the latter. Rather than pushing the pain away from his focus, the disorienting fear of being without sight and unaware of his surroundings only served to strengthen it. It pulsed like someone stood above him repeatedly striking the same spot on his thigh with a hammer. Attempting to sit up only made it worse, like a jagged spear tore through his flesh. The sound he made as he gave in to the pain and lay back was something to which a warrior of his stature would never admit. The Lake could have his soul if only his agony might cease.

As the dwarf king lay in darkness waiting for death to come and end his suffering, his focus shifted. It seemed accepting his eventual demise somewhat numbed him to the pain. Of course, the throbbing in his leg had not ceased. However, it slowly loosened its grip on his awareness, or he simply stopped caring about it. As his breathing grew steady and his heart rate slowed, the why seemed increasingly less important. His mind drifted to other things, and he followed.

Helpless to do much else besides lie on the hard ground and wait for death, his mind slipped to his argument with Bindaar. They had been in his chamber talking about the war ships anchoring up in Biggon’s Bay when the great horn of Havenstahl—one of the twin horns of Galgooth—blared. The sound sparked something in him, some hidden longing lying just beneath his awareness. That spark must have shown on his face.

“Don’t even think about it,” his old chum and most trusted general had told him. “The king’s royal rump had best remain firmly planted in its throne. Leave the fighting to your solidas.”

Whether it had been hubris or defiance—the king gives orders, he does not take them—his response had been less than agreeable. “This from the scrawny waste I molded into a proper dwarf. Anything good about you, you learned from me. Tell me you don’t presume to stand in my own chambers and give me orders.”

The memory of the look on his old friend’s face hurt almost as bad as the throbbing in his leg. “No,” he looked as if he might lose a tear, “I presume nothing, but reports of what came riding in on them ships have me worried for my king’s…my friend’s…safety. This ain’t a pack of rogue grongs. They say giants fill them massive ships. My friend, you have risked your own skin to save mine more than once. I seek only to repay the favor in kind. But what do I know? The king does what the king wants.”

Of course, he failed to heed the warning, and Bindaar stormed out of the room. That was the last they had spoken as chums. When the five battalions Alhouim sent to support Havenstahl in the battle at Fort Maomnosett formed up to march, he gave the orders, and Bindaar obeyed like the rest of his generals. He recalled that same look on his old friend’s face—the frightened, sad, fury, fear that looked like tears waiting to spill onto rough cheeks—when the battalions split to take up their assigned positions, but he ignored it. Friend or no friend, there was not a dwarf alive who would give him orders.

The benefit of hindsight can help a dwarf make better decisions in the future, but it cannot undo foolish decisions once they have been made. Had he listened to his old friend’s wise counsel, he would not be blind and lying helpless in… It suddenly occurred to him that his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness surrounding him. He was not blind. The pain in his leg was still nagging him enough to stifle a chuckle at how easily he let himself fall to panic, but it did nothing to keep him from feeling a bit of shame. Luckily, nobody would ever know about the moment of weakness but him.

Doentaat had not been elevated to the status of king of Alhouim by his peers because he allowed things to be done to him. He was a dwarf of action. He did things. He controlled situations, and that was precisely what he intended to do with the one he was in, control it. The world around him was still very dark, like the late hours of a moonless night. However, he was not deep into a night of any kind. The light filtering through the canopy above him was faint, but it was there. It took mere moments for him to realize he was deep in a dense forest, and the last bits of light were fading from the western sky. Had he woken just a few hours earlier, the fear of potential blindness would never have entered his mind.

With blindness out of the way as a pressing matter, Doentaat could focus on what had quickly become his most pressing matter. Despite a great urge to ignore it, the throbbing pain in his leg demanded attention. Shifting focus back to it was like blowing on a smoldering fire. Intense and furious, it flared again. Though he was not blind, there was insufficient light to see the cause of his agony. Touching the spot certainly would do nothing to ease the pain at all. Simply moving felt like a spear was shoved through the spot. He did not want to imagine what touching it might do. Therefore, he did not imagine it very long. He gritted his teeth and got to it.

It was worse than he thought. His fingers slid slowly down his right leg toward the source of distress. His trousers were torn open, the edges crusty. Though the carnage remained hidden from sight, the spot was obviously saturated with blood. How long had he been unconscious? Considering there was no wetness, it had to be a while. It made no sense to put it off any longer. He had to assess the damage. He clenched his teeth together so tightly it hurt his jaw as he shoved his fingers into a deep, ragged gash. The spear was back, and this time it sliced through and twisted. It was difficult to tell whether it was bone or meat his fingers probed, but the cut was deep, wide, and full of gore. Through tightly clenched teeth, his howl sounded more like a war cry than a pitiable expression of pain. His hand shot to his dagger, quickly slipping it out of its scabbard. He desperately wanted to plunge it into his gut and twist, end his own suffering. That would be the coward’s way out. King Doentaat was anything but a coward. The Lake had failed to claim him, and he had no intention of giving it an easy meal.

As the two stepped into the orange, flickering glow of a blazing fire, they caught the attention of the twenty or so soldiers lounging around it. A voice among the crowd shouted, “The giant slayer lives!” The rest of the small group erupted in a cheer that brought more soldiers from other fires burning around the camp. In a few moments, hundreds of men were crowding as closely as they could to the hero that led them into battle and killed a giant.

“Don’t be crowding too close,” Doentaat hollered above the murmuring throng. “The giant slayer still be needing to heal.” Then the king of dwarves paused, collected himself, and shouted with every ounce of force his lungs could muster, “But Daritus, the killer of giants, lives!”

This sent the crowd into a wild frenzy. A cheer louder than a crack of thunder erupted from the throng of wily soldiers.

“Let them giants take note,” a voice rose above the rest.

“General Daritus fears no man, no beast, and certainly no giants,” another answered.

Still another shouted, “Long live the king.”

And yet another answered, “Yes, King Daritus.”

The buzzing and shouting continued. Congratulatory remarks filling the air as the soldiers reveled in their general’s glory.

Finally, Daritus raised his right arm and shouted, “I am no king.”

“Quiet,” Doentaat yelled. “Let the general speak.”

The murmuring slowly subsided as Daritus continued, “My friends, soldiers, comrades, I am no king. I am a man, a soldier just as all of you are. I am a man who stands tall against fear, as all of you do. I am a man who is willing to give my life for the good of Havenstahl and Alhouim and all of Ouloos.” He paused as the crowd finally grew completely silent, finally adding, “But I am only a man.”

Daritus began to pace back and forth in front of his tent as he continued, looking around the crowd into as many eyes as he could, “I am not a god. I am not special. I believe the people I represent deserve to live in a world free from the fear of being trampled, ripped apart, or even eaten by the likes of the monsters challenging our shores. But…I am just a man.”

“Just a man who kills giants,” a voice answered from the crowd that erupted again in response.

Once the crowd calmed back down, Daritus stopped pacing and continued, “Yes, I killed a giant. And not just any giant, I killed their leader. It was a general against a general, and a leader of men prevailed. I have been battered, teetered on the brink of death, and yet here I stand very much alive. What does that tell us?” He paused, glanced around the crowd, and then answered his own question, “It tells us giants are not invincible. They bleed and die just as we do. Their hides are tough, but our swords are sharp and strong.” He paused again as a murmur swept through the crowd. Finally, he added, “When the sun rises on a new day, I cannot lead you into battle, but I will be with you in spirit. Every grong you cut down, every trogmortem you slay, and every giant that falls before the might of men and dwarves will strengthen my spirit.”

A brief cheer blasted from the crowd.

“All of you, men and dwarves, you all share my desire. All of you have the strength to see your will done on the battlefield. What stands in the way of your glory? Giants, trogmortem, and grongs are horrible, nightmare creatures that trample everything and leave a path of destruction in their wake. Yes, they are terrifying. They growl and snarl and snap. They fight for no cause though. All of you standing before me, all of you fight for a cause. Do not be swayed from it or intimidated by their posturing. Think about the innocent folk who sit huddled in their homes, terrified by the monsters threatening their peace. Think about those who have fled the coming storm and challenged the dangerous trail to Druindahl, ripped from their land by fear. Think about your fallen friends who have died by your side. They are your cause. They are whom you fight for. Let those images burn into your brain, and unleash that fury on the beasts that dare challenge your might. I am just a man, and I killed a giant. Who among you will be the next to make that boast?” The volume of Daritus’s voice had slowly been rising as the words poured from his mouth. By the time the last words fired from his lips, they were carried along by the strength of an all-out shout.