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 horn, 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 thick 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.