This wasn't supposed to be this way! The King was a fool, but we dwarves respect the crown! No pack of idiots should be able to come here and demand a thing. Yet, the moment I open my eyes, here they are—like insects, a plague upon our delicate crops, like worms in the fruit or failed alloys. Thousands of them, swarming the walls of Java. My soldiers, brave warriors, are struggling. Their polished armor looks ridiculous against the bare chests of these commoners.
At first, I thought it was only a matter of time. The referees are gone, so I expected the great guilds to come for us, seeking vengeance for our time as suppliers. Our fortunes might not be "grand," but in the world of business, it's better they cry in their house than in mine... anyway, they came. Inside the walls, we could only laugh at the thought of an invasion. The archers cheered when one of those inferiors asked to speak with us; when they carried him away with an arrow in his gut, I think we all celebrated. That was the moment I realized we had made a terrible mistake.
Wave after wave of dwarves suffered at the foot of our walls. None sought to kill us; they tried to tear down the stones, to break our long-range weapons—in short, to force us out to fight. I was marveled by their capacity to endure. None wore more than helmets, gloves, boots, and a crude breastplate. It was enough. None fled because of wounds. Come on! We don't flee from superficial cuts either, but this was impossible. Dwarves without arms, without legs, without eyes... it didn't matter. They seemed to navigate by sound and kept charging. What once seemed like a ridiculous assault turned into a tidal wave that threatened to drown our trade center.
My father paces back and forth. His armor is magnificent in its gaudiness—plates of gold and gems cover his two-hundred-year-old body, but that's all it offers him. Strutting, he demands the mercenaries keep killing. But we only have stones left! All our projectile weapons are out of ammunition. Some warriors are already clad in black iron armor, far superior to my father's. I am a warrior; like the mercenaries, I wear weapons and gear for protection, not beauty. I see them preparing to head out. My common sense tells me it's wrong, that perhaps we should have listened to them. But we dwarves fight—for money, for survival, with fists, laws, or words. A situation this dire isn't going to stop us.
I see my father at the front. When did he go down? He's a damn usurer, I admit it, but he's a long way from being a great warrior. He is fat, soft, and old. Yet, he is my father. So, I leave my observation post and hurl myself into the battle. But before I reach the stairs, an explosion in a well distracts me. From there, brown lizards emerge. Hideous! Each one is the size of five dwarves, tearing apart everyone in their path. Their claws rip through mail and bronze plates; their teeth shatter helmets and torsos, reaping lives.
I begin to shout orders. It's useless; no one hears me. They are all in a rat cage, leaping over bodies. Some throw themselves into the attack, but it's suicide. There is no coordination; they just land blows wherever they can before a claw the size of their arm ends them. With an attack on this side and death waiting on the other, it is nearly impossible to stand our ground. Through the pain, I'd rather surrender to the other dwarves than face death alone.
As I give orders to open the gate, I hear my father in the distance, shouting for them to ignore me. I ignore him until a scream pulls me from my purpose. It's his scream. The Earth Dragons reached the gate and took him between their teeth. Five have emerged at the front, but from the mine entrance, a sixth can be heard—a massive one, with a roar much greater than those outside. If the others could decimate experienced warriors, I don't want to imagine what this one is capable of. But I can't give orders; my father is in the clutches of one of them. Axe in hand, I leap onto one of the dragons tearing at the gate—the gate that once protected our lives and is now responsible for hundreds of deaths.
By the time I hit the ground, the last chunks of the door have fallen. The beasts swarm out. I catch a glimpse of the one carrying my father. Even from a distance, I can tell he is agonizing; his insides are spilling from his sides. But as I get closer, I see the "inferiors" are fighting them better than we are. Their combat is organized; they use speed, every attack is consecutive, they defend and pull back the wounded. Since they came out, they've lost fingers, and one can no longer see. To my regret, I must admit they are good.
But it's my father I'm chasing. The creature hasn't attacked anyone else, but as I get near, it begins to squeeze him harder. His mask of bravery shatters, and his screams of pain are terrifying. I don't think he even realizes he no longer has his legs; he lost them a dozen paces back. Hate boils within me. I run, but it's too late—the beast has just swallowed my father. Blind with rage, I hurl myself at the monster.
My axe strikes again and again. Its skin is hard, but I don't stop. My exhaustion is immense, but I don't stop. My muscles ache, yet I keep going. This creature must fall; I must recover my father. However, a backhand from its claw knocks me down. I roll as fast as I can, but my armor hinders me. I can only watch as a claw descends. I close my eyes for a split second, but I will not allow my death to be that of a coward!
I see my death in slow motion: the black claw, the giant splintered nails, the impressive scales. But like a blur, someone interposes. Blood splatters into my eyes. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. A small, reddish body, with a bandage around the waist... a massive axe stops the claw, and a single talon rests buried just inches from my ear.
I stand up. But now, I won't be fighting against "inferiors." I won't be recovering my father. Shoulder to shoulder, I am going to defend my kin from destruction. Because we are one. The enemy will not hold!