This is the first portion of a story that I started to right for Achaea.com, before my world was upended and I began to swirl in circles. It tells the story of the beginning of a Clan of Dwarves that were created by the Achaean God, Phaestus.
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The air whistles in protest as the large metal head of the axe parts it aside and continues forward until smashing into the tree trunk with a shower of splintered bark. A simple grunt and the blade is yanked back out of the tree and the process begins again. The tree puts up a valiant fight, striving to stay upright but ultimately falling to the blows of the axe and joining its brethren strewn upon the ground. A quick shuffle of feet, another grunt, and the downed tree is shoved into position and the axe begins to separate the tree into individual logs. The forest backdrop has faded into silence, no sounds exist except for intermittent grunts and some growled expletives when a blow does not fall precisely as intended.
So intently is the work proceeding, that the heavy footfalls of the dwarf foreman are completely unnoticed until his gruff voice breaks into my consciousness. "Ho, Gladur, we only need a certain number of logs this month." The foreman stops at the edge of the clearing that I have created and surveys the scene of destruction spreading out from my axe. "Why are you punishing the trees this time?" He asks while a look of puzzlement comes across his features. "You know that the SoulForger only condones using what is required, no need to kill trees if we will not use them before they spoil."
His comments only add to the exertion in my strikes, heavily muscled arms straining in an attempt to cut right through the tree in a single blow. "Grrghph" is my only response, straining its way through gritted teeth. Even though the foreman is two centuries older than me, he seems to be completely confused and at a loss of what to do. "Gladur, please stop" he mutters, "We don't need the wood, we have everything we need." A final growl escapes me as I smash through the tree trunk and reach the end of the logs. Turning quickly to face the foreman, I give him a look that can only be considered a glower. "What would ye have me do, Biven?" My question is sarcastic as I quickly give him possibilities. "Should I carve a statue? With these massive hands that can't fit around a chisel without breaking them? Perhaps I can paint, or carve gemstones?" The color fades from his face as he considers the results when I last attempted the delicate arts that the Clan enjoys. "How about I go mining again? I am sure Brumbletock would enjoy another cave-in". I did not mean to continue, but suddenly the words just keep coming and I can't stop "What if I tried my hand at pottery, or I could try to put together another mural. I am sure we can keep building walls for me to break apart. Want me to go back around the animals and try to milk a goat or cow? Last time I tried, they quit producing for over two cycles."
My words suddenly choke off and I just stand there, staring at Biven from across the clearing while my chest heaves and my eyes bore into him. Even though we are over a hundred paces away, I still look down at him. His mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to muster a response. Rage fills me at the delay and I snarl "What is my purpose, Biven. Why am I here?" He looks to the side, swallowing rapidly as I cross the clearing in just a few strides and stand glaring down at him and demanding answers "I am too tall to properly fit in the mines, and even when we widened out the tunnels every time I struck a blow, the mines nearly collapsed. My arms and legs are too big for me to do anything but the largest of tasks. My hands will crush every delicate thing that is ever placed in them." At this, my heart beats even harder as I remember something else. "And you know what else, Biven, I can't even have love!"
At this exclamation he quickly jerks his head up to glance at me, his expression once again marred with confusion. "What do you mean?" he stammers out. My anger slowly pours out of me as I turn away from him to stare out into the distance. “I can’t have love. Who would have someone as rough as I am, as large as I am? The Chieftain is the largest dwarf of the Clan, and he only makes it to my chest. How can I romance someone with these large arms and thick legs. I cannot swoon them with dance, nor with song. I cannot cup their cheek or give them a soft caress. These arms and hands are rough and powerful, knowing only destruction and not love.” My thoughts turn to Jemma and our last conversation. How she laughed and looked me in the eyes, but then I went to hug her and she winced and the fun faded.
Bitterness creeps into my voice as I turn back to face Biven. “The trees are the only task that I can handle without hurting others. You and I both know that this is the only thing that I can do for the Clan.” I can see the agreement in his eyes and the way that he avoids mentioning anything else that I might possibly do. This frustrates me, as Biven is considered one of the wisest of the Clans and yet he has no idea what to do with me. “Tell me, Biven, tell me why the God would do this. He claims to love all of us, to treasure us. He claims that we are His children and that He watches over us. Then tell me why He made me. Tell me why I am so different. Why can’t I be a normal dwarf and have a normal life? Tell me!” This last statement becomes a scream thrown towards the heavens, and then I am running. Running away from the village, from the pain, from my troubles. Running from my life.
My flight is both furious and frantic, tearing down the mountain and crashing through the trees and brush. My large shoulders smash into minor obstacles and send them flying, as my powerful feet grinds everything beneath my tread. Animals scatter before me in a cacophony of alarming cries, and yet I do not care. Emotions rage through me, and the very fact that I am feeling emotions upsets me even further. Growing up in the village, one of the constant ways that I was marked as different is the fact that I have such strong emotions. Most of the Clan are very mellow and unemotional. They feel joy and pride, they must if they are to be the master artisans that our clan produces. However, their emotions are rooted and calm which is completely unlike mine. The sight of the beauty of the smallest fluttering butterfly can make my heart melt, and the slightest insult will cause my muscles to bulge and prepare for a fight. I have tried so hard, but the emotions just flood over me despite all that I do. This pushes me further into my scrambled flight, but my legs suddenly begin to falter and I hit a tree root and flip completely end over end. Landing hard upon the ground, I twist to get my bearings but my large body becomes my enemy and suddenly I am rolling down the mountain in a series of bumps and jolts. Smashing into and through limbs and underbrush and tearing roots apart with my flailing arms, nothing halts my fall until I smash headlong into a large rock formation at the base of the mountain. I can barely summon a true dwarven grumble before the spinning stars clouding my vision mercifully fade into blackness.
Only after a very great amount of time has passed do I finally stir again, yet the throbbing in my head seems at an all time high. Moaning, I struggle to push myself to a sitting position and nearly pass out again as the world seems to spin around me. Muttering and complaining to myself, I slowly force myself upwards along the trunk of a nearby tree until I once again standing straight. Realizing that I have reached an unfamiliar part of the mountain, I slowly start to explore and search for familiar landmarks. My hands reach down to brush the sheath attached to my hip and relief floods me as I feel my axe still firmly attached.
The ground here is different, even my stinted dwarven senses can tell that much. Much harder and starched than what I am used to, and the vegetation is stripped to indicate a scarcity of food in this region. Wary now, I am moving slowly through the trees when I hear a faint sound upon the wind. As I am completely lost, I decide that finding any sign of life is better than mindlessly roaming around and so I turn and head that direction. My pace quickens as I hear the sound of screaming and then make out the clash of weapons. Breaking through the brush, I happen upon a family of dwarves under attack by creatures that I recognize as goblins. I have never seen one before, but old Grimlo tells stories around the campfire some nights and the gruesomely twisted bodies before can only match his description of goblins.
Stunned, I come to a halt and gape in horror at the violence spreading out before me. A cry for help comes from one of the dwarves, and I slowly piece together the scene to see that this must be a dwarven family of farmers. I can tell because of the ages of the dwarves, the familial resemblances and the fact that they are using farm tools to defend themselves against real weapons. Another cry for help grasps my attention and I stumble forward, trying to get my weapon from my sheath. A pair of goblins turns towards my entrance and instantly snap alert. "Issha byg un" snarls one of the goblins to the other and two more goblins turn to face me as well.
Having never been in a fight, I hesitate too long and they surround me while pointing weapons directly at my throat. Immobilized, I stand there in shock and one of the goblins quickly darts in and grabs my axe from my trembling hands. "Idiot!" screams one of the dwarves in a strained feminine voice that quickly twists into a pained scream. My eyes dart over to the dwarves and I realize that while I distracted the goblins, I had also distracted the dwarven man and he was now on the ground bleeding to death. A dwarven lass screams in fury and lashes out at the goblins but then is quickly swarmed as two of the goblins guarding me hurry to join the fight. I can only stare in horror as the dwarves are bound and drug over to the fire pit. While my mind is frozen in shock, the goblins have knocked me to my knees and tied my arms tight to the side of my body. Uncomprehendingly, I stutter something about being a peaceful explorer, but the goblins just laugh in mocking tones and one reaches out and slices some skin off my arm. As I recoil from the pain, he gleefully chews on my skin while prancing around my bleeding body. His gruesome face and bulging eyes are highlighted by the flickering flames, and he seems to have quickly recovered from his initial fear at seeing a dwarf as tall as himself. Before more of my flesh can become a snack, a sharp guttural order rings out from the goblin that I suspect is the leader and the goblins move in and drag one of the young dwarven lads over to the fire and then quickly slit his throat.
My world seems to explode in horror as the two dwarves left, both female, scream out in mixtures of sorrow and horror. The goblins move to the oldest female dwarf, but they seem intent on another form of brutality than slaughter. As the dwarf realizes this, she screams and wiggles free from the hands of the goblin pawing at her. Seeing that all escape is cut off, she flinches back from the slobbering jaws of the goblins around her and then throws herself unto the fire pit. Taken back, the goblins do not react in time and the screams of the last remaining dwarf are drowned out by the sizzling pop and acrid smell that floods the small meadow as the flames engulf the willing victim. A momentary pause enters the scene as all of us struggle to adjust to the rapidly changing situation. By now the goblins have deemed me to be a complete non threat and all of them are circling the last remaining dwarf and arguing over who gets first dibs. No longer screaming, the dwarven lass raises her head and pure grey eyes meet mine as a tear slow tracks down her soiled face. A slow whisper escapes her lips and time stands still as I strain to hear it. "Save me."
