This isn't really a story about DF, it's actually the first paragraph to the "sequel" to a short story I wrote earlier this year. But towards the end, it started to feel a bit like many of the attacks I seem to get on my burgeoning fortresses... Hope you enjoy anyway.
Men of Lesser Evil pt 2
Fydran stretched his arms and hands restlessly. His full leather armour creaked as he did, calming him. It felt as though the armour was his skin now. He had made it over the past week, and it was as cold, tough and numb as his own flesh. Being a ghoul, he had found a great deal of new advantages. Of course, he was still wondering whether it was worth the price.
After several days of hiking through the mountains, he and his master had found the hidden entrance to the underlands marked by a recent party of dwarves. Unfortunately, it seemed those dwarves had not left after doing so, but settled in. There were around a dozen guards on patrol about the entrance at any time. Either they were overly cautious, or they were expecting an attack. Both were likely.
Ahead of him, Fydran could see the entrance to the underlands quite clearly. It was a simple, small cave that would be otherwise unobtrusive were it not for the dwarves that lounged about outside of it. Apparently, their version of ‘on patrol’ meant lying about in the sun with a barrel of beer. They were now so high up the mountains that they were above the clouds, and the noon sun was bright and hot. Fydran felt no warmth, nor did he see the brilliance of the sunshine. His world was dead and barren, and he used this to his advantage.
Staying low among the rocks, Fydran drew two daggers, and skulked toward the dwarves. Most had their eyes closed or averted to the sun, bright as it was. That was the direction the ghoul approached from. It seemed the guards were expecting an obvious enemy, one that lacked subtlety, and would certainly never attack in broad daylight. It would make things too easy.
The dwarves were of course completely justified in thinking this. If they had received warning, it would be that a horde of mindless zombies were in the area. No matter how big the horde, the mountains were too easily defendable, particularly to dwarves, so any slow moving army would be easily cut down. Unfortunately for the dwarves, the zombies were not mindless. Fydran’s master controlled them, and once he had cleared the way, they would swarm in and take care of any unsuspecting dwarves, of which there were apparently around a hundred. And I only get twelve, he thought.
Two dwarves lay on a large, flat rock in the sun just away from their fellows. They opened their eyes just as Fydran’s blades flicked across their sun-baked throats, which then found themselves in the back of another dwarf briefly before being whipped back, and thrown at two others.
Fydran moved faster than any zombie possibly could, yet stood while watching the rest of the dwarves scramble about for their weapons, screaming and cursing at him and each other. He drew his sword, and in two great strides, threw himself at the nearest group of dwarves. Three of them had just reached their weapons when he decapitated of them. The other two flanked him, attacking with their axes in concert. Their keen blades cut through his armour, drawing blood but not breaking bone. Fydran slashed one deep across his chest, and kicked the other one heavily, sending it down the mountain.
The remaining six had armed, if not armoured, themselves and surrounded Fydran. He found himself growling and hissing at them, and saw a natural fear come over them. This was quickly superseded by bloodlust, and in their fury they all leapt upon him at once. There was no attempt to fight together, just an angry attack to avenge their brothers and defend their honour at being ambushed by one foe. Fydran took their blows, barely feeling them while his new armour absorbed most of the damage. He fought back just as savagely, hacking off limbs and heads and generally splattering the area in dwarf gore. He did not aim to kill, but to maim, to butcher, to leave the dying helpless on the ground, their agony feeding him. He was still hacking when the zombies moved past him, shuffling into the cave opening to find the remaining and now largely helpless dwarves.
Yeah, it's a draft so some of it doesn't really make sense... Like why did I shift to the perspective of the knives? I better post this before I review myself.
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Topic: Poor dwarves. (Read 553 times)