A Dwarf's Life -- In Brief (Episode 1)

"Halt! Who goes there?" a voice rang out from the darkness.

"Just yer average dwarf," came the gruff reply.

Which was exactly what Gromdahl Stonefist was. Nothing more, nothing less. And he'd take a pickaxe to any dwarf who said otherwise. The guard at the gate snorted, covering a laugh, then continued. "I need a name, or you're not gettin' in."

"Eh, if ye must have one, it's Gromdahl, of the Stonefist clan. I've brought in a bit of old Mother Earth to be looked at." He gestured behind himself with one hand.

The guard approached cautiously, careful to avoid the head and hooves of the huge draft goat that pulled Gromdahl's cart of ore.

"Pull back that cover," he commanded, a cruel spark of excitement in his eyes as he motioned toward the cloth tarp that lay across the top of the cart.

Gromdahl complied, revealing the dull sheen of copper, with the occasional glint of silver beneath. Just another day. Just another guard. Just another city full of godforsaken humans.

"Move on in," the guard sighed, disappointment washing over his features.

Gromdahl chuckled, amused by the human's lust for action. Must have been a slow day. He tugged on Ol' Bessie's reins, urging her through the gate, across the threshold of the city.

As the cart trundled forth, Gromdahl took stock of his surroundings, noting the boarded-up homes and relatively empty streets. He had just begun to wonder if any shops would still be open when he was hailed by a red-haired lad peeking out of one of the doorways up the thoroughfare.

"Hey, mister! What do you have in that cart?" the boy cried.

"Oh, jus’ some ore,” the dwarf replied dismissively. “Have ye got a bloomery in town?"

"We've got a blacksmith," the boy offered helpfully, pointing farther west, beyond the last houses.

"A city this size, and no metallurgist?" Gromdahl balked. "What's goin' on here? Have ye been havin' trouble with those goblins from out in the hills?" He waved one hand over his shoulder, to the foothills that lay beyond the gates.

"No sir, it's worse than that,” the boy said. “It's the pl—”

A shrill voice from inside the house interrupted. "Come in now, Tommy, you know you're not supposed to be out at sundown," it said. Then a woman's face appeared through the cracked-open door, and a thin hand crept out, grabbing the lad's shoulder and urging him inside.

"Wait just a minute there, lass!" Gromdahl said. "I'd like to know a bit more before ye head off." But the door slammed shut tight, and no one responded to even his loudest knocks.

After a moment, he set off again with a shrug, heading in the direction the boy had pointed, toward the blacksmith's shop. Along the way, he stopped to investigate an official-looking notice posted to the side of a building. “NO ONE OUT AFTER SUNSET, BY ORDER OF THE WATCH,” it read. Gromdahl snorted a laugh of contempt, and Bessie bleated softly, reminding her master that she would need some rest and water soon.

"Just a little farther, lass," he assured her, giving her side a gentle pat. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed what appeared to be a water well to his left, and marked its location in his mind. This wouldn't be the first time he'd been politely asked to leave the local inn or tavern before he was entirely ready to go. Best to be prepared.

A couple of steps farther down the road, the smell hit him. Even with his legendary stomach of steel, the strong scent of death and decay made him grimace. His nose led him to the open window of a low wooden building to his right. When he peeked in, he saw a young woman in robes scurrying from one bed of moaning humans to another, tending to their leaking wounds. Scattered across the floor lay the bodies of others who had already succumbed to the sickness. An air of doom hung thick and heavy upon them all.

To read on, check out the next episode of this story here!