Cowards! Useless! I knew it would be difficult to gather a force of any size in this village. However, no one wanted to come. With great effort, I contacted a mage who spoke with the leaders' table, there in Jade. None wanted to do anything. They did not even consider moving a single command. I understood them—we had troops in all cities, defending each one every night. But that was why we had to go. No one listened to me. So I would resort to the mercenaries.
The tavern was still full, but it seemed I threw axes at all heads. No one uttered a single word. Everyone contemplated their weapons and wondered if they would be up to the task. Yet I had to rescue my lord. I placed money—a lot—on the table. Several of these mercenaries would take it, fight among themselves for the right to keep it. Thus I could wait for them. With luck, the adrenaline of battle would make them accompany me. Once outside the city, some would turn back, but ten or twenty would come.
As the fight unfolded, I traveled to the shops for provisions. A thin old man followed me, as in every village where people thought they could get something for free. The poor old man, despite looking in good shape, only wore pig leather underpants, some gloves, and a very good helmet. Perhaps it belonged to one of his children who did not return, or maybe from his better days, before drink and age interfered with his judgment. Since I was not merciful, I told him to help with the backpacks. I began loading them with everything I could think of—from bread and flour to bombs. The luggage was heavy. I thought about asking for or hiring a couple of pack animals, but they would only slow us down for combat.
At the end of the afternoon, I saw more dwarves leaving than I expected. One of them carried a royal guard shield. I did not know where he got it, but he was the least affected, so he knew how to use it. I told the rest we would go to Magmite. Only the leaders knew why I asked it, but these men doubted. I offered a thousand gold pieces. Everyone contemplated what they could buy and began the war songs—beautiful pieces where they said goodbye to what they loved to have a warrior's death. Then I heard the old man including himself. I tried to interrupt him, but his voice rose in tone. It was no longer the cracked voice of a beggar or a terminal, senile alcoholic—it was a strong tune, dry with age but intense, vibrating with the impetus of one who knows what battle is. Who the hell was this old man?
Still, I let him pass. I sent them to the inn and even paid for the old man's dinner. He ate and lay down where I found him—next to the garbage. Something about him troubled me. He looked old, but had no obvious traces of age beyond white hair and wrinkles on his face. He was very thin for a dwarf from the army. But he would know what he was thinking. I had to bring forces to the city where the one I should be protecting was, instead of being here trying my luck with brutes who loved fighting. Master, how low I have fallen for the greed of your people!
The morning brought me no comfort. I slept and relived that elf saving the master. She and a small contingent kept my master alive. Caliza was there too, but he interested me less. I served the great families. Caliza was just a dwarf recommended by the Deathbringer Chapatrueno—no one would oppose his mandate. But here, he was very far away; his provisions had not yet permeated all of society—that was a fact. As I went out to the courtyard, I could see several bothering the old man. He seemed imperturbable, but in his eyes, there was something I did not like. He had too much determination—more than an old man wanting one last adventure. He seriously considered himself a warrior.
As I suspected, these mercenaries came equipped for only one or two days of travel. None brought much food, spare weapons, bandages, potions, antidotes—nothing! Only the old man and I came with luggage larger than a small sack. I gathered them all and dictated formations, attacks, defenses, who would take the damage, and who would defend the supporters. I had no healing mage among these mercenaries. I did not like it, but I could not waste more time. But among them, the shield man came out arguing that I had no right to be the group's commander, that I had already lost against the chaos horde. I felt like telling him that my axe had seen the end of hundreds of enemies before, but he interrupted, saying his shield was the best—formerly belonging to the great warrior who protected the old king, the kidnapped one. That demonstrated his skills, and he could not wait to prove he was the best. Even though his comrades hated him, no one denied he had strength above the rest. Only a soft laugh interrupted his airs of grandeur—it was the old man, laughing without disguise, innocently but insultingly. Not many could maintain decorum while openly offending another person.
The bravado did not wait. They even asked me to remove him from the expedition for being poorly armed and equipped. I had offered him a simple iron set the day before; he told me he did not need materials that would get in the way. The other dwarf lost patience. He planted his half-shield in the ground and told him that if his thin fists could move it, he would stop bothering. It was obviously a trap—he probably fixed the shield to the floor with magic and had his hammer ready to strike him in "self-defense." In moments like these, I hated my own people. But the challenge was made; the old man could decline, but that would mean automatic defeat... I am sorry, old man, but you brought this upon yourself.
At nightfall, we left. I still could not believe what my eyes had seen. The old man told him that shield did indeed belong to the captain of the guard, but a shield was just a block of metal that reduced the damage you received, and if you did not train your body enough, that damage could send you flying... At that moment, I was sure I felt magic coming from his body. But a fire or ice sphere would not be able to damage proud dwarven steel, so he did not use magic. I felt the floor move and him run very fast. His foot projected in a low kick. I feared seeing leg fragments from the speed of that impact, but no—only shards and pieces of the shattered shield witnessed the impossible strength of someone weighing forty kilograms. The armed dwarf weighed seventy-five kilos without his shield, but this weakling sent him to the other end of the cave. Everyone left without complaint or lament. It was true—they had lost a defender, but the attack power we carried no longer made this mission madness—only something impossible. I knew that well... and so did that dwarf traveling, hiding his whole self.