The Journey, Book 3: Chapter 24 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 25: Underground
Deep beneath the world, where sunlight had never reached and silence smothered every breath, shadows hacked relentlessly at the mountain's ancient bones.
Iron rang against stone in an endless rhythm.
Pickaxes rose and fell through clouds of choking dust, biting into rock that had lain undisturbed since the world was young. Every strike sent shards skittering beneath heavy boots before rough hands dragged the broken stone away, clearing the face for another swing.
The tunnel was ugly.
No mason had shaped these walls. They were gouged and scarred, carved by brute force rather than craftsmanship. Jagged cracks split the ceiling, held back only by thick timber beams that had been hammered into place wherever the mountain threatened to swallow the passage. Some supports bowed beneath the crushing weight above, others groaned as fresh fractures crept through the wood.
No one slowed.
A careless swing glanced off the rock.
The pick lurched sideways and buried itself through another digger's foot.
The sharp crack of iron meeting bone echoed through the tunnel.
The wounded shadow staggered, a guttural snarl escaping clenched teeth as he wrenched the pick free. Dark blood seeped around the ragged hole in his boot.
Several heads turned.
One larger silhouette met his glare.
No sympathy followed.
Only a slow, impatient gesture toward the rock face.
Dig.
The injured labourer growled low in his throat, planted his bleeding foot against the uneven ground and swung again.
The rhythm never faltered.
Stone broke. Rubble was hauled away. Timber groaned overhead as loose dust drifted constantly from the ceiling. Pebbles rained down without warning, bouncing harmlessly from hunched backs that no longer acknowledged them.
The mountain would claim some of them.
It always did.
No one cared.
For every shadow lost beneath falling stone, the rest simply dug around the collapse and pressed onward, driving the tunnel ever deeper toward a destination known only to those who had given the order.
The tunnel refused to run straight.
It twisted through the mountain in abrupt turns, each bend the scar of another obstacle overcome. Dark passages branched away into silence, their mouths choked with collapsed stone or crudely sealed behind walls of loose rock, timber and packed earth. Thin streams of water escaped through the cracks, trickling down the rough barricades before disappearing beneath countless boot prints.
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
The slow rhythm echoed through the darkness like the mountain itself refusing to forget.
The shadows paid it little mind.
More than once, an overzealous swing had bitten too deeply, opening hairline fractures that bled icy water into the passage. Those tunnels had been abandoned without ceremony, hastily entombed behind whatever stone and timber could be piled together before the mountain unleashed the black waters lurking beyond. They had simply turned, carved another route, and continued onward.
The mountain resisted in countless ways.
Veins of stubborn granite splintered their picks. Hidden caverns swallowed whole sections of their work. Cave-ins buried tools, timber and bodies alike beneath tons of broken rock. The dead remained where they fell, becoming just another layer beneath the tunnel floor, trampled underfoot as the excavation pressed ever deeper.
Fresh timber stood beside supports so old they had darkened with damp and rot, their surfaces scarred by years of settling stone. Some leaned at impossible angles, creaking beneath the mountain's immense weight, while dust drifted constantly from the widening cracks overhead.
Still, the rhythm never ceased.
Iron struck stone.
Stone became rubble.
Rubble disappeared into the darkness.
And with every relentless blow, the unseen destination drew closer.
The mountain groaned.
At first it was little more than a distant murmur, a low vibration that travelled through the stone beneath their feet. The shadows barely acknowledged it.
Then the earth lurched.
The tunnel shook violently.
Timber supports cracked like dry bones as dust exploded from the ceiling. Jagged fractures raced across the walls, splitting the ancient rock with deafening cracks. Boulders thundered from above, crushing everything beneath them as the passage began to fold in on itself.
A roar unlike anything heard before swallowed the tunnel.
The mountain was collapsing.
The shadows did not flee.
A harsh bark echoed through the choking dust, and every silhouette surged toward the untouched rock ahead. Behind them, another section of tunnel gave way, the avalanche of stone racing after them with terrifying speed.
There would be no retreat.
Only forward.
Pickaxes hammered with desperate fury.
Iron screamed against stone.
Blow after blow fell without rhythm or precision, driven only by the knowledge that hesitation meant burial. Fresh cracks spread across the rock face. Chips became fist-sized fragments. Fragments became gaping fractures.
The wall trembled.
One final strike split it open.
The stone gave way with a deafening crack, and the nearest shadows stumbled through the collapsing breach, tumbling onto slick rock beneath an endless darkness.
Cold water splashed around their feet.
The frantic echoes of the tunnel vanished, replaced by an immense silence.
Behind them, the breach shuddered as dust poured through the jagged opening, but the collapse slowed, the mountain finding new space in which to settle.
The cavern stretched far beyond the reach of the drifting dust.
A vast underground lake lay undisturbed beneath a ceiling lost in shadow, its shallow waters spreading like black glass across the stone.
At its heart stood a lonely island.
Barely large enough to escape the surrounding water, it held only a single stone pedestal.
Empty.
Ancient.
Waiting.
For the first time since the digging began...
The shadows stood still.
For a long moment, no one moved.
The cavern swallowed every sound save for the gentle lapping of water against stone and the distant groans of the settling mountain behind them.
Then one shadow stepped forward.
Larger than the rest, he waded through the shallow water without hesitation, each stride sending ripples across the still underground lake. The others followed at a distance, spreading out as they moved, their heads turning into the darkness, searching the unseen reaches of the cavern with growing unease.
The island awaited them in silence.
The leader climbed onto the worn stone, his heavy boots grinding against centuries of dust. He stopped before the ancient pedestal.
It was bare.
Not cracked.
Not broken.
Simply...
Empty.
His breathing deepened.
A low snarl rumbled from somewhere deep within his broad chest.
It swelled into a furious roar.
Thick muscles rippled beneath grime-covered skin as he drove both hands into the weathered pedestal. Ancient stone groaned beneath the sudden force. With a savage heave, the monument lurched sideways before crashing onto the island with a deafening boom, shattering into jagged fragments that scattered into the surrounding water.
Silence returned.
The object they had crossed half a mountain to retrieve...
Was gone.
The leader's eyes swept across the cavern, searching every shadow, every forgotten corner.
Nothing.
Another guttural snarl escaped him before he turned toward the others.
His command came as a sharp bark in their own harsh tongue.
Find a way up.
The response was immediate.
The shadows burst into motion, splashing through the shallow waters in every direction. Some clambered over broken shelves of rock while others disappeared into narrow fissures lining the cavern walls. Hands clawed across damp stone, searching for cracks, ledges and forgotten passages leading away from the underground lake.
A sudden splash broke the frantic rhythm.
One shadow plunged both hands beneath the icy water before wrenching them back out, a silver fish thrashing wildly between his fingers.
Without hesitation, he sank his teeth into its head.
Crunch.
The sharp snap of bone echoed unnaturally through the vast cavern.
The fish convulsed once before falling limp.
Several shadows glanced toward him.
Their leader turned.
A single furious glare was enough.
The shadow froze mid-chew.
Slowly, almost sheepishly, he lowered the lifeless fish from his mouth before tossing the mangled carcass back into the water behind him with an awkward splash. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of one hand and immediately resumed searching the cavern wall, grunting to himself as though he had been working all along.
The leader's gaze lingered for only a heartbeat before he snarled impatiently.
The search resumed with renewed urgency.
Moments later, a deep, guttural cry echoed through the darkness.
"Here!"
Every shadow froze.
Then, as one, they rushed toward the voice.
The narrow passage climbed relentlessly.
It twisted through the mountain in long, uneven stretches, forcing the shadows to scramble over broken ledges, squeeze between jagged walls and wade through icy streams that disappeared into unseen cracks below. The air slowly changed. It lost the damp, stagnant heaviness of the cavern beneath, becoming cooler and strangely still.
No one spoke.
The only sounds were the scrape of boots upon ancient stone and the occasional grunt as another obstacle was forced aside.
The passage widened.
Rough-hewn rock slowly gave way to chiselled stone.
The walls became straighter.
The floor levelled.
Someone had carved these halls.
The shadows slowed instinctively.
Beyond the passage lay the black shell of an abandoned smithy.
Ancient forges lined one wall, their hearths cold and lifeless. Rusted hammers rested where they had last been laid, their wooden handles cracked with age. Broken anvils sat beneath ceilings blackened by soot that had not been disturbed in decades.
They moved on.
A kitchen followed.
Long stone tables stood exactly as they had been left, buried beneath a blanket of dust so thick it softened every edge. Empty shelves lined the walls, while blackened pots still hung above fireplaces long since surrendered to silence.
Beyond that came living quarters.
Rows of stone chambers disappeared into the darkness, each holding little more than crumbling furniture, collapsed bedsteads and forgotten belongings left untouched by time. Dust coated everything. It clung to every surface, every doorway and every forgotten memory the mountain had refused to surrender.
One shadow stopped.
He crouched low.
His thick fingers brushed gently across the floor without disturbing it.
There...
Barely visible beneath the grey blanket of dust...
Footprints.
Then more.
Not fresh.
But far younger than the decades of undisturbed dust surrounding it.
The shadow let out a low grunt.
The leader knelt beside him.
His eyes followed the faint impressions leading away through the abandoned halls.
Someone had walked here.
Not long enough ago for the mountain to reclaim their trail.
The leader rose without a word.
With a sharp gesture, he ordered silence.
The shadows spread out, their heavy footsteps becoming surprisingly measured as they slipped through the forgotten halls, following the fading trail deeper into the abandoned stronghold.
The footprints continued.
The shadows followed the faint trail through the forgotten halls, their heavy steps swallowed by the ancient stone. Dust hung untouched across the floors, except where something had passed through recently.
Something living.
Then they heard it.
A sound that did not belong to abandoned halls.
Voices.
Distant movement.
The scrape of tools.
The murmur of conversation.
The faint glow ahead grew brighter, spilling through a carved stone archway and cutting through the darkness that had followed them for so long.
The shadows stopped.
Beyond the archway was life.
Dwarves moved through the halls, carrying out their daily tasks. Fires burned. Voices echoed. The mountain, which they had believed lost to silence, still held a beating heart.
The leader stared.
Not at the dwarves.
At what was missing.
The shadows had searched the deepest caverns. They had carved through stone until their hands bled. They had endured collapse, darkness and the weight of the mountain itself.
But the object they had been sent to find was gone.
The pedestal had been empty.
The tunnel had been pointless.
They had failed.
The leader's expression hardened.
A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
There would be no return.
No forgiveness.
No mercy from the one who had sent them.
His hand lifted.
The others understood.
They had one purpose left.
The leader lowered his arm.
Forward.
The silence ended.
The shadows erupted from the darkness.
The first screams came before the dwarves understood what they were seeing. A warning bell never had the chance to ring. Conversations turned into cries of alarm as figures from beneath the mountain poured into their halls.
Panic spread instantly.
Dwarves stumbled backwards, searching for weapons, searching for answers, searching for anything that could explain the nightmare that had emerged from the forgotten depths.
But there was no explanation.
Only shadows.
They moved with savage desperation, not like an army seeking victory, but like creatures who had already accepted their fate. They did not claim rooms. They did not seek treasure. They did not look for a way out.
They simply destroyed.
Every attempt to organise a defence was met with relentless force. Barricades were broken. Weapons were knocked aside. Dwarven guards rushed forward only to be overwhelmed by enemies who fought as though survival no longer mattered.
Because it did not.
The shadows had already lost.
Their master would never see them return.
The mountain would become their grave.
So they would make sure their final moments were remembered.
The halls that had once carried the sounds of dwarven life now carried only chaos. Shouts echoed between the stone walls. Families fled into hiding. Guards struggled to hold their ground against an enemy that did not fear death.
The shadows advanced through the stronghold with nothing but anger and desperation driving them forward, stabbing, slashing, maiming every dwarf they could get their hands on. Picking the dwarves up and bashing their faces into walls, floors and furniture.
A young dwarven guard stumbled into the corridor.
He was not prepared for battle.
His sword slipped from his hand and struck the floor with a hollow clang.
He stared at the towering figure before him, unable to comprehend what stood before him.
"What... are you?" he whispered weakly.
The leader looked down at him.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then the leader stepped closer.
There was no hatred in his eyes.
No emotion at all.
The leader's arm shot forward grabbing him by the neck, he squeezed and the guard's neck snapped like a twig..
Behind him, the shadows continued their advance.
The dwarves had found the darkness beneath their mountain.
And now the darkness had found them.
The chaos in the halls seemed to pause for a heartbeat.
Then, from beyond the smoke and torchlight, another sound emerged.
Heavy footsteps.
Steady.
Unyielding.
The shadows turned.
From the far end of the corridor came a figure carrying the weight of the mountain itself upon his shoulders. The Dwarf King Althor stepped into view, still dressed in the silk garments of sleep, yet his hands gripped his war axes with the familiarity of a warrior who had carried them through countless battles.
Behind him marched a squad of royal guards, armour hastily fastened, weapons drawn and ready.
At his side stood Queen Henrietta.
She wore a silk nightdress, a short sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Her expression was not one of fear.
It was disgust.
Althor's eyes locked onto the creatures that had emerged from the depths below his kingdom.
His grip tightened around his axes.
"Bastard Undgrolls," he snarled.
The word cut through the corridor.
The shadows hesitated.
For the first time, they were not unknown.
They had a name.
Henrietta’s face twisted as she looked upon the creatures before her.
"Eurgh..." she muttered, recoiling slightly. "How foul."
The leader of the shadows stared back at them.
The dwarven king had not come running with fear.
He had come with defiance.
Althor raised his axes.
The royal guards slammed their weapons against their shields, filling the corridor with a thunderous rhythm.
The king's voice shook the stone around them.
"ON ME!"
The command echoed through the halls.
And the dwarves answered.
Althor charged.
Chapter 25: Underground
Deep beneath the world, where sunlight had never reached and silence smothered every breath, shadows hacked relentlessly at the mountain's ancient bones.
Iron rang against stone in an endless rhythm.
Pickaxes rose and fell through clouds of choking dust, biting into rock that had lain undisturbed since the world was young. Every strike sent shards skittering beneath heavy boots before rough hands dragged the broken stone away, clearing the face for another swing.
The tunnel was ugly.
No mason had shaped these walls. They were gouged and scarred, carved by brute force rather than craftsmanship. Jagged cracks split the ceiling, held back only by thick timber beams that had been hammered into place wherever the mountain threatened to swallow the passage. Some supports bowed beneath the crushing weight above, others groaned as fresh fractures crept through the wood.
No one slowed.
A careless swing glanced off the rock.
The pick lurched sideways and buried itself through another digger's foot.
The sharp crack of iron meeting bone echoed through the tunnel.
The wounded shadow staggered, a guttural snarl escaping clenched teeth as he wrenched the pick free. Dark blood seeped around the ragged hole in his boot.
Several heads turned.
One larger silhouette met his glare.
No sympathy followed.
Only a slow, impatient gesture toward the rock face.
Dig.
The injured labourer growled low in his throat, planted his bleeding foot against the uneven ground and swung again.
The rhythm never faltered.
Stone broke. Rubble was hauled away. Timber groaned overhead as loose dust drifted constantly from the ceiling. Pebbles rained down without warning, bouncing harmlessly from hunched backs that no longer acknowledged them.
The mountain would claim some of them.
It always did.
No one cared.
For every shadow lost beneath falling stone, the rest simply dug around the collapse and pressed onward, driving the tunnel ever deeper toward a destination known only to those who had given the order.
The tunnel refused to run straight.
It twisted through the mountain in abrupt turns, each bend the scar of another obstacle overcome. Dark passages branched away into silence, their mouths choked with collapsed stone or crudely sealed behind walls of loose rock, timber and packed earth. Thin streams of water escaped through the cracks, trickling down the rough barricades before disappearing beneath countless boot prints.
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
The slow rhythm echoed through the darkness like the mountain itself refusing to forget.
The shadows paid it little mind.
More than once, an overzealous swing had bitten too deeply, opening hairline fractures that bled icy water into the passage. Those tunnels had been abandoned without ceremony, hastily entombed behind whatever stone and timber could be piled together before the mountain unleashed the black waters lurking beyond. They had simply turned, carved another route, and continued onward.
The mountain resisted in countless ways.
Veins of stubborn granite splintered their picks. Hidden caverns swallowed whole sections of their work. Cave-ins buried tools, timber and bodies alike beneath tons of broken rock. The dead remained where they fell, becoming just another layer beneath the tunnel floor, trampled underfoot as the excavation pressed ever deeper.
Fresh timber stood beside supports so old they had darkened with damp and rot, their surfaces scarred by years of settling stone. Some leaned at impossible angles, creaking beneath the mountain's immense weight, while dust drifted constantly from the widening cracks overhead.
Still, the rhythm never ceased.
Iron struck stone.
Stone became rubble.
Rubble disappeared into the darkness.
And with every relentless blow, the unseen destination drew closer.
The mountain groaned.
At first it was little more than a distant murmur, a low vibration that travelled through the stone beneath their feet. The shadows barely acknowledged it.
Then the earth lurched.
The tunnel shook violently.
Timber supports cracked like dry bones as dust exploded from the ceiling. Jagged fractures raced across the walls, splitting the ancient rock with deafening cracks. Boulders thundered from above, crushing everything beneath them as the passage began to fold in on itself.
A roar unlike anything heard before swallowed the tunnel.
The mountain was collapsing.
The shadows did not flee.
A harsh bark echoed through the choking dust, and every silhouette surged toward the untouched rock ahead. Behind them, another section of tunnel gave way, the avalanche of stone racing after them with terrifying speed.
There would be no retreat.
Only forward.
Pickaxes hammered with desperate fury.
Iron screamed against stone.
Blow after blow fell without rhythm or precision, driven only by the knowledge that hesitation meant burial. Fresh cracks spread across the rock face. Chips became fist-sized fragments. Fragments became gaping fractures.
The wall trembled.
One final strike split it open.
The stone gave way with a deafening crack, and the nearest shadows stumbled through the collapsing breach, tumbling onto slick rock beneath an endless darkness.
Cold water splashed around their feet.
The frantic echoes of the tunnel vanished, replaced by an immense silence.
Behind them, the breach shuddered as dust poured through the jagged opening, but the collapse slowed, the mountain finding new space in which to settle.
The cavern stretched far beyond the reach of the drifting dust.
A vast underground lake lay undisturbed beneath a ceiling lost in shadow, its shallow waters spreading like black glass across the stone.
At its heart stood a lonely island.
Barely large enough to escape the surrounding water, it held only a single stone pedestal.
Empty.
Ancient.
Waiting.
For the first time since the digging began...
The shadows stood still.
For a long moment, no one moved.
The cavern swallowed every sound save for the gentle lapping of water against stone and the distant groans of the settling mountain behind them.
Then one shadow stepped forward.
Larger than the rest, he waded through the shallow water without hesitation, each stride sending ripples across the still underground lake. The others followed at a distance, spreading out as they moved, their heads turning into the darkness, searching the unseen reaches of the cavern with growing unease.
The island awaited them in silence.
The leader climbed onto the worn stone, his heavy boots grinding against centuries of dust. He stopped before the ancient pedestal.
It was bare.
Not cracked.
Not broken.
Simply...
Empty.
His breathing deepened.
A low snarl rumbled from somewhere deep within his broad chest.
It swelled into a furious roar.
Thick muscles rippled beneath grime-covered skin as he drove both hands into the weathered pedestal. Ancient stone groaned beneath the sudden force. With a savage heave, the monument lurched sideways before crashing onto the island with a deafening boom, shattering into jagged fragments that scattered into the surrounding water.
Silence returned.
The object they had crossed half a mountain to retrieve...
Was gone.
The leader's eyes swept across the cavern, searching every shadow, every forgotten corner.
Nothing.
Another guttural snarl escaped him before he turned toward the others.
His command came as a sharp bark in their own harsh tongue.
Find a way up.
The response was immediate.
The shadows burst into motion, splashing through the shallow waters in every direction. Some clambered over broken shelves of rock while others disappeared into narrow fissures lining the cavern walls. Hands clawed across damp stone, searching for cracks, ledges and forgotten passages leading away from the underground lake.
A sudden splash broke the frantic rhythm.
One shadow plunged both hands beneath the icy water before wrenching them back out, a silver fish thrashing wildly between his fingers.
Without hesitation, he sank his teeth into its head.
Crunch.
The sharp snap of bone echoed unnaturally through the vast cavern.
The fish convulsed once before falling limp.
Several shadows glanced toward him.
Their leader turned.
A single furious glare was enough.
The shadow froze mid-chew.
Slowly, almost sheepishly, he lowered the lifeless fish from his mouth before tossing the mangled carcass back into the water behind him with an awkward splash. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of one hand and immediately resumed searching the cavern wall, grunting to himself as though he had been working all along.
The leader's gaze lingered for only a heartbeat before he snarled impatiently.
The search resumed with renewed urgency.
Moments later, a deep, guttural cry echoed through the darkness.
"Here!"
Every shadow froze.
Then, as one, they rushed toward the voice.
The narrow passage climbed relentlessly.
It twisted through the mountain in long, uneven stretches, forcing the shadows to scramble over broken ledges, squeeze between jagged walls and wade through icy streams that disappeared into unseen cracks below. The air slowly changed. It lost the damp, stagnant heaviness of the cavern beneath, becoming cooler and strangely still.
No one spoke.
The only sounds were the scrape of boots upon ancient stone and the occasional grunt as another obstacle was forced aside.
The passage widened.
Rough-hewn rock slowly gave way to chiselled stone.
The walls became straighter.
The floor levelled.
Someone had carved these halls.
The shadows slowed instinctively.
Beyond the passage lay the black shell of an abandoned smithy.
Ancient forges lined one wall, their hearths cold and lifeless. Rusted hammers rested where they had last been laid, their wooden handles cracked with age. Broken anvils sat beneath ceilings blackened by soot that had not been disturbed in decades.
They moved on.
A kitchen followed.
Long stone tables stood exactly as they had been left, buried beneath a blanket of dust so thick it softened every edge. Empty shelves lined the walls, while blackened pots still hung above fireplaces long since surrendered to silence.
Beyond that came living quarters.
Rows of stone chambers disappeared into the darkness, each holding little more than crumbling furniture, collapsed bedsteads and forgotten belongings left untouched by time. Dust coated everything. It clung to every surface, every doorway and every forgotten memory the mountain had refused to surrender.
One shadow stopped.
He crouched low.
His thick fingers brushed gently across the floor without disturbing it.
There...
Barely visible beneath the grey blanket of dust...
Footprints.
Then more.
Not fresh.
But far younger than the decades of undisturbed dust surrounding it.
The shadow let out a low grunt.
The leader knelt beside him.
His eyes followed the faint impressions leading away through the abandoned halls.
Someone had walked here.
Not long enough ago for the mountain to reclaim their trail.
The leader rose without a word.
With a sharp gesture, he ordered silence.
The shadows spread out, their heavy footsteps becoming surprisingly measured as they slipped through the forgotten halls, following the fading trail deeper into the abandoned stronghold.
The footprints continued.
The shadows followed the faint trail through the forgotten halls, their heavy steps swallowed by the ancient stone. Dust hung untouched across the floors, except where something had passed through recently.
Something living.
Then they heard it.
A sound that did not belong to abandoned halls.
Voices.
Distant movement.
The scrape of tools.
The murmur of conversation.
The faint glow ahead grew brighter, spilling through a carved stone archway and cutting through the darkness that had followed them for so long.
The shadows stopped.
Beyond the archway was life.
Dwarves moved through the halls, carrying out their daily tasks. Fires burned. Voices echoed. The mountain, which they had believed lost to silence, still held a beating heart.
The leader stared.
Not at the dwarves.
At what was missing.
The shadows had searched the deepest caverns. They had carved through stone until their hands bled. They had endured collapse, darkness and the weight of the mountain itself.
But the object they had been sent to find was gone.
The pedestal had been empty.
The tunnel had been pointless.
They had failed.
The leader's expression hardened.
A slow, cruel smile spread across his face.
There would be no return.
No forgiveness.
No mercy from the one who had sent them.
His hand lifted.
The others understood.
They had one purpose left.
The leader lowered his arm.
Forward.
The silence ended.
The shadows erupted from the darkness.
The first screams came before the dwarves understood what they were seeing. A warning bell never had the chance to ring. Conversations turned into cries of alarm as figures from beneath the mountain poured into their halls.
Panic spread instantly.
Dwarves stumbled backwards, searching for weapons, searching for answers, searching for anything that could explain the nightmare that had emerged from the forgotten depths.
But there was no explanation.
Only shadows.
They moved with savage desperation, not like an army seeking victory, but like creatures who had already accepted their fate. They did not claim rooms. They did not seek treasure. They did not look for a way out.
They simply destroyed.
Every attempt to organise a defence was met with relentless force. Barricades were broken. Weapons were knocked aside. Dwarven guards rushed forward only to be overwhelmed by enemies who fought as though survival no longer mattered.
Because it did not.
The shadows had already lost.
Their master would never see them return.
The mountain would become their grave.
So they would make sure their final moments were remembered.
The halls that had once carried the sounds of dwarven life now carried only chaos. Shouts echoed between the stone walls. Families fled into hiding. Guards struggled to hold their ground against an enemy that did not fear death.
The shadows advanced through the stronghold with nothing but anger and desperation driving them forward, stabbing, slashing, maiming every dwarf they could get their hands on. Picking the dwarves up and bashing their faces into walls, floors and furniture.
A young dwarven guard stumbled into the corridor.
He was not prepared for battle.
His sword slipped from his hand and struck the floor with a hollow clang.
He stared at the towering figure before him, unable to comprehend what stood before him.
"What... are you?" he whispered weakly.
The leader looked down at him.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then the leader stepped closer.
There was no hatred in his eyes.
No emotion at all.
The leader's arm shot forward grabbing him by the neck, he squeezed and the guard's neck snapped like a twig..
Behind him, the shadows continued their advance.
The dwarves had found the darkness beneath their mountain.
And now the darkness had found them.
The chaos in the halls seemed to pause for a heartbeat.
Then, from beyond the smoke and torchlight, another sound emerged.
Heavy footsteps.
Steady.
Unyielding.
The shadows turned.
From the far end of the corridor came a figure carrying the weight of the mountain itself upon his shoulders. The Dwarf King Althor stepped into view, still dressed in the silk garments of sleep, yet his hands gripped his war axes with the familiarity of a warrior who had carried them through countless battles.
Behind him marched a squad of royal guards, armour hastily fastened, weapons drawn and ready.
At his side stood Queen Henrietta.
She wore a silk nightdress, a short sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. Her expression was not one of fear.
It was disgust.
Althor's eyes locked onto the creatures that had emerged from the depths below his kingdom.
His grip tightened around his axes.
"Bastard Undgrolls," he snarled.
The word cut through the corridor.
The shadows hesitated.
For the first time, they were not unknown.
They had a name.
Henrietta’s face twisted as she looked upon the creatures before her.
"Eurgh..." she muttered, recoiling slightly. "How foul."
The leader of the shadows stared back at them.
The dwarven king had not come running with fear.
He had come with defiance.
Althor raised his axes.
The royal guards slammed their weapons against their shields, filling the corridor with a thunderous rhythm.
The king's voice shook the stone around them.
"ON ME!"
The command echoed through the halls.
And the dwarves answered.
Althor charged.