Meet the Splitter

Kutch spat the ground that separated him from the demon. He closed his eyes, for he did not want to gaze into those eyes and let his will and tenacity falter against those of the unholy.

One charge, that was it; he did not expect to survive, so he did not need to open his eyes. His headlong charge was not meant to kill; he had come to terms with the fact that this foe could not be beaten by normal means.

Kutch leapt back, measuring the distance between the demon and himself, -Perfect- he thought, -10 standard strides, knees bent, rulebook charge. - That hideous face was laughing as if he could predict the tactic accompanying the dwarf’s maneuver. –Well, for the beard of Grimnir, he might as well know for all the good it will do to him. Gathering strength in his stout legs, mind blanked, ready to move: he leaped.

The world seemed to move slower, he could distinctly hear the clashes of metal against metal, the hymn of war. He could hear the chanting of the priests, the warcries of thousands of combatants. He could see his feet, picking up dust, avoiding the pieces of armor, weapons and warriors on the ground. He could smell the putrid stench emanating from the demon as he closed in. He could see the demon’s axe moving to one side. Most important, from the way the demon moved his weapon, he knew he was dead.

At the last fleeting moment, feeling the impact before it was even there, his world swirled, all the air escaped from his lungs as a horrible impact was made to his sternum. His vision blurred. –So, this is it then. - He thought, and closed his eyes to rest with his ancestors.

“If ye were trying te die my lad, I cannot tell ye there is nay honor in that my lad, I can tell ye though my lad, ye should leave the dying te those who commit te seeking it. My lad.”

The knowledge of him not dying was a surprise, but a little one at that compared to the pain that not dying came with. Gasping for air he turned on his back, eyes readjusting he looked at his interloper and the shock washed away all pain and numbness. He realized that it was not the demon’s axe that had cleaved through his torso, but a dwarfish fist that plummeted him out of his trajectory. A gauntleted fist that was attached to the most hideous of dwarfs, no nose, one ear, a cheek cut in half with skin still dangling, golden rings protruding from several places in what resembled a face, tattoos all over the body, a red crest that housed more dirt than the mines below them, no armor and a fearsome two-handed axe that looked as if it could cut anything that got in the way. This was Splitter, the head Slayer serving under the King, and next to him, the King himself standing proud and mighty.

“Nicely done youngling, I’ll take over from where you left off. Watch my back now, chaos worshippers aren’t known in our holds for taking a duel as an honorable thing.” The king said.

It was the demon’s turn to spit and look more menacing than ever. “At last you show your deformed face eldest from the elder. My minions will enjoy corrupting your hammer once I pry it from your helpless hands.”

“It is I who will have to pry it from your crushed skull, no more chit chat, ill let me hammer do the talking.”

Hold your Ground

And another one came, crushing blow after crushing blow. His hands felt like melting from receiving such an enormous blunt force. He had forfeited his mace long before, and felt as if he couldn’t hold his shield anymore.

Looking around for a sign of a miracle he turned his head.

Brave Thrint put up a fight with a foul chosen, he was faring well, the best that the Trading Unit had to offer, he’d seen Thrint in sparring sessions with the King himself albeit not with Unbreakable Will, the King’s own hammer, but with a training one. And young Thrint had almost won those matches.

Another blow, this one made Kutch stagger and concede a couple of precious strides back.

Risking another look, his spirits rose, Thrint deflected a blow with his shield and swung his hammer from below, targeting the Champion’s sword, and thus disarming him.

Another blow, Kutch felt as if his shield was about to give away. He glanced right again.

Thrint’s hammer found his way home in the crevices of the Champion’s helmet; it was not surprising to watch pus spurt from the hits. The Champion was done for, Kutch risked a yell: “Thrint!!!”

Another blow, the leather-bound metal harness with which Kutch grabbed the shield bent in an unnatural way, his shield went flying backwards and the monstrosity behind the blows faced him. Rage surged, the so called demon Skulltaker wasn’t even paying him attention, his sword swooshing by as he arced it left and right, his horned head, with drooling skulls surfacing along the upper side, twisting around. Eyes looking towards the mass of dwarfs that still held ground, part of his cloak was showing and to Kutch’s dismay it was covered in skulls. Panic struck him as he noticed that the demon was looking for a target.

He heard a battlecry, Thrint was flying towards the demon, face contorted in an uncontrollable rage, he really did have a chance, until the demon moved his sword to intercept the dwarf splitting him in half.

-Hope is gone-

Kutch retrieved his hammer and a nearby axe, relenting defense, and eyes fixed on a horrible thing that wasn’t even noticing him. What was left now?

Blood, it will cost the chaos worshippers blood to take this stronghold. If there was nothing else, he would sell his life dearly. Stamping the ground as to fix himself to the spot he stood erect, “Do not look elsewhere chaos spawn; it is I who you came for!”

Skulltaker spoke, a deep voice that seemed to buffer all noise from the fight, a voice that made the settlement tremble, and a tone that offered no surrender:

"You still have time, pitiful one. Take that back."

A brave stand

Kutch fidgeted with the mace in his hands, the thought of the upcoming battle in his mind. He could remember the way it had all started.

Dwarfs had been warned of the incoming chaos horde. As part of the scout unit sent to investigate the rumors of troubles in the human lands in the north, Kutch had been witness to the masses that chaos commanded. They had returned to the mountain through the underground tunnels set up as an old trading route often used in the past by both human and dwarf parties, and that now was abandoned. Little had they known that masses of greenskins now inhabited these tunnels. After a fierce fight, one that only the stony dwarfs could put up, Kutch was the only scout to make it to the city.

Even though he was young by dwarf standards, his words had been heeded. The council met, behind doors, and interrogated him on his findings, on the fate of the scout group, on the fight with greenskins. Yet he knew, that even as he sat there, facing the council and under the scrutinous gaze of the King, the caves beneath the colossal city were being plummeted and rigged with traps, as only the mining guild could device.

Tales of his deeds had been magnified by the time he left the audience room, if it could be called a room, for as with everything they built, the sheer size of it was incredible. Before the battle begun they were calling him a hero, and he heard his name spoken in awe by the young ones as he strode through the enormous passageways.

The scent of readiness in the dwarfish army was that of forges burning, unnatural sweat. The noises of preparation as the hammers of the smiths slammed down on the forging metal as axes were being crafted he walked upon the hall and his mind was baffled by what he saw.

Turning his head around the room, his eyes eventually fixed on the council of the 9 facing the gathering army. On their backs sitting upon the mighty dwarven throne the king, Hokre Hurnessin, most revered of kings, most fearsome of dwarfs, most imposing of beings. His beard as long as he was tall, braided. His arms wide as a dwarven cannon with muscles stretching, threatening to rip through the skin. The hammer at his side shining, inscribed upon it were runes glowing with the lust of war, lust for the enemy’s blood. With him leading the dwarfs into battle, no one could fear.

Before the words were spoken, before the command to move to defensive positions within the city had been uttered, he knew they were ready. He turned and looked at the faces amassing alongside him. And heard the imposing guttural voice of the King

“We are dwarfs, and I pity those who stand in our way, we shall hammer them back to the waste they come from. Let them taste the temple of our weapons. LET THEM TASTE THE SWEAT FROM OUR BODIES, FOR THEY WILL NOT TASTE OUR BLOOD! To arms brothers, the gods are watching us tonight, we have waited many years to reunite with them, we can wait some more. Show the foul corruption the way of the Dwarf!”

And so he stood, in perfect formation, one which had been drilled in his mind before he could even pick up a hammer, facing the massive gates of the city. Alongside, his brothers stood with him, determination evident in their eyes. None would go back to the earth without making the hordes pay a dear price for such a deed.

They could hear the foul language of the tainted ones behind the gates; they could feel the imminent bloodshed and still not a muscle was moved out of order.

The squad captain yelled: “We do not want to live forever; we leave that to the stupid elves. Let’s stand now, here, today, and spit at the loathsome faces of chaos for—”

There was a gentle knock on the gates, one that broke the train of thought of the captain, a subtle touch, almost a joke for the omnipotent sturdiness of the city’s gates. He heard as one of the squad’s members yelled “You will need more than a girly touch to enter, abominable beings!” And as if he was heard, the most horrible thing happened, the gates flew open with an enormous bang.

-Just one hit- Kutch thought -just one hit and it opened. How? How!?-

He heard a hideous voice yell: “Forward Skulltaker, RIP THEM APART!”

A metal beast lunged its snout forward.

Kutch was young by dwarf standards, and so alongside Grungni, Valaya and Grimnir, he would never be old by those standards.

Ouverture

Hace tiempo ya que no escribo nada.

En alguna época escribía tanto como leía, en algún momento me detuve y ahora creo que mis manos no se acuerdan como hacerlo.

Es así entonces que empieza este Blog. Entre traspiés, entre mala ortografía y un oxidado sentido del humor damos inicio entonces a una serie de ironias y situaciones incomodas.