Chapter 1 : Jimmy
The remnants of the Dwarven people were on the run. They fled to the mountains, the old strongholds, and their prized bastions. They arrived to find these sanctuaries already razed, abandoned, or burning – those who witnessed these sights had little choice but to continue running from the growing horde of monsters chasing them. Many on the run had not a moment to rest, the armies of monsters were already breathing down their necks.
Some proud few Dwarves stood and fought. Dwarves were a mighty proud people, within the magic of their shrine they were the most fearsome warriors the world had ever seen. However, here – far outside the magical aura of the shrine – they were weak. Those brave warriors who stood were torn apart by a wave of blades. The leather and iron armor of retreating soldiers and citizens stood no chance against the might of the monsters. If they were organized, they could pose a threat and slow the tide at an enormous cost of life. However, there was no time to draw battlelines during the monster's charge. Retreat was the only option.
The Dwarves had great reason to fear this army. A single arrow loosed by one of these undead skeletons could shatter a Dwarf's armor and body – many could even pierce through a Dwarf and injure another. A creeper could surprise and splatter even the most wary of warriors in a moment – these strange, suicidal creatures always found their way around, behind, below, and above the Dwarves. They always found a way, somehow. Of all these threats, the zombie is the weakest. However, a zombie could outmatch an ill-equipped Dwarf by itself – still, zombies are scarcely alone. Zombies come in hordes, and there was no shortage of corpses to add to their ranks in this land.
A large host of Dwarves, roughly five hundred strong, ran shoulder to shoulder through a small mountain pass – at most three Dwarves could move in this tight space pass, yet still, they ran. The mountains on either side of them rose high into the sky – one impasse the Dwarves could rely on. It was one of the few things the Dwarves could rely on in during their retreat.
Despite this, not one of the Dwarves had a moment of rest. The citizens had been running since last midday, the warriors since the morning before. The army had brought news to the villagers and had gathered as many Dwarves as they could. Some other hosts joined them with monsters hot on their trail.
Dawn had not yet broke; the Dwarves could hardly see even a few feet around them. They could hardly see the night sky – even the stars had abandoned them. They held a few torches, and yet, they could barely make out the path ahead of them. However, the Dwarves need not look behind them to notice the hordes of approaching monsters. The sickening smell of rotten flesh, death, and decay was so thick the Dwarves could hardly breathe.
A vanguard of Dwarven Paladins and Gravediggers took point. They scoured the edge of the path for ambushes. In the middle, footmen in leather armor and civilians with hardly a helmet nervously watched the mountains. The soldiers corralled the citizens along. Many soldiers would rather climb over the civilians Dwarves to be further in line, yet they had orders. General Bruce Willakers, their Old Man, would know if they disobeyed any of his orders. Even in this darkness, in this danger, in this peril, the Old Man would know. They kept their pace, did their duty, and maintained what little order they could amongst the retreating civilians.
Behind them was the rearguard. Here, the orders of Paladins, Rangers, and Gravediggers placed their mightiest warriors. They slowly kept pace with the rest of the Dwarves, yet they anxiously watched the encroaching hordes.
The Paladins rested their hands on their holy blades. They wore heavy iron armor, the finest Dwarven smiths could craft. Their order was by far the oldest – all of them were revered as Dwarven heroes. Many a song had been written in their honor and countless keeps erected in their name. Many paladins had charged into battle with the finest armor and left with it in tatters – many blacksmiths had made a fortune off of armor repair – now these craftsmen were on the run with them.
Grand Paladin Ziros, the head of the order, was the most daring of them all. He was the furthest back among the rearguard. He reluctantly kept pace with the fleeing host. He was willing to charge into battle at a moments notice – his blade, the Light Bringer, was drawn. It illuminated the path behind them, providing the rearguard with plenty of light to see the oncoming horde. Most Paladins would draw their blades and charge into the horde of monsters without a second thought - however, they had their orders. Although their entire beings thirsted for battle, they fled with the Dwarven refugees.
Behind them, the Rangers employed a fighting retreat. A group would loose a volley of arrows, retreat and give space for their comrades to loose, and the cycle would repeat. Those who were exhausted drew materials from the stones around them and crafted arrows for their allies. For these marksmen, this was child's play.
Salogel Sureshot showed no signs of weariness. The Nohdalag's strings sung a deadly melody, felling groups of monsters well before they came within firing range of the lesser archers. This warrior took her place in the center of the Dwarven host, in a place where her arrows could assist both the rearguard and the vanguard. Fortunately, the vanguard had yet to spot any monsters.
The Gravediggers eagerly brandished their weapons and yearned for battle. They wore much lighter armor – they claimed they did not require it. Their order was by far the youngest one, it had come about through ingenuity of Dwarven magicians. In their desperation while fleeing, some Dwarven magician sought to control the undead and halt their advance. Incredibly, it worked – to some extent. Said magician immediately enchanted as many tools as she could get her hands on – ultimately, the shovel turned out to be the most durable and easiest to enchant. Their leader, the Lord of the Undead, had an incredible affinity for utilizing this spell. He could not command the undead to attack one another, but he could lure them into traps and slay them with ease. His weapon, Staff of Defile, shone with a dull blow glow and provided a stark contrast against Ziro's bright, shining blade.
Of course, there were countless petty arguments between the orders.
"The gravediggers are nothing more than glorified necromancers!" The Paladins would claim. "We must purge them!"
"The paladins are nothing more than pompous bigots!" The Gravediggers would claim. "Take away their shiny armor and all they are cowards! Not even Dwarves!"
However, General Old Man Willakers paid them little mind. His orders at the beginning of this trek were quick and absolute. "Do not fight amongst each other. Simply follow this path. No monster gets past you. Keep alert, your blade will be needed at the front."
They tried to argue. They could charge into the monsters and take back their lands! The Old Man met their eyes with a single, silencing stare. That was the end of it.
And now, that General was at the back of the column, fighting the armies of the monsters by himself. Many a legend was told about this god among Dwarves. The Old Man was a man of incredible strength and prowess with the blade – many warriors claimed he would wade into battle with no armor, just his weapons and blood red pants, and come out unscathed. Veterans of war adamantly insisted his exploits on the battlefield were no exaggerations, he had led charges by himself and turned routs into relentless charges. Bards would claim there was an entire Dwarven city nestled into the long white beard of Old Man Willakers. Many legends about this man were true; few were folly.
Today, he wore a full set of bright blue steel armor, the finest an elite blacksmith could craft. He fought with a glass bottle full of red liquid in one hand and his golden blade, Excaliju, in the other. His bow – Virendra – rested on his back. His blade was far quicker than any Paladin's, his technique more brutal than any Gravedigger's, and even in his old age, he was far more nimble than the most agile of Rangers.
He was just an old man, his critics would say. And here, no monster could pass him – their numbers meant nothing. No more than three monsters could fit into the space and attack him here – there was no way to sneak by him or blitz his defense. They had learned time and time not to test his mettle, yet still, they tried to push him back. The old man gradually retreated, not due to pressure, but due to the distance between himself and the Dwarven host.
A large zombie swept its way through the encroaching horde of monsters and leapt over their heads. It made a dive at the old man. If they cannot slay him, they must incapacitate him. The old man stepped back from the horde, drew his bow, and loosed an arrow – right into the head of the leaping zombie. The sheer impact of the hit shattered the abomination's skull and tore through its body. The abomination fell to the ground at Bruce's feet, yet it still lived and weakly grabbed at Bruce's leg. The Old Man savagely plunged his blade into the Zombie's head and the blade glowed gold. The frontline of monsters shook and instantly retreated; yet they could not retreat through the unorganized wall of flesh behind them.
The Old Man hardly needed to rush. He savagely smiled, took a deep breath, and leapt into the confused mass of monsters, and hacked throw row after row of monsters. His eyes and blade glowed gold has the Old Man cleaved and through the flesh of countless monsters as he mercilessly charged. There was no need for him to worry about technique - the bodies of zombies burned as his blade tore through them. Not even the steel of fallen Dwarven warriors stood a chance against his blade – he merely clove through its wearer and wielders like hot butter. Still, a couple monsters managed to strike him with a few glancing blows. The blue steel held its form. Bruce quickly dispatched them and took a sip from his glass bottle. Underneath his armor, flesh knitted itself together and the wound was fully healed in a seconds.
The rearguard cheered as they watched the Old Man mercilessly plow through the monsters. The burning flesh of monsters, melted steel, and broken weapons lay in his wake – the sickening stench of burning flesh filled the air. At the end of the long, narrow passage, the golden old man raised his golden sword over his head with the golden sun slowly peeking over the horizon.
The old man paused at the end of the narrow passage. He stood at the entrance to the mountain pass, the monster's army had retreated a great distance from the path. Even from this vantage point, the Old Man had no idea how many monsters there were, or any idea where to start counting – they were simply everywhere. Instead of the green hills his people had retreated over, he saw an endless, swaying field of dark green monsters swaying in place.
A single, bellowing voice filled the air and the passage behind him. "Gods, Monsters, Dragons, whatever being you may be, hear me! I am Old Man Willakers!" The sheer volume of his voice startled the Dwaven refuges and silenced the endless hordes of monsters at the exit of the mountain pass.
"You all thirst for the blood of my people, thirst to take these lands, thirst to raze our homes! Then come, come all of you, we Dwarves will be here. When you come, we will be here, we will kill you, and we shall drink beer from your skulls!" He bellowed. Far behind him, the Dwarven host reached a large space. They paused, and looked back.
A thousand voices answered him, each enraged and screaming.. Dwarves fell to the ground, trembled, and covered their ears. A low, calm voice answered him, drowning out all others. It shook the mountains and the ground beneath them. "You know not what you are inviting, little Dwarf. We have offered you mercy and you have selfishly refused. Your power is not your own, it is ours. Repent, little Dwarf. Surrender your power, your people, and your home. You are no god, little Dwarf. Just a tiny, weak, mortal old man."
The old man laughed. "I refuse."
"Very well, Bruce Willakers. Very Well." The voice responded. The voice turned into a roar, and the mountains shook. Far behind the Old Man, monsters poured out from the sides of the mountain and leapt onto the Dwarven host. The vanguard, rearguard immediately turned and fought. The civilians fled.
The air was filled with a cacophony of a thousand voices laughing. "What will you do, Old Man!? You are so far from your people, you can do nothing!"
"What a fool! What a weak, poor fool!."
"What an idiot!"
The old man cast a small smile across the hordes of monsters before him. He spread his arms and laughed. "This is your power, you small gods! This tiny ambush? This is all you can muster!? You poor fools, allow me…" He spoke, and gave a mock bow. "To introduce you to Dwarves" He spoke, and pulled out a small horn and took a deep breath. Laughter filled the air.
"What is this nonsense?"
"Small as it is, that horn is compensating for something!"
"What a fool!"
He blew into the small horn with all his might. The earth shook. Fallen civilians arose from their pain; and the gods were silenced. Warriors of all the orders massacred the monsters as they fell down from the mountains. Civilians with mortal wounds rose and fought, crushing monster's skulls with their bare hands. The Dwarves eyes shone with an eerie green light, their blades clove and burned through steel and flesh alike. Even the most elderly of Dwarves fought with incredible ferocity and power – the ambush as crushed almost as soon as it began – the entire ambush force had been obliterated in seconds.
"I'll be waiting, small gods." The Old Man spoke, turned, and walked away. A thousand voices cried out, he ignored them. The Old Man felt invigorated by his own Buffalo Horn. It would be a while before he could blow the horn so loudly again. He returned to his rearguard and sheathed his blade. Dwarves cheered, their injuries, their peril, and their suffering was immediately forgotten. They were Dwarves, and this is their Old Man.
He gave his people a show; he motioned for them to continue fleeing, and joined the civilians. As he walked amongst his people, he felt the aches and pains of his past echo throughout his body. He felt several new ones as well – well, his charge was not perfect, he thought as he took a sip of his mighty healing ale. The aches and pains disappeared, the old ones would return shortly.
A young Dwarf spoke out among the cheering crowd. Bruce recognized him – the son of a good friend who died on the battlefield. The Old Man smiled and looked straight into the child's eyes. "Well, Jimmy-" He began.
The young Dwarf fell to his knees, then slumped to the side. The young Dwarf's stared straight ahead, blank, unknowing, unfeeling. The Dwarves around him quickly converged on the young Dwarf. A calm Dwarf checked for his pulse – Bruce did not need to hear the announcement, he knew the child was dead – he had recognized the eyes of death. The Dwarf pronounced him dead. Bruce swore.
A Dwarf somberly spoke. "We've been running for well over a day. I suppose we should not be surprised…his heart must have given out."
"Indeed." The old man spoke. "We keep moving. To the shrine." His officers began to corral and shepherd the refugees along. Although there was no threat behind them, the officers maintained pace of the group. The Old Man stood in place and let his rearguard slowly overtake him. He slowly let his gaze drift above the heads of his people, he turned around, eyes towards the morning sun.
The rearguard parted and walked around him. One of the warriors spoke to him. "Silly old man, you shouldn't be looking directly into the sun, you'll burn your retinas!" He joked.
The Old Man laughed. "Oh hush now, Jimmy. I know better" The warrior laughed and made his way. That Dwarf's name was not Jimmy. He recognized that warrior, his name was Jimmy. No, his name was Jimmy. He searched for a face he recognized, a wooden smile on his face. There was Jimmy…and there, Jimmy…There was Ranger Jimmy, Paladin Jimmy, and Gravedigger Jimmy. He recognized Grand Paladin Ziros, and the Lord of the Undead. After they passed him, he let out a sigh of relief.
"Come, you small gods." He spoke. "Come, all of you with your petty magics". He said, and looked over at Jimmy's dead body. The Dwarves had avoided the boy, his body was not trampled, not cut, or injured. This boy looked to be in perfect health – except for him being head. His eyes burned, he faced the rising morning sun. "Come, I dare you." He spoke and began to walk.
He followed his people towards the Dwarven shrine. There, the greatest stand of the Dwarven people would begin.
Author's Notes : Dwarves vs Zombies was created by Robert Moran, the OC Old Man Willakers belongs to Robert Moran.