Chapter 8: Ch. 008 – (Now) Predator

Jon rose from his tumble on the other side of the small clerk’s desk. It was barely a defensive barrier, but it stood between him and the axe wielding engineer he’d met earlier, giving him a little time to figure out what to do next. He’d always known he was going to have to fight his way out of this conversation, but he was a little annoyed that he hadn’t gotten the chance to ask Boriv a few more questions first. Why did you betray us? Why couldn’t we have found another way to handle Marcus? Did you send me there to die that day? It didn’t matter though. Asking a dwarf those questions was like spitting in the wind. The only answer he’d ever get was that the law was the law and they were duty bound to follow it. That the greedy little bastard had gotten off easy was the worst part though. He’d managed to get himself a quick, clean death and now Jon was stuck dealing with the mess he’d left behind. 

The engineer pulled his axe from the ruin of the chair that Jon had been sitting in moments ago, and brought it up again for another blow. “I knew ye had the stink of trouble on you.” he bellowed, bringing the axe down hard on the flimsy desk that stood between him and the target of his wrath. “A quick death would be too good for the likes of ye.” The clerk’s desk wasn’t even a shadow of Boriv’s oak edifice, and it didn’t stand up to the frightening blow any better than the chair had. That was just fine though. All it had to do was take a single blow and give Jon the moment he needed to get to his feet and dart from Boriv’s office into the records room, and it served that purpose admirably. 

The records room was nothing more than several rows of bookshelves filled with dusty old ledgers that the dwarves kept just in case some sort of dispute arose in the future. He’d come into this room many times to file ledgers away, but never to retrieve one. No one was ever going to look at these books again, but the dwarves kept them all the same. It was their nature to hoard things. The engineer followed in quick pursuit, giving Jon no breathing room. When he saw which bookshelf Jon darted behind he dropped his axe and put his shoulder to the shelf instead. 

“A slow death by crushing? Aye, that will do for the likes of you.” he said as he shoved hard trying to crush Jon between hundreds of pounds of wood and the wall. Unfortunately for him Jon knew he wouldn’t be able to resist such a gruesome fate. Dwarves had a cruelty streak a mile wide when it came to revenge. So instead of using his precious seconds to run or hide, he climbed the shelf and as the dwarf pushed the heavy monstrosity towards the wall from below, he pushed off the wall towards his attacker near the top of the shelf. The result was that instead of sliding as the dwarf had planned it toppled over almost immediately onto the dwarf in a cacophony of noise and dust. The old dwarf screamed in pain for a moment, and after that he was silent. His bones probably didn’t break even under all that weight, but all of his inhuman strength wouldn’t do him any good while he was pinned like this. Jon dug through the books until he could see the old dwarf’s face and then looked down at him in contempt as he pulled out his dwarven shortsword.

“What did you say old timer?” Jon taunted, tracing just underneath the stone man’s chin with the razor sharp tip. “Something about a slow death? I agree, that sounds just about right.” He lifted the sword then, and instead of killing him with a quick thrust between the ribs, he retreated back into the shadows to let him slowly suffocate and wait for reinforcements. After all, he thought, live bait always made the best traps. 

The pounding of boots came a moment later as two dwarves came into Boriv’s office. Jon couldn’t see from where they were standing behind the open door, but he was sure they were both wielding brands. He could feel the fire in the powder they were loaded with calling to him from his hiding place. He resisted the urge to ignite it just yet though. That wasn’t a trick he wanted them getting used to. 

“I think he’s dead,” one said to the other in dwarvish.

“We’ll check to be sure. The only thing worse than letting the bastard that did this get away, will be sending the report that Boriv Khagh-din is dead.” The other answered. 

“Worry less about the reports and more about finding the murderer,” The first one answered. “Check the backroom.” The second dwarf did as he was ordered and one slow step at a time he walked into the records room. The barrel of his brand came into view from Jon’s hiding spot first - sweeping the room looking for something out of place to shoot. It was only when reached the toppled bookshelf that he realized someone was trapped beneath it. 

“Bardon!” he yelled. “I’m going to get you out of there, I—” but no sooner had he unslug his weapon to set it down than Jon took a single silent step forward. Jon watched the eyes of the trapped dwarf as he tried to whisper a warning about the ambush but he had no breath to speak. There was nothing he could do but watch as Jon moved to execute his friend. 

Dwarves were almost as tough as trolls and could survive even terrible wounds from normal weapons. It took more than a little blood loss to bring them down, as Jon had learned the hard way in some awful fights through the last few years. They weren’t without their weak spots though, and like a raptor ambushing its prey, he thrust down hard with his shortsword behind the collar bone, and down towards the heart. Dwarven ribs might be hard to crack and even harder to break, but if you knew just where to aim, they were just as defenseless as a man. 

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His third victim of the day only had time to issue a thin whine instead of the scream of pain he’d been trying to make before he slumped over dead. Jon didn’t even try to pull the weapon back out. Trying to pull it free without getting caught between bones or cartilage after a blow like that would take too much time, and right now he needed every second he could muster. Lingering too long in this fight would get him killed. He’d get it back after the dwarves trying to kill him were all dead, he decided, so instead he picked up Bardon’s axe to replace it as he darted away. In the underground Dwarves relied on short stabbing swords that could be used in any space, no matter how tight. Dwarves who spent much time on the surface inevitably traded their short weapons for the raw power of axes and war hammers. Few men could hope to parry the blow from such a weapon, and they were much better at slaying monsters you might run into on the surface. They were also a great choice if you had to fight a dwarf or two. 

“Gervam,” he heard the first dwarf say, his voice full of sadness and anger, as he ran into the records room just after Jon ran out of it into the main warehouse. 

A place like the warehouse was supposed to be the last place you’d ever want to fight a dwarf. It was dark, cramped, and full of tight spaces they knew like the back of their hand. They were renowned for their skills in fighting goblins in the endless tunnels of the underworld. Jon wasn’t worried though. He knew this building pretty well too, and he’d spent enough time fighting with dwarves to know how they thought. Even now most of the dwarves left standing would be moving outside with their brands to look for a man on the run to shoot down like a dog. They wouldn’t be able to imagine a man that was actually willing to fight them. As a rule dwarves had remarkably low opinions of men that ranged from disdain and pity to hatred and disgust. Most thought of them as animals only one or two steps removed from the cows and pigs they supplied the dwarves with. Jon had no intention of running though. He’d done enough of that up to now in his life. This wasn’t a robbery after all; it was revenge. 

These dwarves weren’t battle hardened warriors like he’d known in his time in the deeps, and even if a few of them had been years or decades ago, they’d long since gone soft in their cozy sinecure. These were merchants and swindlers, not berserkers and tunnel rats. As long as Jon was careful and patient, he thought as he crept through the cramped confines of the main warehouse, he’d see every one of them to an early grave before he left this place. Even with three dwarves dead or dying, he could still hear at least that many running around inside the building, calling to each other frantically as they looked for the man that had dared to kill their chief. 

“I think I heard him over towards the parts room.” one called.

“Where in the blazes is this bugger?” another answered. 

“Are we sure he’s even still in the building? What if he snuck past—” a third asked.

He’d never get to finish asking that question though. As soon as he revealed his location by calling out, he revealed that he was standing jut around the corner from Jon, so with a wild 270 degree swing he brought his two handed axe around berserker style. The blow was so hard it almost completely beheaded the dwarf, and embedded firmly in the crate he was standing next to. It took his friends a minute to realize that he was missing, and another minute for one of them to find the body, but when they finally arrived, Jon was ready. He’d already circled around behind a looming pile of crates, and before his friend even had a chance to weep or cry out for vengeance he gave the precarious pile of crates they were next to a shove that buried both of them under tons of broken wood and shattered crockery. 

Jon picked up a wicked looking grate hook that had been resting against the wall. It would do for now. He had one more dwarf to take care of inside, and then probably a few more to clean up outside. After that he could finally get on to the important things like visiting his father’s grave and—

The blow came out of nowhere, and it was only because it went through the stacked bags of flour that it didn’t cave in Jon’s chest. As it was, it still knocked him back through the air several feet sending him sprawling. It would appear that someone here still remembered how to fight after all, Jon thought, coughing up blood. He needed a moment to catch his breath, but he knew he wouldn’t get it. The world was white as all of that spilled flour hung in the air like a fog, and somewhere in that fog was a dwarf bent on crushing him like a bug.

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