In that instant, Gondolin's mind went white with rage. All he wanted was to rip the tongs from the door, tear out the man's tongue with them, and hack it to pulp with his axe. He loosened his grip slightly, allowing the hand-axe to slide down to the middle of its haft. The sellsword placed his palm on his sword-hilt.

  The dwarf hadn't expected to be dismissed so lightly. He took two steps forward, aiming low, deliberately leaving his head open—an invitation. If the sellsword thrust for his crown, he'd drop his stance, pivot the axe's angle, and cleave the man's wrist clean through.

  But his opponent refused the trap. He showed no interest in combat at all. The filthy longsword merely stabbed into the floorboards near the dwarf's toes. "Hmm." The man cocked his head. "Axes are dangerous, dwarf. Best reserve them for chopping wood."

  Gondolin internalized the insult with cold calculation. (Let's see how well your 'wood' holds up against dwarven steel, bastard.) He loosened his grip again, letting the axe slide further down to the very end of the haft.

  The sellsword never anticipated the throw. Before his longsword could be lifted from the floor, Gondolin's axe had buried itself deep in the man's left cheek. The thrown axe is a rare art—few even among dwarves master it. Holar Peter Wilton, once a senior officer of the Gambril Oathsworn, had instructed Gondolin in this technique at Gamlin Browal Hasfeng's explicit command. The dwarf leaped onto the falling body, tore his axe free, and—ignoring the hot spray of blood that soaked his face and mail—brought the axe down again, and again, and again, unleashing a lifetime's worth of fury with each blow. He didn't stop until the man's skull was nothing but shattered bone and gore.

  Panting heavily, Gondolin dropped back and sat with a thud on the corpse's left arm. The Veiled Woman had pulled her veil over her eyes and was whispering desperate prayers. The other Godman continued unabated; he raped Christine without pause, utterly indifferent to the lethal skirmish behind him or his companion's demise. Gondolin wiped his axe on the tattered cloak before turning to deal with the rutting beast.

  "You like hot water, do you?" the soldier said suddenly. "Not so nice when it's on you, is it?" He leaned close, his lips brushing the washerwoman's ear. "Maybe you should try it yourself, my love." The words came in the Cynthian tongue, causing Christine's pained moans to cease instantly; her face turned cold as iron. His accent was unrefined, yet clearly well-practiced—a calculated insult for every Cynthian woman he violated.

  What followed made Gondolin momentarily forget his purpose; the Veiled Woman's prayers grew increasingly frantic. The soldier dragged a kettle of freshly boiling water before Christine's face and roughly twisted his fist in her hair. "Do you regret it now, darling?" His tongue curled obscenely in her ear. "Tell me—do you regret it?"

  She understood precisely what he intended. "I do," she rasped. "I regret not dousing your bestial skull with it, you son of a bitch."

  He moved to act—but Gondolin moved faster. The axe bit deep into the back of the soldier's neck, silencing him forever. But Christine still screamed – the tip of her nose had brushed the boiling water.

  Gondolin shoved the pot aside and slumped onto the hearthstone, listening to the washerwoman's broken sobs while staring at Off-Key, who would never sing off-key again. The soldier remained draped across Christine, his member still violating her. After several deep breaths, once certain his limbs would obey, Gondolin rose and extracted his axe. Christine's cries had ceased; the pain had rendered her mercifully unconscious. The Veiled Woman had fallen silent as well—perhaps having exhausted her repertoire of prayers.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Gondolin approached her. His mail glistened crimson as a slaughterhouse apron, causing the washerwoman to curl defensively into herself. He set his axe aside and reached into his trouser pocket, producing a handful of gold coins. The Veiled Woman's gaze darted between the gold and his face, uncertain. "Take it," the dwarf said flatly. "It's not any kingdom's currency—just gold. Spends the same everywhere."

  She tore the veil from her face and stared again at the offered wealth. "Thank you, sir." Only after scrutinizing the dwarf's expression three times did she accept. "Thank you. Thank you."

  "Look after her until she comes around." It sounded less like a request and more like the price for the gold, but the veiled woman nodded without hesitation. "Of course, sir. Of course I will." She nodded vigorously. "I'll look after her. I swear it. I swear."

  "The chest—it might still be in the street."

  "Chest?"

  "Rose's chest."

  "Rose?"

  Gondolin nearly erupted in rage. The Veiled Woman went ashen, her mouth falling open. "Rose..." she echoed. "The chest..." Pain contorted her features. "Rose. The whore. I killed her..."

  "Yes. You killed her."

  She grabbed her veil again and stuffed it into her mouth to stifle her sobs. "Perhaps the chest remains, perhaps not. See to it yourselves." She nodded with near-manic intensity. Gondolin couldn't determine how much of his words she truly comprehended.

  He moved to the door, intending to remove Off-Key, but discovered he lacked the height. Dragging over a wooden stool, he climbed up and struggled at length to pry the fire-tongs free. Without their purchase, Off-Key slid down the door. He caught her before she hit the floor. He laid her body down with the gentlest touch a dwarf could manage. "One final request," he said. The washerwoman raised her reddened eyes. "If possible—give her burial."

  The Veiled Woman extracted the wadded cloth from her mouth and smiled with disturbing vacancy. "Certainly, sir. If we're not interred ourselves first, I will." He closed the door firmly behind him.

  He needed to locate Hard Stone and formulate their next move. Once he had commanded three hundred fighters; now they were dead or maimed. During his descent, he hadn't encountered a single dwarf still capable of combat. A few crossbowmen sat along the stairs, all wounded though not critically. Gondolin instructed them to rest briefly before regrouping in the courtyard. With each passing step, his longing to find Hard Stone intensified. He desperately needed someone to share this burden; he was grievously wounded in spirit, and no being could contain every injury within themselves. With each flight descended, the ominous thought grew stronger—that Hard Stone might already lie dead, leaving him utterly alone.

  He sprinted into the courtyard but was forced to slow his pace—carefully navigating between mounds of corpses. Godma had seized Spiderweb Street; the slaughter here was nearly complete. No survivors remained visible. The cistern's surface was coated with a black, buzzing film; as Gondolin approached, flies rose in a dense cloud. He barely noticed them. His eyes fixed solely on the tenement gate.

  His worst fear proved unfounded. Hard Stone knelt on the ground, attempting to bind a fellow dwarf's wounds with strips torn from the dead. The injured dwarf bore a short beard—under thirty years old. A blade had opened him from carotid artery to right breast. Hard Stone pressed rags against the wound with one hand while struggling to wind a bandage with the other. Blood bubbled continuously from the young dwarf's mouth; the harder Hard Stone pressed, the faster it flowed.

  "He's beyond saving," Gondolin said, approaching slowly. "Let him go."

  Blood-foam frothed at the young warrior's lips. His eyes bulged at Hard Stone and Gondolin, desperately clinging to life. "He's lost too much," Gondolin said, placing a gentle hand on Hard Stone's shoulder. "Let him find peace."

  Hard Stone finally let go, his big hands falling away as if they had a will of their own. The young dwarf's eyes, which had been stretched wide with pain and the desperate fight to live, slowly fluttered shut – just as unwillingly. Hard Stone retrieved his scimitar from an enemy's spine and watched silently as his kinsman's breathing grew shallower until it ceased entirely. His eyes reflected a potent mixture of helpless rage and profound regret.