|
Grimkul fell to the ground, stunned, but not dead as Ulwakh had supposed. Darkness loomed at the edge of his consciousness, threatening to engulf him – completely and permanently. The sounds of battle sounded dim in his ears, hardly noticeable. He could see little more than the ground, stained with blood both black and red. That the black blood should be his did not occur to him. He felt for his sword and found he was no longer holding it. His arm felt heavy, so heavy. He moved his head, tried to push himself up so that he could find it. There… some three feet away. It felt like three miles. Slowly, he pulled himself towards it. His vision swam with every jolting movement.
Finally, his groping hand found the sword. Both blade and hilt were still slick with blood, and still hungry for more. Grimkul wanted more. For the first time since his fall, he looked up from the ground. There, far in the distance, he beheld the cold mountains. Cold, dark, familiar…
He lurched to his feet and started a lurching, stumbling run towards the mountains. Free. He was free. But why did the ground tilt so? It rose up to meet him; he pushed it away, continued to run. From behind him, he heard dimly a shout. A fierce pain pierced his back, and he fell again. Wetness – dark sticky wetness. He could feel it. He couldn’t move his arm now, couldn’t get up. He felt a wiggling beneath him, near his face. He brought his other hand up; it grasped upon something warm and furry. A rodent, trapped beneath him when he had fallen. Grimkul tired to squeeze it, make it squeal, make it die, but found there was no strength left in his fingers for such a task. “Pushdug rodent,” he rasped. “Filthy Elves, cursed Dwarves.” The rodent scrambled against his grip, tiny nails digging into the skin. Blackness threatened. Looking up once more he saw the tall, impregnable mountains. Kharn’sdeadI’mfreeI’mleaving. The blackness was almost overpowering now, and with his fading consciousness he felt the warm fuzziness leaving his hand. And darkness was all.
|