Common Decency
It was a move Rombel had planned long before setting foot in the mountain city of Varkuntol—to publicly denounce the God of the Iron Anvil.
Even so, he had never expected the god to respond with an oracle in such an equally public fashion.
But the die had already been cast.
Rombel refused to yield even an inch as he roared back.
“Blasphemy? Blasphemy is failing to show respect to someone who deserves it. How can refusing to bow to someone who has earned no respect possibly be called blasphemy?”
The dwarves listening to the exchange froze where they stood.
They had worshiped only the God of the Iron Anvil their entire lives. Whether the words were right or wrong no longer mattered—Rombel’s declaration was simply too radical.
“Iron and Anvil! Answer me! When disaster descended upon Varkuntol, what exactly did you do? Nothing! All you did was watch the show from your lofty perch in the heavens!”
Your vision is narrow. From the very moment I summoned you here, it was all part of my design.
It appeared the God of the Iron Anvil had delivered an oracle to Mayor Baldrek, who then sought help from the outside world. Rombel merely scoffed.
“If Marcus hadn’t luckily run into a dwarf, if Marcus hadn’t asked Elbridge for help, if Elbridge and Marcus hadn’t come looking for me—if any single link in that chain had broken, Varkuntol would have been destroyed. That wasn’t divine arrangement. It was nothing more than repeated strokes of luck. Do not dare twist our goodwill into your so-called design!”
With that, Rombel raised his axe high toward the sky.
“Remember this well! Every achievement today was won by me, my companions, and the dwarves of Varkuntol with our own hands. When the fate of our entire race hung by a thread, the only one who did nothing was you! And it will surely remain that way in the future. God of the Iron Anvil—you have no right to bear the destiny of our people!”
Can a single face hold both fury and ecstasy at the same time?
To Elbridge and Marcus, Rombel’s expression was exactly that.
Rage directed at the God of the Iron Anvil, and the pure joy of finally unleashing two centuries of bottled-up resentment. The two emotions refused to blend or cancel each other out; each burned with its own fierce clarity.
“Did you think it was only now? No! It was the same in the distant past! Two hundred years ago, you offered not a shred of help to the warriors who staked their lives against the demons! Your very existence was the heaviest shackle around every dwarf warrior’s neck!”
The dwarves stirred uneasily.
These were people who had revered only the God of the Iron Anvil their entire lives. Their hearts recoiled from such outright blasphemy. Yet at the same time, their minds could not deny the persuasive power of Rombel’s words.
The air throughout Varkuntol began to rumble and vibrate.
Everyone present understood that the God of Iron and Anvil was furious.
I offered no help? It has always been that way? Fool. You can only spout such nonsense because you never truly lived through those ancient times. You have no idea how blessed an age you currently enjoy.
Neither Elbridge nor Marcus knew the far distant past of the dwarves. But Rombel and the rest of the dwarves remembered how their ancestors had lived more than a thousand years ago.
In my youth, every dwarf was a slave. No race existed that did not covet our exceptional craftsmanship. Every dwarf was born a slave, lived as a slave, and died as a slave. Their children were doomed to repeat the same fate forever. There was no escape.
I fled with nothing but a single pickaxe in my hands. When I finally reached the Red Mountains, I spent over three hundred years carving tunnels through them with the sole purpose of creating a homeland where my kin could live free.
Thus I raised a great city within these peaks. I was the one who built the first forge and lit its fire. I was the one who burned away my entire life for the sake of my people. That achievement was recognized in the heavens, and I became the only dwarf ever to ascend as a true god.
Dwarven culture and customs had always been insular; therefore their faith remained largely unknown to outsiders. Only now did Marcus—and even Elbridge—learn the full story of how the God of the Iron Anvil had risen to the heavens.
Rombel shouted again.
“I will not deny that achievement! I do not claim you were unworthy of becoming a god. But a thousand years have passed since Varkuntol was built and our people were freed. You bind your own kin with those faded glories while standing idle as crisis looms! Every problem the dwarves faced today was born from your own failing virtue!”
My failing virtue? Foolish child. How can you possibly link the appearance of a monster to any fault of mine?
The air over Varkuntol roared violently once more. Several elderly dwarves dropped to their knees in terror.
Yet Rombel only raised his voice louder.
“Yes! Your lack of virtue created every single problem! Who among us does not know that you slaughtered every last hero from two hundred years ago? If even one warrior from that era had survived, none of this would have happened.”
It was the first time the younger dwarves had heard the story. But every elder knew the truth; they had simply been too afraid of the God of Iron and Anvil to speak it aloud.
“You feared the castle you built a thousand years ago might crumble, so you trampled every new sprout that grew within its walls and tore them out by the roots. If the walls tremble when strong winds blow because there are no trees left to break them, the fault lies not with the wind—but with you, for destroying every piece of heroic timber.”
Marcus glanced around nervously. The heat of battle had not yet cooled, and the dwarves surrounding him were still heavily armed. Their mood could turn deadly in an instant.
Even the quick-witted mercenary found it impossible to read what the dwarves were thinking right now.
Rombel paused to catch his breath. When he spoke again, his voice had grown slightly calmer.
“God of Iron and Anvil. As a dwarf, I respect the great deed you accomplished a thousand years ago. But a deed from a thousand years ago belongs in the past. We dwarves followed you and granted you a thousand years of chances. Yet tell me this, God of Iron and Anvil—since planting that first achievement, have you succeeded in drawing even one better future for our people across the last thousand years?”
No new voice descended from the heavens.
Every dwarf present understood. The God of Iron and Anvil had no answer.
“God of Iron and Anvil, standard-bearer of our race. If you wish to lead our people, you must stand at the front holding the banner high. A thousand years ago you raised a shining standard and guided every dwarf forward. But that banner has faded and frayed over the centuries. Your time is over. You no longer have the right to lead us.”
Once again the god remained silent. Therefore Rombel turned to every dwarf watching him and cried out.
“Dwarves! The time has come to step forward anew. It is time to turn your backs on the god who kept you oppressed and stagnant. Warriors! You are not weak. Throw yourselves into the world and reclaim your lives!”
A young dwarf called out to him.
“Then which god should we follow now?”
Elbridge could easily imagine what the Goddess of the Rusty Shield was thinking in the heavens. She was probably hoping he would raise his hand this very instant and begin preaching.
Yet Elbridge was not shameless enough to insert himself into this charged atmosphere and start proselytizing.
…Thank goodness the Goddess’s power has run dry.
Rombel answered the young dwarf.
“Whoever you wish. Follow the god you truly want. Choose not a god who dictates the path you must walk, but one who will walk beside you. Only then will you be able to reclaim your lives.”
I am the only dwarf who has ever ascended to the heavens. Do you truly believe the gods of other races would look upon you with greater mercy than I? I assure you—they will not.
As Rombel’s voice had softened, so too had the anger in the god’s oracle. In its place came clear worry.
An elderly dwarf spoke to Rombel as well.
“I have never once believed the God of Iron and Anvil was perfect. Even so, I have no desire to worship a god from another race.”
The God of the Iron Anvil had led his people to the Red Mountains to escape persecution by other races. Beneath his great deeds lay love and compassion for his kin, but also fear and hatred toward outsiders. Those emotions had become the teachings of the Iron Anvil Order, passed down for a thousand years. It was only natural that dwarves would feel some measure of fear and rejection toward gods of other races.
Therefore Rombel told the old dwarf:
“Then wait a little longer.”
“Wait for what?”
“For me.”
Rombel looked slowly across every dwarf in Varkuntol, then spoke with clear, measured words.
“I will accomplish a monumental feat and become the second dwarf to ascend to the heavens. Wait for the day I return to the Red Mountains as a god.”
Once again the mountain city fell into absolute silence.
A declaration that he himself would become a god—no one had expected it.
But unlike the others, Elbridge finally understood everything.
…So that’s what this was about.
He remembered the place where he had reunited with Rombel after two hundred years—the Magic Tower. Being excommunicated from his order was no reason for Rombel to abandon faith entirely. And what better reason was there for a legendary warrior to become a blacksmith in the Magic Tower? None at all.
Just like the other mages there, Rombel had simply wanted to become a god and ascend. Not merely to shake or destroy the Iron Anvil Order, but to rise above the God of the Iron Anvil himself. To stand in the heavens, slap his former deity across the face, and mourn his dead wife.
That was the only revenge that could ever fully satisfy him.
Only then did the overwhelming divine presence that had filled Varkuntol finally vanish.
The dwarves realized their old god had withdrawn.
“…”
All that remained was the sound of rough, heavy breathing from every direction.
Though they had never dared speak it openly, many dwarves had already grown sick of the God of the Iron Anvil. This incident only deepened their disappointment and opened their eyes to the possibility of new gods.
Countless dwarves now understood that, sooner or later, they would turn their backs on the God of the Iron Anvil.
Yet Rombel was not a god yet, so they could not worship him. A void in faith was far more troubling than apostasy. Then who should they follow until Rombel ascended…?
At that moment, a man thrust his hand into the air among the dwarves. It was Marcus.
“If you need a god to believe in right away, why not follow the Goddess of the Fox Rain? She will grant you joys you never expected.”
Listening to him, Elbridge thought:
Should I jump in too? …I probably should.
If Rombel truly ascended, the majority of dwarves would eventually become his followers. But he could not possibly become a heavenly god in a day or two.
If even for a few years this many people became followers of our order, it would be an enormous help…
Yet in this heavy atmosphere, beginning to proselytize as though nothing had happened was even harder for Elbridge than talking about money.
While he hesitated, Marcus added one more line.
“Or you can always go to Sir Elbridge over there. The Goddess of the Rusty Shield is every bit as fine as the Goddess of the Fox Rain. In any case, anyone interested in the Goddess of the Fox Rain should come find me once things have calmed down.”
Having said his piece, Marcus clutched the wound the monster had given him, groaned theatrically, and shuffled away.
The dwarves now had three choices.
Would they continue worshiping the disappointing God of the Iron Anvil?
Or would they follow the Goddess of the Rusty Shield or the Goddess of the Fox Rain while waiting for the day Rombel ascended?
Among the many dwarves disappointed in their old god, a small number showed interest in the Goddess of the Fox Rain. The vast majority, however, chose the Goddess of the Rusty Shield.
It was the expected outcome. In the recent battle Elbridge had distinguished himself far more than Marcus, and the Goddess of the Rusty Shield had displayed far greater presence than the Goddess of the Fox Rain.
Marcus had known this would happen.
Therefore he quietly asked the Goddess of the Fox Rain:
“Goddess of the Fox Rain. Why did you instruct me to mention the Goddess of the Rusty Shield alongside your own name?”
Because that’s common decency.