THE HUGE ARMY OF DWARF - CHAPTER III — FIRST SCAR

In the distant recesses of his memory, a voice rang out. A powerful voice, impossible to forget. It belonged to Supreme Commander Magnus the Ravager, of the Hearthfire family. A towering figure in the army, a legend among his people, Magnus stood before the new recruits. A thick wolfskin covered his shoulders, and his gaze swept slowly over the tightly packed ranks before him. Hundreds of young male and female dwarves waited in silence. Magnus studied them for a few moments longer. Then he declared:

“Welcome, recruits. I will make dwarves out of you… or I will kill you.”

He paused.

“And I've already chosen the second option.”

His thunderous laughter erupted at once. The recruits laughed along with him. Everyone knew Magnus's reputation. When he laughed like that, it was neither out of contempt nor to impress his audience. Magnus laughed because he was genuinely happy. He let the uproar die down, and then his expression changed. When he spoke again, his voice had become far more solemn.

“You have entered your hundredth year. You are finally of age. You have completed your studies or, in some cases, your apprenticeship under your master craftsman. Like every dwarf before you, male or female, you will now serve the United Dwarven Confederation.”

His gaze travelled along the ranks.

“For the next fifty years.”

A few smiles vanished. Magnus, for his part, seemed to enjoy the effect.

“That will be the duration of your recruit training. At the end of it, some of you will leave us and return to civilian life.”

He suddenly mimed such a spectacular bout of retching that the recruits in the front rows instinctively tried to step back. Impossible. They were packed so tightly that those behind immediately pushed them forward again. Magnus smiled.

“And then there will be the others.”

This time, nobody was laughing.

“The best. Those who apply and prove themselves worthy may join the elite corps of the SHIELD.”

A murmur ran through the ranks.

“Another hundred years of service.”

Magnus paced a few steps in front of the recruits.

“When the enemy charges, the SHIELD stands in the front line. Always. Its warriors form a line that nothing must be allowed to break through. Their boots are fitted with telescopic spikes made of pure Gorgonium, capable of sinking sixty centimetres into almost any material.”

He stamped his heel violently against the ground.

“For thousands of years, no enemy infantry has managed to break the SHIELD's line.”

His gaze hardened.

“To join it is an honour.”

A silence.

“And a privilege.”

Gunnar listened to every word. Like many around him, he had known the stories of the SHIELD since childhood. But Magnus was not finished.

“After those hundred years, another choice will be offered to you. You may finally leave the army…”

Once again, he wore that expression of profound disgust. A few recruits stifled a laugh.

“…or attempt to join the SENTINELS OF THE ANVIL.”

This time, even the murmuring stopped. Magnus slowly listed the names:

“THE EXO-KNIGHTS OF THE FORGE. THE ADAMANTINE HAMMERS. THE IRON BASTIONS.”

He gave everyone time to take in those names.

“Another hundred years of service. After that, if you're still alive, you may enjoy a retirement you will truly have earned.”

His smile returned.

“But before you start dreaming of honours, you'll begin by trying to look like soldiers.”

A few laughs broke out.

“Each of you will receive our family's black-and-blue uniform. For your personal weapon: an AR-47 or an AR-41. And for the luckiest among you, the new AR-550.”

This time, several faces lit up. Gunnar's was no exception. Magnus abruptly raised an arm towards the armoury.

“Now get your backsides moving! Double time!”

The ranks burst into motion. Yet only a few minutes later, the recruits found themselves standing still again, this time in an endless queue outside the armoury.

And that was where Gunnar saw her. In front of him stood a young dwarf woman with auburn hair. An enormous braid began on the left side of her head, crossed through her hair and disappeared behind her right ear. Nothing like the ponytails Gunnar was used to seeing on young dwarf women his age.

Then she turned her head slightly. Gunnar caught sight of her eyes. Blue. But not merely blue. They immediately reminded him of the little mountain lakes where he and his friends used to swim in summer. Reaching them meant a long walk. The paths grew narrower and narrower as they climbed. In places, they skirted limestone cliffs, and only mountain sheep seemed mad enough to take some of those passages. Naturally, that had never stopped Gunnar and his friends. When they finally reached the summit, sweating and out of breath, the little lake would appear at the bottom of a basin of pale rock. Then another competition began. Who would be first into the water? They tore off their clothes as they ran, jostled one another and dived in. And when their overheated bodies plunged into the icy water flowing down from the mountains… It took their breath away. Exactly as it did now. Gunnar was no longer even aware of himself. He was staring at her. His mouth had gone dry. A nice cold beer would probably have helped. Probably.

The young woman suddenly turned around. Had she felt his eyes on her? Their gazes met. She smiled at him. Not a shy smile. Still less an embarrassed one. A challenging smile.

“What are you staring at?”

At a hundred years old, Gunnar already possessed many fine qualities. Caution was clearly not among them. He answered without hesitation:

“The curve of your backside. And now that you've turned around, I can see your chest is every bit as impressive.”

SMACK!

The slap cracked so loudly that every conversation around them stopped instantly. Dozens of heads turned. A deathly silence fell over the queue. Gunnar stood motionless for a few seconds. Then he slowly raised a hand to his cheek. It burned. He looked at the young woman. She held his gaze. So Gunnar inclined his head slightly, stepped one foot back and gave her a perfectly exaggerated bow.

“That one… I thoroughly deserved.”

A few muffled laughs rose around them. Gunnar continued:

“Please accept my deepest apologies, fair lady. But let us be frank: your beauty swept me off my feet, and for a few seconds I had quite clearly lost my head.”

He placed a hand over his chest.

“May I at least make amends for my offence by introducing myself? Gunnar Fierabras. At your service.”

The young woman stared at him. One second. Then two. And suddenly she burst out laughing. A hearty, ringing, terribly infectious laugh. The male and female dwarves around them ended up laughing with her and, little by little, the queue began moving towards the armoury again. She shook her head slightly as she looked at Gunnar.

“Well done. Nice recovery, my friend.”

Then she held out her hand.

“Crystal Pierre de Fée.”

Gunnar looked at her. Then at her hand. He had no idea that he had just met the dwarf woman who, for a very long time, would become the person he most wanted to beat in the entire world.

The days that followed quickly gave Crystal reason to regret calling him “my friend”. Recruit training left little time for new friendships. Still less for budding romances. From the very first weeks, Magnus the Ravager diligently set about turning the young dwarves entrusted to him into soldiers. Running, endurance, weapons handling, close combat, navigation, forced marches: the days began before dawn and ended long after everyone had stopped feeling their legs.

And in the midst of all this, another competition had begun.

A competition Magnus had never ordered.

“Your turn, Fierabras.”

In the close-combat training hall, the recruits formed a circle around two opponents. Gunnar wiped the blood beading at the corner of his lip with the back of his hand. Opposite him, Crystal was smiling.

“Is that all?”

Gunnar looked at the blood on his fingers.

“I was simply considering the best way to preserve your pretty face.”

“You should worry about your own.”

She attacked. Gunnar barely had time to block her arm. He tried to throw her off balance, but Crystal pivoted, slipped beneath his guard and sent him crashing to the floor. The impact knocked the breath out of him. Crystal leaned over him.

“Well?”

Gunnar raised one finger.

“I'd almost worked it out.”

The recruits around them burst out laughing. Magnus, however, was not smiling.

“Fierabras! On your feet!”

Gunnar got up.

“Pierre de Fée, do it again.”

Crystal frowned.

“Commander, he's on the floor.”

“And you're still standing. That is precisely what worries me. Clearly you still have energy to waste on chatter.”

A few laughs broke out. Magnus slowly turned his head. They stopped immediately.

“Again.”

This time Gunnar did not joke. Crystal attacked first. He was waiting for her. A few seconds later, she was the one who hit the floor. Gunnar offered her his hand. She looked at his hand. Then at his face. And got up on her own.

“Tomorrow.”

“With pleasure.”

And so it went for months. Whenever the recruits had to choose an opponent, Crystal looked for Gunnar. And Gunnar was generally already watching her. One day she won. The next, he did. Every victory became a debt. Every defeat demanded a rematch. Magnus watched. And said nothing.

Shooting revealed another difference between them. Magnus walked behind the line of recruits while an instructor explained the exercise.

“On the battlefield, you aren't trying to impress your comrades. You're trying to hit your target. The centre of the body is your priority. It presents the largest area and therefore gives you the best chance of hitting your opponent. Understood?”

“YES, INSTRUCTOR!”

“Take position!”

The weapons rose.

“Fire!”

Shots rang out one after another. Gunnar fired methodically. Breathe. Squeeze the trigger. Impact. He knew his weapon, its recoil, its balance. When the ceasefire order came, he lowered his rifle with satisfaction. The target in front of him showed a tight grouping in the centre of the torso. Naturally, he turned his head towards Crystal's. And his smile vanished. The torso of her target was untouched. The head, on the other hand, had practically disappeared.

The instructor approached. He studied the target. Then Crystal. Then the target again.

“Pierre de Fée. Where did I tell you to shoot?”

“At the centre of the body, Instructor.”

“And where did you shoot?”

“In the head, Instructor.”

“I'm relieved to see you know the difference.”

A few recruits stifled a laugh.

“Why?”

Crystal looked at her target.

“Because he won't be getting up again.”

The instructor clenched his jaw.

“That wasn't the exercise.”

“No, Instructor.”

“Points deducted.”

“Yes, Instructor.”

Gunnar looked at his own result. Then at Crystal's. On the score sheet, he would rank ahead of her. And somehow that almost annoyed him.

In the mess hall, he set his tray down opposite hers.

“I won.”

Crystal calmly carried on eating.

“You followed orders better.”

“The rankings say I won.”

At last she looked up.

“Give me a target at eight hundred metres and say that again.”

Gunnar smiled.

“Tomorrow?”

“Whenever you like.”

A few tables away, Magnus watched them. Then returned to his meal.

Months turned into years. The duel never ended. But something else was quietly taking root between them. Gunnar no longer even tried to hide it. Whenever he entered the mess hall, his eyes searched for Crystal. When she was already there, surrounded by other recruits, he found her almost immediately. And sometimes Crystal looked up. She caught him watching her. Then she would pull a face, flash a provocative smile or simply raise a finger to remind him of that day's victory. She was convinced she was looking for her rival. She had never wondered why, in a room full of dwarves, she needed to know where Gunnar Fierabras was.

Magnus had warned them.

“Today you will discover something important: your body can go far beyond what your mind believes possible.”

He pointed to the packs.

“Full weapons load. Ammunition. Rations. Field equipment. Nothing stays behind.”

A discreet groan ran through the ranks. Magnus smiled.

“Did I just hear someone volunteer to double the distance?”

Absolute silence.

“Excellent. Move out.”

The first hours were difficult. The next became gruelling. Then the pain simply became part of the march. Gunnar spotted Crystal a few metres ahead. He quickened his pace. She heard him coming. Turned her head slightly. And quickened hers as well. Gunnar smiled. He should have known.

An hour later, they had left much of their section behind. Neither Magnus nor any instructor had asked them to finish first. That no longer mattered. Crystal passed Gunnar on an uphill stretch. He caught her on the descent. She gained a few metres crossing a stream. He closed the gap among the rocks.

After a while, they even stopped speaking. They no longer had the strength. A glance was enough. I'm still here.

Then:

So am I.

Their legs burned. Their pack straps cut into their shoulders. Every breath grew shorter. But neither would give in. Crystal gained a few more metres. Gunnar clenched his teeth. She placed her foot on a stone. The stone shifted. Everything happened in a second. Crystal toppled. Gunnar saw her body disappear over the side of the precipice. He threw himself forward. His hand caught her forearm. Crystal's weight and that of her pack dragged him violently towards the edge. Gunnar slammed into the ground. Part of his chest was already hanging over the void.

“Don't move!”

“Brilliant idea!”

Crystal hung from his arm. Gunnar braced his boots against the rock and pulled. Centimetre by centimetre. Eventually Crystal found a handhold and helped him. When she finally climbed back over the edge, they both lay sprawled on the path. They breathed as though they had just run to the top of the world. Then Gunnar turned his head towards her.

“I was about to overtake you.”

Crystal burst out laughing.

“In your dreams, Fierabras.”

She tried to stand. Her expression changed immediately. Gunnar sat up.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She put her foot down. Her leg gave way. Gunnar caught her.

“Nothing?”

“I can walk.”

“I didn't ask.”

He crouched down and took off his pack.

“What are you doing?”

Gunnar did not answer. He fastened Crystal's pack to his own, picked up his weapon and then hers.

“Give me that.”

“No.”

“Fierabras…”

“Walk.”

“I can carry my own equipment.”

“So can I.”

“You'll drop dead before we get there.”

Gunnar hauled the straps onto his shoulders and grimaced beneath the weight.

“Then you'll be able to say you won.”

Crystal stared at him. He expected an insult. None came. They set off again. Slowly. Very slowly. For the first time since they had met, neither tried to get ahead of the other. When Crystal slowed, Gunnar slowed. When she stumbled, his arm was there. When he stopped for a few seconds under the weight of both packs, she waited. They arrived long after the first recruits.

Magnus was there. He looked at Crystal limping. Then at Gunnar. Then at the two weapons. Then at the two packs strapped together on his back.

“You're the last two.”

Gunnar lowered his eyes.

“Yes, Commander.”

Magnus looked at Crystal.

“Pierre de Fée?”

“Yes, Commander.”

Magnus remained silent for a few seconds.

“Curious.”

Both looked up.

“For years, you've done everything you could to finish ahead of each other.”

He gestured towards the camp.

“And this is the first time I've seen you arrive together.”

Magnus turned on his heel.

“Pierre de Fée, report to the infirmary. Fierabras, put that bloody mess down before I have to order you a replacement spine.”

And he walked away.

That night, Crystal barely slept. Her leg hurt. But that was not what kept her awake. She thought about the precipice. Gunnar's hand gripping her arm. Her pack on his shoulders. Those last kilometres, during which he had not once tried to overtake her. And other memories returned. The mess hall. Her comrades around her. That strange need she had always felt to find Gunnar in the room. And almost every time… he was already looking at her. For a long time she had taken that gaze for another provocation. Now she was no longer so sure. Because she remembered the way he looked at her. Not like the young idiot who, on their first meeting, had admired the curve of her backside before receiving a slap. Differently. A calm gaze. Warm. Kind. For the first time, Crystal Pierre de Fée wondered whether she and Gunnar had truly been competing in the same contest all those years. And that thought kept her awake until morning.

A few days later, Gunnar entered the mess hall. Out of habit, he looked for Crystal. She was sitting with several dwarf women. Their eyes met. Gunnar smiled. Ordinarily, Crystal would have pulled a face, shown him her fist or found some way to remind him she would get her revenge. This time, she did none of those things. She simply looked at him. And smiled back.

Gunnar stopped dead in the middle of the mess hall.

A dwarf behind him walked straight into him.

“Could you keep moving, Fierabras?”

Gunnar did not even hear him. Crystal lowered her eyes to her plate. But her smile remained.

A few weeks later, Gunnar received a message.

Hangar 12. After lights out.

Nothing else. He immediately recognised the sender. When he entered the hangar, Crystal was waiting. The place was almost silent. Around them lay old machines and military equipment that had been stored away for years. Wooden crates were stacked against the walls. The air carried mingled smells of old oil, gunpowder, dust and cold metal. Even the steel itself seemed to have soaked into the place.

Crystal was leaning against a crate.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Maybe.”

Gunnar smiled.

“You brought me all the way here to say maybe?”

She straightened up.

“Do you always talk this much?”

“Only when I'm nervous.”

Crystal raised an eyebrow.

“You?”

“Ever since I walked in.”

She approached. Gunnar was no longer joking. He looked at her. Those same blue eyes. The lake. The icy water. His breath catching. All those years, and the effect was still the same. He gently placed a hand against her cheek. Crystal did not move. So Gunnar kissed her. For a second, she returned his kiss. Then she seized his wrist. Gunnar barely had time to understand. His arm was twisted, he lost his balance and his back hit the floor. Crystal pinned him down. She was above him. Gunnar winced.

“I suppose I've done something wrong again.”

Crystal smiled.

“No.”

She released his arm. Then, without taking her eyes off Gunnar, she caught the hem of her T-shirt and slowly pulled it over her head. Gunnar's smile vanished. For once, he could find absolutely nothing to say. Crystal's smile widened.

“Finally.”

And in that old hangar smelling of oil, gunpowder, ancient crates and cold steel, their competition changed its nature forever.

The weeks that followed were different. Not easier. Magnus would certainly never have allowed that. But Gunnar and Crystal no longer systematically sought to fight against each other. They began to fight together. And all those years spent searching for the slightest weakness in the other produced a result nobody had expected. Gunnar knew what Crystal would do before she did it. Crystal knew how Gunnar would react before he even moved. They no longer needed to speak. They had become a team. A formidable team.

Then recruit training drew to a close. And Crystal received a mission. She had to leave for a few days. Gunnar was not worried. Missions were part of their lives now. He watched her leave. He waited for her return. A few days passed. Then a week. Then longer. Gunnar began asking questions. Nobody knew anything. Or nobody wanted to tell him.

Eventually, he went to see Magnus.

“Commander, I'd like to know where Crystal Pierre de Fée is.”

Magnus studied him for a long time. This time, there was no joke.

“Her mission should have ended several days ago.”

Gunnar felt something tighten in his stomach.

“Then where is she?”

Magnus remained silent.

“Commander?”

“Crystal Pierre de Fée disappeared during her mission.”

Gunnar waited for him to continue.

He did not.

“Disappeared?”

“That's all I can tell you, Fierabras.”

“Is she dead?”

Magnus looked Gunnar straight in the eye.

“I didn't say that.”

And it was precisely those words that condemned Gunnar to hope.

For a long time.

A very long time.

And every time he thought of Crystal, a pain gripped his heart.

His first scar. The one nobody ever saw.