His sword came down, and in its polished surface I saw the faces of my people.

Dwarven silver, smithed by my ancestors, pried from their cold, dead hands.

Clonk.

My iron bar slams up, catching the sword in flight.

I grin. A true dwarf knows: those fancy swords are for show, not for war.

The metal rod meets his skull.

The crack is deafening.

It’s over.