A Short Tale of the One-Year Anniversary of Tiamat’s Defeat
The grand hall of Storm’s Rest had never looked finer.
Banners fluttered from gilded rafters, the floors gleamed like polished moonlight, and a statue of Tiamat’s severed head made entirely out of magically-sculpted cheese stood at the center of the banquet table.
A bard trio played a heroic ballad entitled “Hand of the Storm: Five Against the Flames.”
Dumak stood in the back, his beard combed, armor polished to a reflective shine, and his massive maul resting gently on the floor beside him.
He’d waited for this day.
His day.
The one-year anniversary of Tiamat’s fall. The day they would finally acknowledge the dwarf who’d bludgeoned three dragons, held the flank during the siege of Silnorith, and helped clear the way to the tower where the Scourge Lords made their last stand.
Sure, he’d briefly retreated during the final battle.
Sure, it was a very loud dragon goddess, and the ground shook unnaturally hard.
And sure, he might have run screaming “nope nope nope nope” while shedding pieces of armor.
But no one remembered that part, right?
“And now!” declared the announcer, a bright-eyed half-elf with a magically enhanced voice, “Let us honor the legendary heroes… the Hand of the Storm!”
The crowd roared.
Jandar, cape flaring and hat at the perfect angle, shot finger guns and winked at absolutely no one.
Deacon Bruce, arms crossed, nodded once and muttered something about how the cheese statue was “an undignified dairy-based weapon.”
Xil, in perfect black, melted from the shadows just enough to accept a goblet and disappear again.
Zook was holding two toddlers and trying to balance a third on his head.
And King Vegon Shadowseer, robes billowing, accepted a bouquet of magical lilies that briefly turned into tiny floating orbs that applauded him.
No one mentioned Dumak.
He waited through the speeches.
He clapped politely as the bard sang “Five Fingers Strike the Storm” (he swore the lyrics used to mention “six” before Jandar edited them).
He even chuckled when Jandar called him “the bravest dwarf we never met.”
That one stung.
Finally, he stepped forward.
“Excuse me,” Dumak said, clearing his throat. “I’d just like to say a few words—”
The crowd hushed.
Zook whispered to Vegon, “Did we hire a caterer with a maul?”
Deacon squinted. “Wasn’t he that guy from the... lava part?”
Jandar leaned to Xil. “I thought he was a beard-based illusion.”
“My name is Dumak Ironshoulder, and I fought beside the Hand of the Storm during the Scourge Lord campaign. I stood with you at the gates of Silnorith. I crushed the head of the Shadow Fang Wyrm with my bare hands and a blessed mug.”
“I was there when the skies split open.”
“I—”
“—ran screaming from Tiamat?” someone called helpfully.
The crowd chuckled.
Dumak turned red. His beard quivered.
“That was tactical withdrawal!”
Jandar put a hand on his shoulder.
“Dumak, buddy, we appreciate you. Truly.”
“Really?” Dumak said hopefully.
“Absolutely. You were… you know. Support staff.”
“Support staff!?”
“Hey,” Zook said kindly, “every storm needs a thunderclap. You were like a distant, echoing... thud.”
“I literally killed a dragon with a keg!”
“That was you?” Xil blinked. “Huh.”
Vegon stepped forward, diplomatic as ever.
“You were brave, Dumak. But the Hand… it’s a metaphor. Five fingers. Five heroes.”
“Then make me the thumb!”
“I’m the thumb,” said Deacon.
“Fine, then the weird sixth finger that only certain species have!”
Jandar grinned.
“Dumak, if it helps, we’ve never forgotten you.”
“Really?”
“Of course. We joke about you all the time.”
Dumak opened his mouth to yell—then sighed, slumped, and trudged back toward the exit.
As he passed the bard, he muttered, “You know what rhymes with ‘maul to the face’? ‘Personal disgrace.’ Think about it.”
Later that night, at the bar outside Storm’s Rest, Dumak sat with his feet on the table and a tankard in each hand.
A young adventurer approached him.
“You really fought with the Hand of the Storm?”
Dumak blinked.
“Aye.”
“Did you… really kill a dragon with a keg?”
“…I did.”
“And you ran from Tiamat?”
“Lad,” Dumak said, sipping deeply, “I was smart enough to live to drink about it.”
The adventurer raised his mug.
“To the sixth finger.”
Dumak grinned.
“Now that’s a name I can drink to.”
THE END (or possibly the beginning of The Sixth Finger Chronicles)
