Of Anumia
Part 3Determination
Anumia was shoved into the back of the Hall of Determination, a claustrophobic amphitheater carved directly into the cold mountain bedrock. The air here was heavy, smelling of damp stone, old tallow candles, and the bitter, metallic tang of gnomish black-powder exhaust that clung to the low ceiling.
In the center stood the human knight. Stripped of his polished steel armor, Sir Gareth looked shockingly fragile against the massive, geometric architecture of the elder races. He wore only a torn padded gambeson, stained dark with dried sweat and river silt. Bound in heavy iron chains that seemed deliberately oversized—clunky gnomish engineering meant to weigh down a larger species—he looked battered but unbowed. Red welts ringed his thick wrists, yet his posture remained rigidly military.
High above him, the High Lord’s voice boomed down from a raised obsidian dais, echoing sharply off the soft angles of the room.
“You were tasked with a single duty, Sir Gareth,” the High Lord spat, his voice laced with venom. He looked down his sharp nose, his gaze lingering on the knight’s broad shoulders with a look of distinct, ancestral distaste. “To secure the Kurarian Riverfront and guard our merchant fleet. Yet when the desert husks surged across the water—when those skinless, undead abominations swarmed the decks—you failed. Just as your short-lived kind always fails when muscle is no substitute for mind.”
“I did not fail!” the knight’s voice rang out, shaking the stone walls. “The ships were lost, but we held the line until—“
A heavy, mechanized gauntlet smashed into Gareth’s jaw. The knight’s voice cut off as he hit the stone floor, the heavy iron chains clattering violently. A stout gnomish guard stood over him, brass knuckles gleaming in the torchlight. A faint murmur from Gareth’s lips.
“You knowingly sent innocent gnomes into a crossfire of monsters to cover your own retreat!” the High Lord bellowed, slamming a heavy ceremonial gavel. The strike rang out like a pistol shot. “Twenty-two of our finest minds, our citizens, were slaughtered by the husks because of your predictable, meat-headed cowardice.”
A roar of fierce agreement rippled through the tiered rows of dwarven and gnomish spectators. To them, the human was just an oversized brute who had spent smaller, more valuable lives to save his own skin.
The High Lord leaned forward, the glow of the amber crystals illuminating the harsh lines of his face. “For generations, the Grand Partitions have forced our superior minds to share borders, resources, and trust with—” The high lord winced as if cutting off his train of thought. “This tragedy proves those ancient borders are a failure.” He paused, letting his voice echo over the crowd. “For the crime of high treason against this realm, and to mark the true end of the Grand Partitions, you are stripped of your rank and sentenced to death.” The high lord turned away with a crack.
Just as the High Lord turned his back to leave the dais, a small shadow broke from the front row of the gallery. It was a dwarf-sized silhouette; a shadow twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated venom. A slender, rusted shank flashed in his hand as he vaulted onto the dais. Before anyone could react, he plunged the blade deep into the chained knight’s throat.
Blood sprayed across the black stone. Sir Gareth gasped, his head rolling back as his knees buckled against the iron chains.
A young palace guard stood beside Gareth, overcome in the moment. He didn’t draw his sword. He didn’t think. Reeling back, he drove a heavy, iron-gauntleted fist straight down into the small attacker’s head.
There was a hollow, wet crack.
The extremist collapsed instantly, the rusted shank clattering away. The young guard stumbled backward, his iron glove dripping with dark fluid, his chest heaving as the adrenaline evaporated. He stood entirely paralyzed, staring down. Beside the dying knight, the gnome was flat on his back, his limbs violently convulsing in a silent seizure. A thick, white froth began bubbling rapidly from his lips, staining his chin before the foam turned a dark, blooming crimson.
The rhythmic, wet clicking of the gnome’s twitching boots against the bedrock was the only sound left in the room. The young guard looked, his breathing turning into a ragged, hyperventilating choke. His gaze fixated on the small figure. Tears fell from his unblinking eyes as his skin turned pale and blue. A hand grabbed him by the shoulder and tore him away.
The High Lord slowly spun back around, his eyes locking onto the grim tableau. He didn’t call for guards; he didn’t offer mercy. Instead, a calculating coldness settled over his face as he looked out at the thousands of dwarves and gnomes in the amphitheater, whose shocked silence was already souring into feral rage.
The High Lord stepped to the very edge of the obsidian dais, his arms thrown wide to absorb their collective anger. The High Lord’s grin was veiled only by the light from above, ominous in its obsidian glow.
“Look upon this hall!” his voice thundered, amplified by the Gnomish acoustics until the stone itself vibrated. “The corruption of humanity knows no bounds! First, they sacrifice our people to the skinless horrors of the west. Now, their very presence brings madness and murder into our sacred halls of justice! They are a rot inside the machine of Gniagom!”
A low, vibrating roar rose from the dwarven seats, a wave of stomping boots that shook the dust from the rafters.
“By the authority of the High Seat, I declare a purge of the infection,” the High Lord roared over the din, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger at the exit doors. “Effective this very hour, all humans are stripped of citizenship, stripped of property, and eternally banished from the gates of Gniagom! Clear the streets! Hunt them down and drag them to the lowlands!”
The room exploded. It wasn’t a judicial dismissal; it was an incitement to riot. The crowd poured down from the stands like a breaking dam. In the upper decks, hundreds of angry hands began grabbing at the few human spectators, tearing at their clothes and dragging them down the stone steps.
Beside Anumia, Grand Overseer Bram recoiled in horror, his frantic gaze darting from the bloody dais straight to the human tailor standing next to him. The panic on the bureaucrat’s face instantly shifted to cold, self-preserving disgust. Without a word, Bram violently shoved Anumia away, wiping his hands on his gold-trimmed robes as if the tailor were contaminated. A shrill and almost cackling voice pierced from the crowd. “You’ll be going with them now.” Bram backed away into the shadows of the guard line, completely abandoning Anumia in the open aisle just as the heavy, suffocating silence of the room began to fracture.
The guards forcefully ejected Anumia from the Hall of Determination, sending him staggering into the palace’s deep, vaulted corridors. The High Lord’s sudden decree had instantly transformed the royal halls into a gauntlet of terror. Armed dwarven sentries and gnomish Overseers lined the polished obsidian passageways, aggressively herding the building’s human servants, emissaries, and pages toward the exit. Anumia was swept along in the frantic, echoing rush of bodies, catching glimpses of tapestries torn from the walls and expensive glass ornaments shattered under iron-shod boots as they were ruthlessly driven through the labyrinthine palace layout to the main gates.
The heavy palace doors slammed shut behind them, throwing Anumia directly from the royal interior into a city-wide nightmare. A roaring wave of gnomes and dwarves surged through the upper tiers, sweeping the city’s broader human population before them like cattle. Hands yanked at Anumia’s tunic, shoving him down the steep stone steps. He stumbled, his boots splashing into the oily brown mire of the lower streets as the mob jeered, throwing stones and spitting.
A desperate group of human laborers finally fought back, turning their iron pry-bars and wooden crates against the advancing lines. The brief rebellion was instantly crushed by gnomish technology. From the rear of the mob, shock-canisters hissed to life, deploying mechanical trip-drones and pressurized arcs of blue, snapping lightning that systematically paralyzed the rebels, extinguishing any hope of a counter-offensive.
The panicked crowd was forced toward the roaring eastern banks of the Kurarian River. Ahead, a narrow, slick span of natural rock formed a precarious bridge over the churning rapids, leading to the western side. The sheer mass of the angry mob physically threw the humans forward onto the slick path. The edges became a death trap; desperate humans lost their footing, sliding off the wet stone and falling into the unforgiving torrent below. Beggars, bishops, and laborers all became alike.
On the western side, hidden behind a curtain of rushing river water and jagged rocks, lay the dark, yawning mouth of a cavern. “Into the crag!” a massive dwarven laborer bellowed from across the water, slamming the butt of a hammer against a human man’s shoulder to drive the survivors away. “Back to the sand where you belong!”
Anumia was compressed in the center of the crowd, the freezing spray of the Kurarian stinging his face as they were packed tightly into the absolute darkness of the cave system.