Firehorn: A Dwarf Fortress Story - Part One

by J. C. Bass

 

  NGOM

  Ngom smelled death.

  Fresh death too. The air was sweet with it. The smell had come drifting through the cracks beneath the door this morning and the jailer lit his torch a little while after. Ngom heard the coughs and sighs of a waking Dwarf, the jingle of keys, the draining of ale from mugs, the gnawing of old fowl bones…Those were the sounds of morning in this place.

  Seven other prisoners sat in the cage behind him. Without looking Ngom kicked one. He heard a hiss of pain as the other Goblin retreated to a corner.

  Ngom had to keep them afraid. Underlings without fear were treacherous creatures.

  For the past several weeks, he’d sensed that they were plotting to kill him. Such plotting could not be vocalized however, since the cage was so small that Ngom could hear every groan, every growl, every belch and every breath they dared to utter. But the thoughts were there, he was sure of it. He’d catch their predatory eyes leering at him when his back was turned and knew they were trying to find weakness.

  But if they decided to kill him, Ngom doubted that it would be today. The smell of death meant that something interesting was happening. Nothing brought Goblins together like the presence of death; they’d want his strength, if only temporarily. As soon as they’d tasted the scent, they’d become more alert than they had been in weeks. They even started looking again for ways out of the cage; a futile exercise, but at least they were looking. Too long had they sat idle.

  A knife rusts without use, as the old saying goes.

  Ngom sniffed the air again. No blood. Not surprising though, since the kill had come when he was asleep and he’d heard nothing. Very few killers could tread so lightly that Ngom couldn’t hear them. Suffocation? Poison? Ngom considered disease, but that was doubtful. The air did not have the scent of sickness.

  Ngom heard the popping of knuckles. “…Meat,” said one of the others. “Ngom will provide?”

  Ngom kicked him, and hard. He whimpered, and Ngom hated him for it. “I will have your meat should you complain again.”

  “Ozru relents,” the wretch said, curling into a ball.

  Ngom spat on him. Pathetic westerners…most of them were only fit for fighting Elves. If he’d begged for meat back in the Dread Tower he would have been fed to the trolls. However, with only eight of them in this cage, Ngom couldn’t afford to waste even the most pathetic of his soldiers.

  The Dwarves only fed them a meager diet, but most of them were still faring well. Ngom ate the largest share and Ozru got only the scraps the others left behind. Ngom had seen Goblins survive on less, so he thought Ozru was probably speaking more out of fear than hunger.

  And that fear was well-justified.

  There could only be one reason they were being kept alive, and that was for sport. Ngom had expected them to be executed months ago, but apparently the Dwarves were delaying the pleasure. Whatever sport they had planned for them would certainly be extravagant. The Dwarves were known for such things, and to keep his mind active, Ngom often entertained himself by trying to guess what fanciful method of execution they had in store for them. Would they be set loose in a labyrinth of deadly traps? Fed to a titan? Crushed to death by a magma-powered rock press?

  Whatever it was, they’d spent months preparing it. The guards often taunted them by saying that their bloody surprise was ‘almost ready,’ and that Dwarven vengeance would soon be at hand.

  As a connoisseur of cruelty himself, Ngom could appreciate a good wait. At the tower they often did the same, letting their prisoners stew in their own fear for months or sometimes even years. However, their methods of execution tended toward the old-fashioned rather than the ingenious. A blunt instrument here, a blade there…Ngom didn’t often find himself experiencing envy, but he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of legendary tortures Goblinkind could come up with if they only had the same mechanical prowess as Dwarves.

  Yet for all their genius, the Dwarves were losing the war.

  For the last ten or so years, the Final Torment had been taking all the coastland leading north. Within a matter of half a decade, the area the Humans called Boulder Coast would belong to Goblinkind. If the Humans tried to reinforce it, they’d have to by sea and that seemed unlikely. Ngom had taken part in some of those raiding parties, and the Humans had very little in the way of real fighters there; apparently they only used the area to fish and cut timber.

  And naturally, the Dwarves didn’t care what happened to Human territories. When the Final Torment finally took over the area, the Dwarves would sit back and do nothing.

  But if Boulder Coast fell, the surrounding countryside would be easily dominated. The Long Night was a perfect place for the Goblins to build a fortress of their own, and from there the Final Torment would have whichever target they liked best: Marblespire, White Hills, or Firehorn.

  Marblespire was the most difficult, and too direct. A war that far in the interior would be foolish.

  White Hills, home to the far-less ingenious Hill Dwarves, had shown a little promise. The Final Torment had a small war going on with them now, but judging from the relatively small troop commitment, Ngom thought it was probably being done just to probe their defenses. White Hills could potentially be taken, but it would be very costly and victory would not be guaranteed.

  Firehorn, much like Marblespire, had long been considered almost unbreakable. However, recent events might have changed that.

  Last winter’s army had set out from the tower with roughly two-hundred and fifty Goblins and seventy-five ogres and trolls. Fifteen percent died along the way due to cold. Ngom had made the trek north four times, but this last winter had been the most merciless he’d ever experienced. The metal of their weapons had been so cold that their skin would freeze to it instantly. Ngom had seen a Goblin learn this the hard way, inadvertently touching the metal of his spear to his arm and losing six inches of flesh as a consequence. There had been constant infighting for better furs; Ngom himself had murdered an archer for his gloves and a lasher when his boots began to wear thin. By the time they reached Firehorn, their force had been exhausted to the point of mutiny, and only the promise of Dwarven blood had prevented the uprising.

  Though they still possessed a serious force, it couldn’t match the strength of a fortress as large as Firehorn. The Dwarves were inherently superior fighters individually and had far better equipment, so even with a smaller militia the odds had been in their favor. They’d fielded around one-hundred and twenty that day, and perhaps thirty bears. Throughout the years they had remained stubbornly consistent with that number (with much success), and though it was widely believed that Firehorn held much in reserve, it was unknown just how many.

  One of the Goblin leaders, an ambitious lasher wanting to rise up in the ranks, had been tasked with leading a flanking maneuver to rattle the Dwarven line in hopes that they would be forced to bring up their reserve. Even if the battle was lost at that point, the leadership would at least have the information to help them plan future attacks. Similar maneuvers had been tried over the years and almost always resulted in terrible casualties, so with the troops as exhausted as they were, there was very little hope of success.

  Ngom had been a part of that charge. The night had been lit only by their crude torches, many of which were blown out by the fierce arctic winds. Snow was waist high and fell in flakes so thick that he could not see his own hands in front of him. Corpses became stiff as soon as they hit the ground, and the blood that spurted from their wounds froze and shattered underfoot.

  And yet they charged. The first line of attackers was instantly shredded by Dwarven spears, axes, swords, and hammers. The snow was littered with limbs and blood and the entrails of the fallen. A volley of crossbow bolts seemed to fell half their line in an instant. A rout seemed inevitable.

  But the weeks of marching and cold had made the Goblins desperate. They had suffered far, far too
much not to have their thirst for blood quenched. They fought all the more fiercely the more they died, and before the Dwarves could adjust their lines, momentum seemed to turn in favor of the invaders.

  The Goblins had taken horrendous casualties (including the ambitious lasher leading them), but the maneuver had worked. A reserve of eighty Dwarves were brought out of the northern gate and put onto the field to help stop the damage. As they did, the battle immediately tipped back in favor of the Dwarves.

  And then, something wonderful happened.

  And that something was Ngom.

  He couldn’t help but grin as he remembered. He’d been reliving the moment constantly since they’d been captured.

  Ngom had found one of the Dwarven leaders, a male in steel armor so polished and pure that it glimmered even in the midst of the blizzard. He fought like a creature gone insane, his deep bellowing voice barking orders and screaming madly in the speech of slaughter. Troll and Goblin and ogre limbs lie scattered around him; he was a lunatic butcher, beautiful and terrible to behold.

  Ngom didn’t know what the Dwarves called his position, but he appeared to be leading a sizeable portion of the troops, possibly even half. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and Ngom had a choice: fight or flee.

  Survival in the Dread Tower was a constant tug-of-war between boldness and discretion. One did not advance without the former, and one did not survive without the latter, and Ngom prided himself on his ability to walk the line. As he stood there looking into the Dwarf’s eyes, he knew the creature was at his most dangerous then.

  And yet, Ngom charged him anyway. Call it intuition.

  They’d fought for what felt like hours, but in truth it could not have been that long. The Dwarf’s strength was fearsome to behold, his armor impregnable. Ngom dodged around the fey beast, prodding for gaps in the armor with the tips of his blades. It was a spectacular example of their age-old racial battle; strength versus speed.

  Ngom’s furs were frozen with sweat and snow and blood, but his blade still found the armpit of the slower Dwarf, spilling his steaming blood into the snow. The Dwarf seemed to fall in slow motion, the torches of dozens of Goblins casting diabolical shadows on his glimmering breastplate. Ngom watched the life flee from his victim’s eyes, then lopped off the creature’s head and raised it high, letting out a victorious battle cry that made all within earshot stand in pause.

  Whoever his victim was his standing amongst the Dwarves must have been quite high, for when the others saw that he was dead, a great cry exploded forth from their ranks, and it was as if their strength left them all at once. They bawled like mewling babes, and Ngom laughed hysterically as he drank deeply of their despair.

  There was nothing so sweet as the cry of the conquered.

  The Dwarven ranks collapsed. The rout was on. Ngom and many others ran forth after them, finally getting through the great stone gateway and into the interior courtyard. Their victory was almost assured.

  But another Dwarf rallied the flagging troops. This one wore mail that gleamed just as brightly as the other, only it was a female. She’d climbed the outside of one of the towers and her voice rang out above the tumult, calling for her compatriots to hold the line.

  Through the snow and the blood and the dark, Ngom saw her, and she saw him. It was clear that she knew he was the one who’d made the crucial kill. They charged toward one another, and then-

  And then he was trapped.

  Ngom should have known. The inner courtyard was filled with traps hidden beneath the snow. Most of them killed or crippled all who came near. Ngom had been one of the lucky few that had only been confined.

  But the battle was instantly lost. With many of the Goblins now trapped, the rallied Dwarves had momentum on their side. Most of the unwounded Goblins who’d made it inside refused to accept that the tides were now turned, and fought and died where they stood. Those who did survive were forced into retreat.

  They had been so close. No force had pushed through the gates of Firehorn in decades, perhaps longer.

  And it was all owed to Ngom.

  He gripped the bars of his cage. Now that so much time had passed, the leadership undoubtedly thought him dead. He would be unable to claim the glory that was rightfully his, or worse, some other Goblin could claim that they had been the one to slay the Dwarven fighter.

  Ngom clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. His finest kill, and he could not claim it. A lifetime of toil in the front lines of countless battles had won him only modest status amongst his kind. He was regarded as a fine killer and clever tactician, but the Final Torment had no shortage of those. Finally he had something to distinguish himself, and yet-

  Ngom forced himself to stop thinking about it. To dwell on the past was weakness, and blinded oneself to the present.

  As it stood, he was not entirely without hope. If enough survivors made it back to the Dread Tower, they’d be able to pass on the precious information they’d gleaned from their daring maneuver. They would know how the Dwarves reacted when pushed to their limits. They may even believe that the Dwarves had suffered enough casualties to warrant a larger push next winter.

  Maybe even a full army.

  Ngom sneered. Winter was still a long way away. But at least it gave him something to hope for.

  Ngom heard voices and heavy boots behind the cell door. The Dwarves had come back. He listened.

  “How did you find him?” Came a female voice. It sounded familiar.

  “Just so,” said another. It was the voice of the jailer. “I woke up, had my meal and ale, and when I checked on him-”

  “You ate first?” Asked a deeper voice. Ngom sniffed the air, smelling something fragrant burning. He couldn’t place it.

  “…Yes,” the jailer croaked.

  The deeper voice mumbled something.

  “Then what?” asked the female.

  “I came in here to check on him.” Three sets of boots shuffled toward the end of the room. The small crack of torchlight Ngom could see beneath the door was blocked. “He didn’t move when I called him so I gave him a shake. That’s when I noticed he was cold.”

  “Gods…” said the deeper voice. The fragrance was stronger now, smoky and earthy and with a hint of pepper.

  “Did you check on him in the night?” the female asked.

  “Aye. Before…before I fell asleep.”

  “Did anyone come to visit him?”

  “His wife brought him the food, but no one after that.”

  “Did he make any noise?”

  “No, quite the opposite actually,” the jailer said. “Normally those that get hammered spend the rest of the night squirmin’ and squealin’. He seemed to be taking it real well.”

  There was a long pause and some shuffling around.

  “Give us a moment,” the female said.

  Ngom heard the jailer shuffle out of the room. He was a heavier Dwarf, and Ngom had long-since learned the sounds of his coming and going. A door closed behind him.

  “Gods…how in Armok’s name did this happen?” Deep voice said.

  “I don’t know,” the female said.

  Their voices had become low, conspiratorial. Ngom pushed himself as far as he could up against the cage, trying to hear everything.

  “Is there any way…” the female started, then stopped. “…Could he have died naturally?”

  “Gods no. He was in perfect health. There’s no way.”

  “Then how?”

  The deeper voice sighed. “I suppose he could have done it himself.”

  “With what?” There came the sound of objects being moved. “There’s nothing here, unless he choked.”

  “No, no signs of suffocation. Though he is rather pale…Do you see any blood?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  A pregnant pause filled the air with tension. Ngom could taste something almost like…

  …Fear?
>
  “I need to examine him closer.”

  “Not here, Bomrek,” the female said. “Once word spreads there will be dozens of Dwarves wanting to see him. Not to mention his wife and-”

  “Back there then. Help me lift him.”

  Suddenly the door burst open, flooding them with light. All the Goblins retreated to a corner of the cage, and even Ngom was forced to shield his eyes. They’d been kept in darkness for weeks so the wan torchlight seemed as bright as a thousand suns. They put the body of the Dwarf on the dusty floor and shut the door.

  The female was the same Dwarf he’d seen that night on the battlefield, the one who’d rallied the troops. She wore a martial gray pig tail fiber tunic over chain mail. Ngom noticed the angular symbol embossed on her steel bangle; it was the same as he’d seen on the breastplate of the man he’d killed. A symbol of rank, perhaps? Ngom counted three knives: two on the waist and one in her boot. The latter was cleverly hidden, but Ngom’s eyes were keen even half-blinded by light.

  The second Dwarf he didn’t recognize, and was the black-haired creature she’d called Bomrek. He was sucking on the end of some odd wooden trinket that oozed intriguing smoke. He carried no weapons, only a leather bag.

  Bomrek shut the door then took the shirt off the corpse. He felt around the ribs and stomach and throat and belly.

  “Anything?”

  “No,” he said. “Gods Datan, I just can’t fathom it.”

  “I can’t either.”

  “I see him once a year for his constitutional. He’s always been fit save for a few stress injuries. Work related things, nothing serious. When was the last time you spoke to him?”

  “Before the feast,” Datan said. “I wanted to hear how his guild had reacted to the news of his hammering. He seemed in good spirits.”

  He shook his head. “If not melancholy, then I don’t know.”

  Datan hesitated. “Check the cast.”

  Bomrek seemed almost to wince. He stood and made sure that the door behind them was securely shut, then removed some tools from his bag and began cutting. As the cast fell away, the light revealed a muscular and hairy Dwarven arm completely devoid of injury.

  Ngom narrowed his eyes. Now that was interesting. Why would they put a cast on-

  And then he saw it.

  Ngom burst into raucous laughter. The Dwarves whirled around.

  Datan sneered and struck the cage with her hand. “Quiet, Goblin.”

  But Ngom could not be quiet. It was simply too funny.

  “I said quiet!”

  Even the other Goblins were staring at Ngom now. They had not seen, and if they had, they did not understand.

  “Ignore him,” Datan said. She touched the arm of the dead Dwarf, feeling around it. “I see nothing, just-”

  Her fingers stopped on two puncture wounds on the inside of the wrist. Bomrek saw them too.

  “They’re fresh,” he said, confusion in his voice. “Only hours old. But I don’t remember seeing them when I put the cast on.”

  Datan’s face was a rictus of anguish. Ngom rasped out another laugh.

  This one understands.

  “How perplexing…” Ngom said, twisting his lips into a devious grin. “...A cast meant to cover no wound is found to have covered a wound after all.” He let out an oily laugh.

  “Quiet,” Datan said.

  “A situation that begs a number of questions,” Ngom rasped. “And unravels a conspiracy as well.”

  “I said quiet.”

  “Gods…” Bomrek said. “A night creature in the fortress? We’ve not received migrants for five years now. That leaves…who, the writer?”

  “No,” Datan said. “I’ve seen him eat and drink. It’s not him.”

  “Then who? You can’t tell me that this has been going on five years now and we haven’t noticed.”

  Ngom could almost taste the anguish from Datan. It warmed him like a fire in his gut.

  “Perhaps more than five,” Ngom offered.

  Datan slammed the cage, pulling a knife from her belt. “Quiet or I’ll cut your cursed throat!”

  Ngom could feel the anger radiating from her and spread his dry lips in a grin.

  Not quite as unflappable as she presents herself, he thought. I’ll have to remember that.

  “You’d do well to tell us if you heard something, Goblin,” Bomrek said. “If a night creature can kill a Dwarf, just think what it could do to you trapped in that cage.”

  “Oh, I hear much,” Ngom said. “I hear things in the dark you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Don’t bother questioning him,” Datan said, sheathing her knife. “He’ll lie just to see us confused. And death from a night creature would be a far better fate than he deserves.”

  Ngom flashed his teeth at her. “You should thank me, Datan. Were it not for me lopping off your superior’s head, you would not have his symbol on your wrist. That kind of favor is worth quite a lot in the tower.”

  The Dwarf’s eyes flashed fury at him, and he knew he had her again.

  Bomrek touched a hand to her arm. “Ignore him.”

  Datan was shaking, but the words seemed to steady her. Still, she leaned down to the cage, bringing her face within inches of Ngom’s. He sneered as he smelled her acrid Dwarven stench, all earth and ale and dust.

  “Worry not, doctor,” she said even as she stared into Ngom’s red eyes. “I wouldn’t harm this one for all the gold in Goden’s safe. We have something very special planned for him.”

  “I’m hopeful that it will include more of the Dwarven command,” Ngom said, his long tongue caressing his lips. “I haven’t tasted blood in months.”

  “The Dwarf you killed…” Datan started, her expression seemingly torn between grief and anger. “He was a Dwarf to be remembered, and he was a finer captain of the guard than I’ll ever be. Your kind places no value on life, but here we honor the dead. As a tribute to his memory, your death will be such that it is spoken of for generations.”

  “You should hurry and prepare it then,” Ngom said. “The dark whispers of many things Dwarf, things your kind are deaf to. Firehorn’s time is nigh.”

  Datan smirked. “Empty talk.”

  “Is it? We Goblins know the moods of the earth and that which dwells within. We know more of darkness than your kind knows of light. The Long Night is hungry, Dwarf. It will feed soon.”

  Datan narrowed her eyes. He could tell her interest was piqued.

  Ngom let out a guttural laugh. “You ponder that as you prepare your revenge. Now quench that torch and leave me to my whispers.”

  Datan studied him for a moment, but her expression remained impassive. “Come Bomrek,” she said finally. “Let us prepare Dumed for his tomb.” She smirked then. “And leave this one to his whispers.”

  They took the corpse and shut the heavy rock door behind them. Once again Ngom and the others were left with just a crack of light to share. Finally that too was quenched, and then all that remained were eight pairs of eyes red as blood. One by one they closed, letting the darkness rule…

  But one pair remained.

  MORUL