by C. L. Werner
Volleys of arrows arced up from hundreds of archers assembled in the courtyards and squares within the city itself, speeding over the walls to shriek down at the invaders. Again, sharpshooters on the walls themselves took their grisly toll from the advancing dwarfs, striking the weak points in their armour with lethal precision. Eagle claw bolt throwers shot their spears down into the enemy formations, impaling clutches of the close-packed dawi with each cast. Catapults added their brutal violence to the carnage, flagstones pulled up from the streets smashing down upon the dwarfs, pounding their armoured bodies into the earth like bloody nails.
The mages of Tor Alessi unleashed their magic now. Strange fires and lightning fell from the wintry sky, cooking a dozen of Morgrim’s dwarfs as they ran towards the gate. Strange tempests erupted from the nothingness to writhe and rage about the ponderous towers, ripping away their protective skins of oak, canvas and copper plate. The winds shrieked still louder as they wrenched the frames of the towers apart, spilling dwarfs hundreds of feet to the frozen earth below. One by one, the mighty towers were broken apart by phantom claws and icy gales.
‘Onward! To honour and vengeance!’ Morgrim shouted, trying to spur his warriors ahead for the final effort. Through the riotous carnage inflicted by the elgi, the dwarfs pressed on. If they could only force their way into the city, then whatever sacrifices they made would be worth it.
While Morgrim led his followers towards the gate, other dawi were answering the elgi assault. Rune-lightning crackled up from the ancient Anvils of Doom as the runelords of the dwarfs forced their arcane power into violent manifestations. With each crack of their hammers, the erudites sent their magic snaking up at the walls, following the aethyric reverberations of their spells back to the mages who cast them. Some of the elven wizards, guarded by talismans and charms, endured the dwarfish reprisals, but others were reduced to smouldering carcasses by the malignant energies hurled at them by the ancient Anvils.
Companies of Ironbreakers, their armour engraved with runes of aethyric discord, formed protective cordons around the runelords, acting as a barrier against the magical assaults of the elf mages. Steaming showers of starfire sizzled harmlessly from their armour; pulsations of kinetic fury were reduced to naught but a faint breeze when they slammed into the Ironbreakers. Thus, it was from a different quarter that the elves attacked the dawi mystics. Roaring its reptilian wrath, the dragon Malok dived upon the Ironbreakers, ripping and crushing them in its claws. Its fiery breath licked out at the Anvil of Doom each company protected, washing over artefact and runelord alike. Then, before weapons could be brought against it, Malok would leap back into the sky, flying beyond the range of its foes until it was prepared to swoop down again. Anvils from Karak Kadrin, Karak Izor and Karak Norn were lost to the dragon, reduced to slag by its volcanic breath – further grudges to be levelled against the wyrm in the Dammaz Kron.
The steam-powered ram began its assault against the gates, crossbowmen trying to ward off the attentions of the elves shooting down at the machine. Thanks to its metal roof, the flaming arrows the elgi loosed at the machine couldn’t burn it, but there was a chance the defenders might manage to hit the pipes and pistons that drove the steel-capped ram into the gate. The hammerers from Ekrund waited nearby, ready to force any breach the ram provided and be the first dwarfs in centuries to penetrate into Tor Alessi.
Slowly the dawi were making progress, but it was too little to counter the rapid, disciplined deployment of the troops from Ulthuan. While still at sea, the generals of the asur and their king had plotted their strategy. Aware that the city was already under siege, they drew up exacting plans for rushing their soldiers straight to the front. A system of coloured flags displayed by the king’s flagship alerted every ship in his fleet of the situation they’d find in Tor Alessi and how they would be expected to respond. From a selection of fifty flags, each with its own meanings and associated commands, it was a red pennant with a white star that unfurled from the galleon’s mast – indicating that the dawi were through the outer wall and staging an assault upon the inner one.
As soon as the ships drew into the harbour, the asur warriors disembarked, armed and armoured for war. Their commanders had given them exacting instruction on where they should deploy once they made landfall, showing them on intricate maps of the city where they needed to go and which streets they would use to get there. When the warriors entered the city, there was no hesitation or confusion. Like cogs in a well-oiled machine, they swiftly formed ranks and hurried to their assigned positions.
The first the dwarfs were aware of the reinforcements was when the volleys rising from behind the walls swelled, the flights of arrows becoming so thick that their shadows created a flickering twilight across the battlefield. The siege towers were suddenly no longer menaced by elgi magic, but as the first of them crashed against the wall and lowered its hooked ramp, the dwarfs were swarmed by fresh battalions of grim-faced spearmen and swordsmen. Far from gaining a foothold on the wall, the dwarfs were decimated in a display of such ferocious butchery that the towers were quickly withdrawn.
The steam-powered ram became the next focus of elven reprisal. A blinding glow suffused the machine and the dwarfs around it, an aethyric glamour that expanded and throbbed with magical power. As the dazzling light intensified, the dwarfs began to scatter, abandoning the machine. Some weren’t quite fast enough and as they tried to run, the light overwhelmed them. In a howling flash, the light suddenly winked out, leaving behind it only a deep crater where the battering ram and its protectors had been. The dawi would never know that the ram had been translocated by the wizardry of asur loremasters, that the machine and the dwarfs caught with it had been transported out into the bay, there to sink and drown beneath the waters.
It was with a heavy heart and a bitter taste in his mouth that Morgrim finally gave the command to withdraw. Horns blared, runners were dispatched and signals flashed from mirrors. Gradually, the command was disseminated amongst the dwarfs. Sharing their general’s reluctance, the dawi began to fall back, marching away from the walls to establish a perimeter just inside the outer curtain they had already captured.
Instead of cheers and trumpets, the asur marked the repulse of the dwarf assault in a different fashion. From the highest towers in the city, a new pennant was unfurled: a white flag upon which a red dragon and phoenix were emblazoned. It was all the elves had to say to their attackers.
The King of Ulthuan had come to save Tor Alessi.
King Caledor II threw open the doors of Thoriol’s chamber, dispatching the healers and servants attending his nephew and heir. He waved an armoured gauntlet at the White Lions who surrounded him, motioning them to await him in the hall outside. Only Envaldein, the captain of his guard, remained, closing the door and standing with his back set against the portal.
The king removed his gilded helm, handing it to Envaldein as he hurried across the room. Nestled amidst the golden splendour of the helm and the ruby-encrusted dragon-wings flaring out from its sides, the glittering brilliance of the Phoenix Crown shone like a sliver of starlight. The king belatedly remembered his crown, turning after a few steps to snatch his helm back from the White Lion. Then, with slightly less haste, he resumed his walk to the chair in which his nephew reclined.
‘Blood of Asuryan,’ Caledor shouted. ‘What do you think you are doing? Is this what you think it means to bolster the confidence of the colonials? To risk yourself in senseless battles against grubby, mud-slugging savages? I did not allow you to come here to take such chances.’
Thoriol smiled at the outraged king. For all the many reasons he had to despise his uncle, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at provoking such concern in him. ‘If the dawi are such miserable creatures, why should there be any risk to me, a prince of Tor Caled?’
Caledor wagged his finger at his heir’s impertinence. ‘Don’t think to turn my words back on me. A griffon can still get
stung by a bloatfly. Just because something is contemptible doesn’t mean it can’t hurt you.’ He looked around a moment, shifting his gaze from one chair to another, as though trying to decide which would inconvenience his royal dignity the least. Finally he drew a cherrywood chair with velvet backing towards Thoriol.
‘By all the Cadai, I thought you’d be safe with that dragon,’ Caledor said. ‘I should have insisted you come home long ago, but I thought that creature would protect you. I didn’t think there was any power in the world that could strike down that brute of your father’s. I should have known better. It didn’t save my brother, so how could it save you?’
‘Draukhain,’ Thoriol corrected the king. ‘His name was Draukhain and he did save me. When Morgrim was ready to kill me, it was Draukhain who intervened. The garrison on the walls saw it all. He fought the dwarf lord to the very last. Maybe killing Draukhain quenched Morgrim’s thirst for blood. For whatever reason, he had one of the dawi mages attend my wound and then bring me back to our people.’
‘The mud-eaters did that?’ Caledor scoffed. ‘An empty gesture if they think they can win my forgiveness.’ His eyes hardened. ‘What about this Morgrim? That’s the animal that struck down your father. What sort of brute is this creature? Before I leave this place, I intend to hang his beard from the yardarm of my flagship. It will be small recompense for my brother, but it will be a start.’
‘Don’t you see? That is why this war isn’t going to end until one or the other of us can’t fight,’ Thoriol said. ‘We’re just going to keep battering away at each other. Morgrim killed my father, you killed his cousin. There’s just too much blood on all our hands to ever see them clean again.’
‘What would you have me do?’ the king growled. ‘I should forget that they killed Imladrik? I should forget all the cities they’ve razed to the ground? I should forget all the blood and treasure these animals have cost my kingdom? Do you expect me to forgive these beasts for all of that?’
Thoriol shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. It wouldn’t matter anyway. The dawi don’t feel they have anything they need to be forgiven for. They wouldn’t accept it. I don’t think they’d accept anything we could give them.’
‘Then what do you advise?’ Caledor asked. ‘Should we let these creatures drive us from Elthin Arvan? Should we abandon everything we tried to do here? Should we cast aside what your father died for? Is that the legacy you would inherit – a legacy of compromise and retreat?’ The king leaned forwards, clasping Thoriol’s hands between his own. ‘You are the future of House Tor Caled. In your veins burns the fires of our line. When I am gone, you are the one who will wear my crown. There can be no doubt about that. I would leave you a shining realm – strong, prosperous, reaching from sunrise to sunset. A new golden age of plenty for our people. If we are beaten here, if we do as your mother and those like her want, it will kill the pride of Ulthuan. We will lose our sense of destiny and purpose.
‘No,’ Caledor corrected himself, ‘we won’t lose them. They will still be there, the ambition of empire and the pride of accomplishment. But they will forever be tainted by the poison of doubt. We’ll never again be so certain of our path, so sure of our purpose. Always in the back of our minds, in the depths of our souls will be that little voice reminding us that the dwarfs forced us from these lands. Like a cancer, it will bleed the strength from our people.’
The king rose from his chair and walked to the balcony, staring out over the bay and the vast fleet he’d brought to relieve the siege. ‘I won’t be the one to leave such poison behind me. I won’t have that be my legacy. When the chronicles are written, I won’t have my rule be a mockery of what came before. I am the son of King Caledor and I am worthy of that name. In my heart pumps the same blood as that of the Conqueror, the king who drove Malekith and his cursed followers from Ulthuan. I am the Phoenix King!’
Thoriol stared at his uncle in silence, startled by the passion in his voice. In his more candid moments, Imladrik had sometimes spoken of the great burden his brother bore and how onerous it must be. It was not the weight of the Phoenix Crown, but the strain of trying to measure up to their father’s expectations. From the earliest age, Menlaeth had been pushed to carry on the legacy of King Caledor I and always the king had pushed him harder and harder. Never had Menlaeth been good enough in his father’s eyes; never had he earned the king’s regard. That was the real legacy he’d inherited.
‘We can’t always choose what it is we will leave behind,’ Thoriol said. ‘I don’t think we can abandon the colonies. At the same time, the dwarfs aren’t an enemy we can fight half-heartedly. It must be all or nothing.’
The king turned away from the balcony. ‘All or nothing,’ he repeated. ‘If we could break the dwarfs here – one great battle. Then the animals would be forced to submit.’
Caledor turned as sharp knocking rattled the door. He nodded to Envaldein, who admitted the Lady Aelis and a pair of dour-looking generals. All three bowed as they approached their king.
‘My liege,’ Lady Aelis said, ‘a dwarfish delegation is outside the wall under a flag of truce. They request–’
‘Khaine take them and their requests,’ Caledor snapped. ‘If they don’t have the stomach to fight then let them scurry back to their burrows.’
‘Sire, their king is here – their High King, the lord of them all,’ Lady Aelis explained. ‘Gotrek Starbreaker wants to speak with you. He is offering terms for peace.’
A bitter laugh rang out as Caledor heard the news. ‘You see, Thoriol. A show of force, real force, and these boastful animals start reconsidering things. By the gods, we’ll put these mud-eaters back in the ground where they belong.’
The king settled his helm back onto his head, his crown still aglow with its enchanted brilliance. ‘Assemble the Council of Five and all your generals. After we go through the formality of receiving and dismissing this request from the mud-eaters, we must make our plans. I don’t want the dwarfs escaping here with anything that still looks like an army.’
As he passed Envaldein, Caledor motioned for the captain to remain. ‘Stay and guard the prince,’ he told the White Lion. ‘See that he gets the best care. I want him looking his best when we bring these dwarfs to their knees and they come crawling to me for mercy.’
Thoriol watched his uncle leave. He thought about the king’s talk of legacies and destiny, and like Caledor he wondered what it was that he’d leave when he was gone.
The gloom within the great hall beneath the rock of the Long Watch was more than simple darkness. It was a brooding malignance, an almost palpable atmosphere of doom that set fingers of ice raking down the spines of even the stoutest dwarfs. The source of that grim atmosphere sat at the head of his long table, ensconced within the ancient Throne of Power. The High King of the Karaz Ankor had withdrawn to the underground vault soon after the elgi reinforcements arrived and the colours of their king were unfurled. For many days, he had sat in the dark, centuries of hate turning his heart into a blackened cinder.
‘He is here,’ Gotrek snarled. ‘After all this time, he is finally here.’
The High King glared at the captured banner, feeling the fury boiling inside him. The dragon and the phoenix, wings and talons spread. The heraldry of Ulthuan’s current Phoenix King. The symbols of Caledor II. The same as the flags that now flew above Tor Alessi.
‘All the death, all the carnage, all the centuries of strife, all the suffering and deprivation – all of it,’ Gotrek declared, ‘all of it is because of him. Everything we have suffered is invested in that one miserable elgi.’ In Gotrek’s mind, in the minds of most dwarfs, the elgi king had become the face of the enemy, the cause of the war. The shame of Forek and the steelbeards, the murder of Snorri Halfhand – these were the crimes of Caledor, crimes that no dwarf could forgive.
Gotrek leaned forwards, cupping his head in his hands. Tears glistened at the corners of his eyes. ‘I am wear
y of the killing. I only want an end to it all. After all this time, after watching so many die in the fighting, I only want it to stop. Taking Tor Alessi could have been enough.’ Through his fingers, he lifted his gaze back to the captured banner.
‘But now he is here!’ Gotrek raged as he sat upright and clenched his fists. ‘The bastard has come back! He’s here! He’s close enough that I can feel his rancid breath, hear his rotten heart. He’s out there, just beyond the reach of my armies and my hammer. He’s there, just waiting to be made to pay for what he’s done!’
If it took every axe in the Karaz Ankor, if he had to draw every dwarf in the world from their mines and mountains, Gotrek would break Tor Alessi now. The whole of dwarfdom would march under his banner as they brought the Phoenix King’s ruin.
His banner. Gotrek would lead his armies into battle when the fighting resumed. It was no slight against Morgrim or his ability to command, but the conflict had taken a new turn with the arrival of Caledor himself. It had become a conflict of kings now, Gotrek against Caledor, just as it should always have been. When he defeated the elgi king, it would be his own accomplishment.
‘Vengeance will be mine,’ Gotrek swore. ‘No one, not even the gods themselves, will stay my hand.’ The old king stroked his beard, letting his fingers linger over the beads of mourning nestled amidst his snowy hair, strung there so long ago in memory of his murdered son. Justice and recompense for Snorri were almost at hand. Gotrek had already set the boulder rolling that would become an avalanche such as the elgi had never dreamed of.
‘The elgi have heard my demands now,’ Gotrek said. ‘They’ve had two days to think about them. But those demands aren’t meant for the elgi. Word of my terms will be passed to every hold in the Karaz Ankor. From Kraka Drak to Karak Eight Peaks, every dwarf will hear of what I’ve offered the elgi – wergild to buy them peace.’ The High King chuckled darkly at the cynical wisdom of his ploy. ‘The smell of gold will draw out the other dawi kings, the ones who’ve sent only a token of support for this siege. Even kings weary of battle will come running when they see the promise of elgi gold and compensation for what their holds have suffered in the war. They’ll bring their armies with them, a show of force to help strengthen their own demands against the elgi.’
