by C. L. Werner
Before Ilendril was aware of what was happening, Malok had flown not out towards the bay, but across the lines of the dawi. Ballistae cast their spears at the huge wyrm, great iron lances with rune-inscribed heads. One of the spears raked across Malok’s side, gouging a deep furrow in the creature’s scaly flesh. Fiery blood spilled from the wound, pelting the walls as the dragon roared in pain and hastily pulled away.
Ilendril screamed, clutching at his own bleeding side, his body suffering the sympathetic stigmata that was the side effect of his enslaving magic. The elf lord’s endurance was considerable, but it was paltry beside the primordial constitution of a dragon. While the asur was yet debilitated by the agony surging through him, the dragon was exploiting the resultant loss of control.
Malok threw its powerful body into a spinning dive. The ferocious drive of wind and gravity caused the straps of the saddle, already weakened by the dwarf spear, to snap. Ilendril was flung from his seat and sent hurtling through the sky.
The wyrm was after Ilendril in an instant, snatching him up in its mighty claws like a hawk swooping on a dove. Malok raked one of its long talons down Ilendril’s body, splitting the elf’s armour and slashing the body beneath. The fang hanging about Ilendril’s neck, the talisman that allowed him to control the dragon, was ripped loose to plummet to the earth far below.
Malok’s baleful eyes glared at the maimed elf who had enslaved it. Tightening its grip, the dragon held the screaming asur tight as it flew towards the refugee ships Ilendril had been tasked to defend. Helpless, Ilendril watched as the wyrm spat its fire onto one of the packed vessels. Hundreds of elves were consumed as flames erupted across the ship, as its sails became fiery shrouds and its decks became a blazing holocaust.
Bellowing its wrath, the dragon set upon a second ship and then a third. As Malok approached a fourth vessel, it noticed that no more screams sounded from the mangled elf it held in its claws. Glaring at Ilendril’s corpse, feeling cheated of its revenge, the dragon cast the body down onto the deck of the ship it had been stalking. The elf lord struck with such force that the body bounced overboard, sinking into the waves.
Malok shrieked, a sound of terrible, bestial triumph, and wheeled away. The horror-struck elves below watched as the rampaging beast winged its way towards the south.
Enslaved for so long, Malok was seeking a lonely place far from dawi and elgi, a place in which it could sleep and brood and nurture its bitter hatred of both.
The best tunnellers in the miners’ guild had excelled themselves, forcing the passages that led from behind the outer wall to the crater left by the elgi wizards. The need for secrecy, the speed with which the shafts had to be cleared, the pressure of working right under the noses of the enemy, all of these had added to the difficulties of their task. Should a single elf scout notice them, should any elgi mage divine their presence, then the entire plan would be undone – most likely in a way that would see the very tunnels they were digging collapse on their heads.
Morgrim reflected on the ghastly moments when it had seemed just such a thing must happen, when the beams overhead appeared to sag beneath the weight of the dawi warriors on the battlefield above. It would have been too conspicuous to leave any gaps in the dwarf lines, too suspicious for a clear path to exist between the dawi and the gate. The miners had accepted the added burden, compensating by using wutroth beams rather than common oak for the tunnel supports. Some of the diggers had even relished the novelty, employing wood commonly reserved for only the most prestigious projects on so mundane a purpose.
Yet, truly, could there be anything more prestigious than helping to break the walls of Tor Alessi and bringing an end to the War of Vengeance at last? Morgrim certainly didn’t think so. There would be honours and glory enough to share when the victory was done and he was determined that the miners’ contribution wouldn’t be forgotten.
From a side passage, Morgrim could see Runelord Morek ambling out into the crater lying before the main gates of Tor Alessi. Morek’s staff hummed with the arcane vibrations of his magic, cloaking him from the eyes of the elgi on the walls above. In the dark of night Ironbreakers had already brought forward one of the Anvils of Doom, depositing it at the far end of the pit. It stood there, black with age, pulsing with the uncanny forces that were the runelord’s art. A feeling of dreadful anticipation pulsed through Morgrim’s veins. Even Gotrek wasn’t privy to the details of what Morek was going to do. All they knew was that the runelord had promised to bring down the gate.
Morek had asked one further thing of Morgrim and Gotrek – that when all was done, when the battle was recorded in the annals of the dawi, that his own role should be forgotten. He offered the key to victory, but the price was his own anonymity. There might be glory for Gotrek and Morgrim, but Morek said there would only be infamy for himself if his role were made known. He would be the lowest of oathbreakers in the eyes of his fellow runelords, a criminal without compare.
Drawing close to the Anvil, Morek slammed his runestaff into the earth beside it. Raising his arms as best he could, the twisted dwarf began to call out in a strange tongue, an ancient variant of Khazalid that was unknown to any outside the order of runesmiths. Eerie letters of fire flashed before his hands, speeding away from his fingers to stream down into the Anvil. The blackened surface of the relic began to glow a dull crimson, turning to a flaming orange as the fiery runes continued to seep down into it.
Morgrim had to shield his eyes when the Anvil turned white-hot. An afterimage of Morek with his hands upraised lingered in his vision. The next instant, the passage was shaken by a tremendous explosion. A thunderous roar rolled down the tunnel, assailing the ears of every dwarf. Mephitic odours wracked their senses, and a sorcerous chill plucked at their beards. Many of the warriors with Morgrim made the signs of Valaya and Grungni, invoking the ancestor gods for forgiveness and protection from what they’d unleashed.
When Morgrim could see again, Morek and the Anvil were gone, obliterated by the forces the runelord had summoned. So too was the gate, ripped asunder by the arcane explosion – not so much as a splinter remained between the immense columns that flanked the once-door.
‘Ladders!’ Morgrim shouted to his troops. At their thane’s command, waves of dwarfs surged out from the side passages and into the crater, raising their ladders and scrambling into the breach. A few arrows shot down at them from the elgi on the walls, but far too few to turn back the tide.
As he rushed through the crater to join his warriors, Morgrim reflected sombrely on the terrible sacrifice Morek had made. Deliberately destroying an Anvil of Doom, risking the unending infamy of his name and the shame of his entire line. It was a hideous prospect, one that Morgrim hoped he would never face. The choice between shame and the welfare of the dawi race.
Balanced against what he’d done, anonymity was the kindest reward Morek Furrowbrow could have hoped for.
From the crater, the dwarfs spilled out into the city. Detachments of crossbows flanked the walls, picking off elgi archers from behind. Axes and hammers rushed to clear the gatehouse, cutting down the garrison before they could mobilise and try to close the breach. Already a great throng of dwarfs was charging across the plain, cascading towards the shattered gate, thousands of warriors eager to at last seize the city that had defied them over so many sieges.
The elgi were waiting for them at every turn, contesting every street. Each building, each square became a scene of unspeakable carnage – a red ruin of heaped bodies, splintered mail and broken blades. Griffons and eagles soared down from the roofs, tearing at the dwarfs with beak and talon. Archers infested every window, loosing arrows until dawi fighters smashed their way into each strongpoint and wrought a final reckoning upon the bowmen with axe and hammer. Phalanxes of spears blocked entire avenues, defying the determined dwarfs, forcing them to smash their way through the stabbing, thrusting steel to close upon the elven warriors.
The
dwarfs fought on, paying no heed to their own hurts, forgetting for the moment the dead and dying comrades they left behind as they burrowed their way ever deeper into the city. Grudge throwers smashed a breach through the old wall separating the New City from the Old City, opening the way for the dawi to the harbour and the market districts, to the hill where the great temple of Asuryan stood with its marble roof and gilded columns, to the opulent manors of the merchants and sea-traders who had once brought such prosperity to the city.
Morgrim led his hearthguard through the thick of the fighting, Azdrakghar flashing out in great cleaving blows that left elgi torn and maimed wherever the thane found them. It was when he was bringing his warriors against a regiment of spearmen trying to defend a barricade thrown across the Street of Autumn that Morgrim first heard the cries and shouts rising from dawi outside the walls. He forced himself to focus on the fight at hand, to forget the promise that lay behind those excited shouts, those vengeful roars.
Only when the barricade was taken, when hundreds of elgi spearmen had been killed or routed, did Morgrim really listen to the voices of the dwarfs. The colours of the Phoenix King had risen once again, the dragon and phoenix flying above the great square at the heart of the Old City – the Founders’ Square, where the elgi had set down the first stones of what would become Tor Alessi.
‘Caledor,’ Morgrim growled, wiping the blood from his axe with a cloak he’d ripped from the corpse of an asur captain. ‘The maggot is making a stand.’ In his mind he could see again the elgi king as he duelled Snorri Halfhand and brought the prince to destruction.
‘Beware, Morgrim,’ Khazagrim cautioned. ‘It could be a trick, bait to lure us into a trap.’
Morgrim shook his head. In his gut he knew Khazagrim was wrong. He’d seen the elgi king, seen the arrogance and contempt with which he had fought Snorri’s army. Thick in the fighting, Khazagrim hadn’t taken away the same impression of the Phoenix King that Morgrim had. Caledor wouldn’t try to trick them because the elf didn’t think he needed deceit to conquer enemies so far beneath him.
‘He’ll be there,’ Morgrim declared. ‘He’ll be there to challenge us, to prove himself our better. He thinks he’ll teach the dawi a lesson about his own superiority. That is why he shows his flag, why he tells us where he is.’
Morgrim brought his axe sweeping around, shattering a marble column standing before a herbalist’s shop. ‘We’ll teach the dog a lesson instead, a lesson he can take away with him when he goes down to elgi hell!’
Founders’ Square was a vast expanse sprawling at the centre of the Old City. Markets and workshops fronted onto the square, as did the halls of the various artisan associations and craft-schools. Diamondsmiths and sculptors, enchanters and armourers, silk-weavers and conjure-workers, all had their businesses facing in upon the birthplace of Tor Alessi. The immense municipal hall and the colossal High Library stretched along much of the northern perimeter, their mighty towers staring down upon the market below.
The square itself was tiled with mosaics depicting the legends and heroic history of the asur. Lavish fountains with golden statues and alabaster basins were scattered about the expanse, each fountain devoted to one of the elven gods. The waters bubbling from each statue were coloured to match their respective deity – dark crimson for bloody-handed Khaine, rich azure for the creator-god Asuryan, sombre emerald for the wild huntsman Kurnous.
In the middle of the square, a massive obelisk of granite rose, towering a hundred feet in the air. Down the sides of the obelisk, etched in glyphs of ithilmar, were the names of those asur who’d first settled Tor Alessi. Once, other symbols had flanked those glyphs, sharp dwarfish runes of gold to remember the dawi who had befriended the asur and helped them raise their city. The Khazalid runes had been effaced long centuries ago, carefully excised when the news came to Tor Alessi that Imladrik had been slain.
King Caledor looked up at the obelisk. It was from the summit of that memorial that the king’s banner now flew, declaring to his brutish enemies where he was. Even a dwarf would have enough wit to find him with such a marker to guide them onwards.
The king leaned back in the saddle of his steed, a white charger named Torment. The horse was of the blood of Tiranoc, sired by one of the few remaining stallions of the royal herd of that battered kingdom. The royal stallions of Tiranoc stood sixteen hands high, broader and stouter of build than any other horses in Ulthuan. Their hooves had a hardness to them that was like iron even before they were shod. The bold hearts and sharp minds of the animals were unmatched by any steed born of common stock. Fiercer than a tempest, Torment was the only horse Caledor would deign to ride into battle. When the royal bloodline of Tiranoc’s herd was spent, it would indeed be a sorry day for the highborn of Ulthuan.
‘Soon,’ Caledor whispered into his steed’s ear, feeling the animal’s restlessness. Around him, the chargers of his knights stamped and snorted anxiously. They could smell the smoke and blood on the air. The war horses were dependable enough once battle was joined, but like the warriors mounted upon them, it was the anticipation of conflict that made them uneasy. It was the mark of lowborn blood – the same in horse as it was in elf. It took nobility to truly appreciate war, and the higher the quality of the blood, the more keen that appreciation. Caledor and Torment didn’t feel anxious. No, they looked forward to the coming fight, secure in their understanding that no foe could be their equal, no enemy their master. Doubt was a vice of the common stock, not royal blood.
There were hundreds of knights and horsemen gathered in Founders’ Square. The best and boldest cavalry from Caledor’s fleet and Tor Alessi’s army had been put directly under the king’s command. Supporting them were hundreds of archers positioned in the towers of the municipal hall and the library, scattered across the roofs of the markets and shops. Regiments of swordsmen crowded inside the buildings, ready to join the fray when they were given the signal.
Caledor doubted he would need the infantry. His knights would be enough to cut down the dawi. The filthy mud-eaters seemed to recognise that fact. A few had appeared at the southern end of the square, but they’d withdrawn fast enough when they saw the force arrayed against them. The miserable moles were bold enough in their talk of fighting the Phoenix King, but when they had the opportunity, they soon lost heart.
‘My liege,’ Lady Aelis addressed the king. She’d adopted a mantle of silver chain and ithilmar plate over which she wore a silk surcoat bearing the heraldry of Tor Alessi. The stallion she rode was a decent-enough example of colonial stock, though far inferior to the herds of Ulthuan.
‘My liege,’ Aelis repeated until the king deigned to look at her. ‘I advise that you position more warriors to protect the streets leading down to the bay. The dawi know you are here and they will certainly try to cut off any avenue of escape.’
Caledor glared at her, his face twisting into a sneer. ‘Escape? That sounds like the sort of thing a defeatist might suggest. No, I am here to fight these animals, not run from them. My legacy will be one of courage, not retreat.’ He slapped his armoured hand against the golden breastplate he wore. ‘The Skin of Vaul,’ he declared, ‘forged in the fires of the gods themselves and entrusted to the kings of Ulthuan.’ He tapped a finger against his helm with its great dragon-wings and snarling reptilian face. ‘The Dragonshard,’ he named the ancient relic, ‘sculpted around a scale from Indraugnir himself.’ His hand raised to point at the gleaming crown wrapped about the helm. ‘The Phoenix Crown, the glory of our people and the ten kingdoms. These are the symbols of my power. I did not carry them across the sea to flee at the first twitch of a mud-eater’s whisker!’ He pointed his mailed hand towards the seaward streets. ‘Join your people. Help them escape if that is your intent.’
The king looked away smiling as he saw a great body of dwarfs tromping towards the square. This time the dawi weren’t darting back the way they’d come. This time the enemy was marching to battle.
‘Leave the fighting to warriors,’ Caledor dismissed Aelis. ‘Leave the glory to those worthy of it.’
The warriors of Morgrim Elgidum were the first to march out into the Founders’ Square. Though a few scouts had been there before him, it had been generally agreed that the attack against Caledor should be led by the mighty hero of the dawi.
Despite his conviction that Caledor was too arrogant to run, Morgrim couldn’t shake a sense of unreality when he led his hearthguard out across the tiles, past the bubbling fountain of Isha and towards the waiting line of elgi cavalry. After so long dreaming of this moment, it was hard to come to grips with the fact that the dream had become reality. He, Morgrim Ironbeard, was getting his chance to bring down the king of the elgi.
The elves waited until the dwarfs were a hundred yards out onto the square before launching their attack. Caledor raised his armoured hand, the jewels set into each joint gleaming in the sunlight. Boldly he dropped his hand and gave the signal to charge. With a thunder of hooves, the knights and horsemen galloped across the square. Morgrim could feel the mosaics shivering beneath his boots as the vibrations of the charge shook them.
‘Set shields!’ Morgrim bellowed out. Khazagrim dipped his standard, alerting the hearthguard to their leader’s command. The warriors closed ranks, locking arms and shields with the fighters beside them, forming a single block of dwarfish steel and muscle to oppose the onrushing cavalry.
Arrows whistled down from the towers and roofs on the opposing side of the square, a furious volley designed to break the dwarf formation. A few of the dawi fell to the descending arrows, struck in face or throat. Most of the arrows, however, simply clattered off the thick steel plates of their armour or got caught in the sturdy oak of their shields.
