by Gav Thorpe
Feldenhoffen relaxed with a sigh and waved towards a large tent near one of the fires. “The baron’s in the centre of the camp, your, er, kingliness,” said the road warden. “I can take you, if you’d like.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll find him right enough,” said Throndin. “Wouldn’t want you leaving your post.”
“Yes, you’re right,” said Feldenhoffen. “Well, take care. Erm, see you at the battle.”
The king grunted as the road warden stepped aside. Throndin waved the army forwards again and passed the word to his thanes to organise the camp while he sought out the baron. Tomorrow they would march to battle, and he was looking for a good night’s sleep before all the exertion.
The sun was barely over the horizon and Baron Vessal looked none too pleased about a visit from his dwarf ally. For his part, Throndin was dressed in full battle armour, his massive double-bladed axe propped up against his leg as he sat on the oversized stool, and he seemed eager to get going.
Vessal, on the other hand, was still in his purple bed robes, scratching at his stubbled chin as he listened to the dwarf king.
“So I suggest you use your horsey men to go ahead and look for the orcs,” Throndin was saying.
“When you’ve found them, we can get after them.”
“Get after them?” said the baron, eyes widening. He smoothed back the straggling black hair that was hanging down around his shoulders, revealing a thin, almost haggard face. “Not to be indelicate, but how do you propose you’ll catch them? Your army is not built for speed, is it?”
“They’re orcs, they’ll come to us,” Throndin assured him. “We’ll pick somewhere good, send a bit of bait forward—you for example—and then draw them in and finish them.”
“And where do you propose to make this stand?” asked Vessal with a sigh. He had drunk more wine than he was used to the night before and the early hour was not helping his headache.
“Where have the orcs been lately?” Throndin asked.
13
“Up and down the Aver Reach, heading westwards,” replied Vessal. “Why?”
“Well, we’ll set up somewhere west of where they last attacked and wait for them,” said Throndin. The king scowled as the sound of the first pattering of rain trembled across the canvas of the tent.
“Surely such hardened warriors are not troubled by marching in a little rain?” said Vessal, raising his eyebrows.
“Don’t rain much under a mountain,” said Throndin with a grimace. “Makes your pipe weed soggy, and your beard all wet. Rain’s no good for a well-crafted cannon, nor the black powder needed to fire it. Some of them engineers are clever, but I still haven’t met the one who’d invented black powder that’ll burn when it’s wet.”
“So we stay in camp today?” suggested Vessal, his enthusiasm for the idea plain to see.
“It’s your folk getting killed and robbed,” Throndin pointed out. “We can kill orcs whenever we like. We’re in no hurry.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” agreed the baron. “My tenants tend to get argumentative about taxes when there’s orcs or bandits on the loose. The sooner it is settled the quicker things can return to normal.”
“So, get your army ready to march and we’ll head west as soon as you like,” said Throndin, slapping himself on the thighs as he stood up. He grabbed his axe and swung it over his shoulder as he turned.
“West?” said Vessal as the dwarf king was heading for the flaps of the door. “That’ll take us into the Moot.”
“Where?” said Throndin, turning around.
“Mootland, the halfling realm,” Vessal told him.
“Oh, the grombolgi-kazan,” said Throndin with a grin. “What’s the matter with that?”
“Well, they’re not my lands, for a start,” said Vessal, standing up. “And there’ll be halflings there.”
“So?” asked Throndin, scratching his beard and shaking his head.
“Well…” began Vessal before shaking his head as well. “I’m sure it will be fine. My men will be ready to march within the hour.”
Throndin gave a nod of approval and walked out of the tent. Vessal slumped back into his padded chair with a heavy sigh. He glanced towards the table where he had been dining with his advisors and saw the piles of half-eaten chicken and the nearly empty goblets of wine. The thought of the excess the night before made his stomach heave and he shouted for his servants to attend him.
By the time the baron was ready, dressed in his full plate armour and mounted atop his grey stallion, the dwarfs were already lined up along the trail. The rain rattled from their armour and metal standards like hundreds of tiny dancers on a metal stage, jarring every hangover-heightened nerve in Vessal’s body. He gritted his teeth as Throndin gave him a cheery wave from the front of the column and raised his hand in return.
“The sooner this is over with, the better,” the baron said between gritted teeth.
“Would you rather we did this alone?” asked Captain Kurgereich, the baron’s most experienced soldier and head of his personal guard.
“Not after sending them all of my bloody money,” snarled Vessal. “I thought they’d be only too happy for some help killing the orcs that slew the king’s heir. They were meant to send back my gift.”
“Never show a dwarf gold, my old grandmother used to say” replied Kurgereich.
“Well the old hag was a very wise woman indeed,” growled Vessal. “Send out the scouts and then leave me in peace. All this, and bloody halflings as well.”
Kurgereich turned his horse away to hide his smirk and cantered off to find the outriders. Within minutes the light cavalry had ridden off and soon some fifty knights and the baron’s two hundred 14
infantry were trudging along the road, which had started to resemble a shallow stream in the continuing downpour.
Over the tramping of feet, a bass tone rose in volume as Throndin led his host in a marching song. Soon eight hundred dwarfs in full voice made the banks of the Aver tremble as they advanced to the rhythm of the tune. At the end of each couplet the dwarfs crashed their weapons on their shields, the sound reverberating along the line. As they fell in behind the baron’s men, the dwarfs’
war horn joined the chorus, its long blasts punctuating every verse.
It was mid-afternoon when they sighted smoke on the horizon, and within two miles they came across a halfling village. Across the rolling hills, low, sprawling houses were spread between dirt tracks next to a wide lake. As they came closer, they could see uneven windows and doors carved into the turf of the hills themselves, surrounded by hedged gardens over which tall plants could be seen waving in the rain-flecked breeze.
Baron Vessal called a halt and dismounted, waiting for Throndin to join him. Heinlein Kulft stood beside him, holding the sodden banner of his lord. Barundin accompanied his father, proudly hefting the standard of Zhufbar and exchanging a glance with Kulft. A reedy voice drifted out of the bushes that lined the road.
“Dwarf and tall folk in Midgwater, by my old uncle, I wouldn’t believe it hadn’t I seen it with me own eyes,” the voice said.
Turning, Barundin saw a small figure, shorter even than he, with a thick mop of hair and side burns that reached almost to his mouth. The halfling was dressed in a thick green shirt that was dripping with rain. His leather breeches were around his ankles and he glanced down and then tugged them back up, tying them at his waist with a thin rope belt.
“You caught me unawares,” the halfling said, jutting out his chin and puffing out his chest.
“Who is your elder?” asked Kulft. “We must speak with him.”
“He’s a she, not a he,” said the halfling. “Melderberry Weatherbrook, lives in the burrow on the other side of the lake. She’ll be having tea ’bout now, I would say.”
“Then we’ll be on our way, and leave you to your…” Kulft’s voice trailed off at the stare from the halfling. “Whatever it is you’re doing.”
“You after them orcs?” the h
alfling asked.
Throndin and Vessal both looked sharply at the halfling but it was Barundin who spoke first.
“What do you know, little one?” the king’s son asked.
“Little one?” snapped the halfling. Tm quite tall. My whole family is, “cept for my third cousin Tobarias, who’s a little on the short side. Anyways, the orcs. My uncle Fredebore, the one on my grandfather’s side, was out fishing on the river with some friends and they saw them. Rowed back sharpish they did, ’bout lunchtime. Them orcs is heading this way they reckons.”
Vessal absorbed this news in silence, while Throndin turned to Arbrek, who had joined them.
“What do you think?” the king asked his runelord.
“If they’re coming here, no point in marching when we don’t have to,” Arbrek replied. “Good hills for the cannons, plenty of food and ale, if the tales of the grombolgi are true. Could be worse.”
Throndin nodded and turned to the halfling. “Is there somewhere we can camp, close by to the lake?” he asked.
“Stick yourselves in old farmer Wormfurrow’s field,” the halfling told them. “He died last week and his missus won’t be complaining, not with her being up at farmer Wurtwither’s place these days. No one’s seen her since the funeral, four days ago.”
“Right then,” said Throndin. “I’ll go see Elder Weatherbrook, everyone else make camp in the fields.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Vessal. “My lands border the Moot, I know these folk a little better than you.”
15
“I’ll be glad of the company” said Throndin with a glance at Barundin. “Help with the camp, lad. I don’t think waving standards around is going to impress anyone around these parts.”
Barundin nodded and started walking back towards the other dwarfs. Kulft looked to the baron, who waved him away with barely a glance.
“Shall we go?” the king asked. Vessal nodded. As they began to walk up the road, Throndin stopped and patted his belt. With a frown, he turned back down the road but the halfling was nowhere to be seen.
“The little kruti’s had it away with my pipe,” the king exclaimed.
“I did try to warn you,” said Vessal. “I’m sure you’ll get it back soon enough, just don’t accuse anyone of thieving—they don’t take to it in the Moot.”
“But he stole my pipe!” growled Throndin. “Theft’s theft! I’m going to be bringing this up with the elder when we see her.”
“It won’t help,” said Vessal, motioning with his head for them to continue up the road. “They just don’t understand. You’ll see.”
*
The white stone of the city’s walls was marked with soot as flames and smoke poured across the sky from the burning buildings inside the elven settlement of Tor Alessi. Tall spires, their peaks glittering with silver and gold, disappeared in the thick clouds, towering many hundreds of feet into the smoke-choked heavens.
A double gateway protected by three slender towers was battered and scorched, and stone blocks fell to the ground as boulders hurled through the sky crashed into them. By the gates themselves, short armoured figures hauled an iron-shafted battering ram forward.
Flocks of white arrows dove down onto the dwarf army from the cracked battlements above, punching through raised shields and oiled chainmail. Withering fire from repeating bolt throwers hurled branch-like missiles into the ranks of the assembled throng, cutting down a dozen dwarfs at a time, ripping holes through the packed mass pressing towards the beleaguered gate towers.
Above the dwarfs the barrage of rocks from the siege catapults continued, as armoured warriors surged forwards to take the places of the fallen. With a resounding crash, the battering ram slammed into the thick white timbers of the righthand gate, sending splinters and shards of metal into the air. With a bellowed order, the dwarfs hauled the ram back, some of them dragging aside the dead to make way for the ironrimmed wheels of the war machine.
With a collective grunt that could be heard above the crackle of flames and the shouts of the wounded and dying, the dwarfs pushed forwards once more, the serrated spike of the ram again biting into the wood, ripping between the planks of the gate and shearing through the bars beyond.
With a triumphant roar the dwarfs stormed forwards, throwing their weight against the ram and forcing the breach in the gate even wider. Drawing their axes, the dwarfs continued to hack at the planks until there was enough room to force their way through.
A storm of arrows swept through the gateway, embedding themselves into helmeted heads and piercing iron rings of mail shirts. At the centre of the dwarfs’ charge was a figure decked in ornate plate armour and shining mail, a purple cloak flowing from his shoulders. His face was hidden behind the metal ancestor mask of his helm, his long white beard flowing from beneath it, clasped with golden bands.
The warrior’s armour glowed with runes, and the sigils upon his great two-handed axe pulsed with magical energies as he thundered into the elf line, the arcane blade slicing through armour, flesh and bone with ease.
None of the other dwarfs knew who the mysterious warrior was or where he came from, and over the long years of fighting none could recall when he had first appeared. Like an avenging spirit 16
he had turned up at the first battle against the elves, when the ancient alliance had been shattered with discord. As tales of the fighter’s prowess spread, he was given a simple name, but one that now conjured up images of bloodshed and vengeance—the White Dwarf.
Barundin scowled and rounded on the halfling barmaid stood behind him.
“If you pinch my backside one more time…” he growled. But Sheila Heartyflanks was unconcerned. With a leer and a wink, she turned away and swept between the tables of the small inn, enthusiastically waving her jugs at the dwarfs that had taken up residence for the evening.
All day Barundin had been pestered by complaints from the other dwarfs. His father, in his wisdom, had immediately deferred all halfling-related matters to the prince and closeted himself away with Arbrek and his other advisors. Since then, Barundin had not had a moment’s peace.
He’d been forced to set up a standing guard around the baggage train after reports that the lightfingered Mootfolk had been helping themselves to ale, tobacco, bed sheets, black powder and all manner of sundry items. His father had told him not to hurt any of the halflings, but to gently but insistently keep them at arm’s length. .
Then there had been the episode with the two young halflings that had been found in an act of intimacy under Norbred Sterneye’s wagon, and Barundin had been forced to resort to a bucket of water to resolve the situation before some of the older dwarfs exploded with indignation.
Just as he had been losing the will to live, the invitation had been passed around that the Red Dragon Inn was willing to provide free ale and food to the bold protectors of Midgwater. Barundin, while thankful for the show of generosity, had then been engaged in a long and complicated process of planning how to get eight hundred thirsty dwarfs into an inn no bigger than a forge fire, whilst making sure there were enough bodies left behind to protect the camp from the acquisitive attentions of the halflings.
When he had finally managed to enjoy the tavern’s hospitality himself, late into the night after many others had retired to bed, he had been less than thrilled to find that the old halfling, Sheila, had taken a fancy to him. He was sure his buttocks would be black and blue all over from her playful yet painful signs of affection.
It was with some relief then that a table near to the nook was vacated and Barundin hurriedly occupied the space with a sigh. The relief was short-lived though, as the doors opened and his father strode in, bellowing for a mug of the finest ale. Baron Vessal stooped through the low doorway behind him, followed by his marechal, Kulft.
The trio saw Barundin and headed across the inn towards him, the manlings bent at the waist to avoid the beams across the ceiling. Barundin pushed himself to his feet to make space for the new arrivals, as Sheila brought
over three foaming tankards and slammed them onto the table. She reached across to ostensibly wipe at a spillage, and Barundin tried to squeeze himself into the bricks of the wall as the halfling pressed herself against him in an attempt to push past.
When she was gone, they settled down, and Barundin managed to clear his mind and concentrate on his beer, blocking out the occasional conversation that passed between the others. He vaguely heard the rusted hinges of the doors squeaking again and felt his father tense next to him.
“By Grungni’s flowing beard…” muttered Throndin, and Barundin looked up to see what was happening.
In front of the door stood the peddler, still swathed in his ragged travelling cloak, his heavy pack across his shoulders. He glanced around the inn for a moment, until his eyes lingered on Throndin.
As he crossed the room, the pedlar pulled his pipe from his belt and began stuffing it with tobacco.
By the time he had reached their table, he was busily puffing away on the pipe.
“Hail, King Throndin of Zhufbar,” the dwarf said with a short bow.
“Is this a friend of yours?” said Vessal, eyeing the newcomer suspiciously.
“Not at all,” growled Throndin. “I believe he was just leaving.”
17
“It is by the hospitality of the grombolgi that I stay, not by the invite of the King of Zhufbar,”
the pedlar replied as he worked his way onto the end of a bench, shoving Kulft into the baron.
The king said nothing and an uneasy quiet descended, broken only by the crackling fire nearby and the murmuring from the other tables.
“So, you’ll be fighting tomorrow then?” said the stranger.
“Aye,” replied Throndin, staring into his mug of ale.
“It’s a fine body of warriors you’ve got here,” the stranger said. “Are you sure it’ll be enough though?”
“I think we can handle a few orcs,” said Barundin. “We also have the baron’s men. Why, do you know something?”
