Honourkeeper

by Nick Kyme

  ‘Our force is mainly cavalry, what do you propose we do with them?’ asked Lethralmir.

  ‘They won’t be needed,’ Morek replied boldly, and folded his arms as if that was an end to it.

  ‘You would have us linger by the sidelines as whatever ranged weapons the northmen can bring to bear kill us in our saddles? We are asur, dwarf,’ he snarled, ‘we too have our honour! And what about our spears, you are committing them to a battle of attrition. That way may suit dwarf ways of war, but it does not suit ours.’

  ‘It’s true,’ countered Morek, rising to Lethralmir’s bait, ‘that you elgi are not so hardy. Would you like to hide behind our shields, instead?’

  Lethralmir smiled mirthlessly, as he fashioned a rejoinder.

  ‘I doubt they would provide much protection. What’s to stop the northmen merely jumping over your heads? That’s assuming they even see you.’

  ‘Kruti-eating ufdi…’ snarled Morek, shoving his way past the other dwarfs to reach Lethralmir, who merely recoiled with distaste.

  ‘Morek,’ snapped the king. It was the first time he had spoken during the council, but it was enough to send the hearth guard captain back to his place still fuming from the elf’s insult.

  Bagrik turned on his throne to address Ithalred. ‘Perhaps there is a way to yoke the strength of both our armies,’ he said. ‘Are you familiar, prince, with the oblique line?’

  Ithalred nodded. ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘Morek,’ added the king, glaring at the dwarf, ‘set the markers.’

  The hearth guard captain obeyed, setting out a formation of gold and bronze markers upon the raised slope, several ranks deep. To them he added smaller cohorts of silver. Then he spread a long line of silver coins, bunched on one flank and hinged at the middle of the battle-line. When he was done, he stepped away from the table.

  ‘Our south flank,’ Bagrik said, ‘will consist of our forces, artillery, infantry and quarrellers. Added to it are your archers and spears. On the north, your cavalry.’ All eyes were upon the map and the tactical formation arranged by Morek as the king spoke. ‘The plan is a simple one,’ Bagrik continued. ‘The south moves slowly, whilst its bows and machineries hold fast to maintain a barrage. The north will charge at full pace, and engage the enemy first. The attack will split their forces. One flank crushed by the cavalry, their opposite flank will move in support, but it will already have been decimated by our holding troops. Caught in a killing ground, they will falter. Attack the cavalry or march on the distant slope? Either choice is a fatal one, for by that time our slow moving flank will have reached them and they will be destroyed utterly,’ Bagrik concluded. There was no relish in his tone, not even the satisfaction in the knowledge of a battle about to be won. There was only stone. ‘We dawi call it the bear trap, and employed properly it is deadly.’

  Lethralmir sniffed derisively and turned to his prince.

  ‘This assumes, of course, that the northmen will simply attack as a horde. It seems to me our cavalry is greatly exposed by this plan.’

  ‘No plan is without risk!’ retorted Morek.

  Ithalred ignored the bickering and held the gaze of the dwarf king.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We will meet you on the field tomorrow at dawn.’ With that he turned and walked out of the tent, his captains following suit.

  Lethralmir stared darkly at Morek as he left the king’s war tent.

  The dwarf’s face was so red, his teeth gritted, that the elf thought he might immolate himself in a conflagration of his own anger. Lethralmir decided, once he was back out in the open, that he would have liked to have seen that.

  ‘Lethralmir,’ the tone in Ithalred’s voice punctured the blade-master’s good humour.

  ‘Yes, Ithalred,’ he replied with a disarming smile.

  The prince was on the elven side of the cleft, and clearly did not share Lethralmir’s mood as he beckoned the blade-master over.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, feigning concern.

  ‘You were seen,’ the prince told him, ‘coming out of my sister’s tent.’

  Ithalred’s aide. Lethralmir resolved to discover his name and punish him accordingly.

  ‘Yes… I was merely–’

  The elf prince didn’t let him finish.

  ‘Stay away from her,’ he said meaningfully. ‘She is a seer and must remain pure or she’ll lose her gift,’ he added, telling Lethralmir things that he already knew. ‘Now, more than ever, I need her foresight.’

  ‘You cannot shackle her forever, Ithalred,’ Lethralmir replied.

  The prince came forward, his face a mask of anger. ‘Don’t challenge me, or your use to this court will be at an end,’ he promised, eyes wide.

  Lethralmir backed off a little, false offence etched on his features.

  ‘I thought we were friends, Ithalred. I would never do anything–’

  ‘We are,’ the prince replied, ‘but that friendship does not extend to Arthelas. Are we clear about that?’

  Lethralmir’s expression was contrite, as if the notion of disobeying his prince was utterly beyond comprehension.

  ‘Of course.’

  In truth, the blade-master masked his furious chagrin, even keeping it from his eyes.

  Ithalred was about to speak again, when he noticed a dwarf, one of the captains from the war council, watching them.

  Haggar didn’t speak the elf tongue, so he couldn’t understand what the two nobles were saying. He had heard the name ‘Arthelas’ though, and it was apparent from their body language and tone that the elves were arguing. Upon seeing him they quickly became silent and went their separate ways. Haggar watched them go. Something wasn’t right, and dissension on the eve of battle was a bad omen.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A Field of Blood

  The dwarf horns pierced the air in a dour baritone. The pounding of drums joined them, signalling the call to arms. Elven horns resounded, too. Combined with those of the dwarfs, it was a discordant cacophony.

  Upon the southern edge of an immense sloping plain, vast regiments of dwarfs assembled. Their iron-shod boots churned the earth, and their armour clanked loudly as they tramped into position. A battery of stone throwers and ballista were hauled onto the shallow ridge by mules, the beasts of burden quickly led away once the machineries were in place. From their vantage point, engineers and their journeymen assessed distance and trajectory, making calculations on stone tablets with nubs of chalk.

  Hegbrak was set upon an isolated hillock nearby, the stout wheels of his Anvil of Doom sinking a few inches into the soft earth, the Anvil Guard stood silently in front of him. The master runesmith swung his hammer to work the kinks from his shoulder, before tracing his fingers across the runes on the anvil to sense its power.

  Just below the lip of the shallow ridge were a throng of quarrellers, smoking pipes and loading their crossbows. Some looked askance at the elf archers waiting nearby, standing in immaculately straight lines, every warrior a mirror image of the elf next to him, their longbows resting against their shoulders with an easy grace.

  A sea of armour spread out in front of the bows, an impenetrable shield wall of hearth guard and dwarf clan warriors with standards held high. Rising above them all was the grand banner of Karak Ungor, and Haggar gripped it tightly as he muttered oaths to Grungni and Valaya.

  Morek, fifty or more warriors down from the banner bearer, made his pledges too, for a good battle and a solid victory. His mind was conflicted though as he regarded the elf spears amongst their ranks. Led by the hunter, Korhvale, he hoped they would be able to hold the line.

  A greater worry was the cavalry, far off to the northern flank, obscured by the glamour of the rising sun reflecting off their armour. Morek couldn’t see their commander, the raven-haired Lethralmir, but knew he was there and felt his wrath deepen. He would use it, the dwarf decided, use it against the enemy. The hearth guard captain hefted his axe and awaited the call to advance.

  Bagrik sat upon h
is throne, several hundred feet from the battle-line on the highest point of the slope. Together with Ithalred, he watched the mustering with cold eyes. Dwarf king and elf prince were joined by their aides, diplomats and other observers, and shared an uneasy silence alongside one another. Each was protected by his own bodyguards and wearing their full panoply of war. Bagrik had a small cohort of hearth guard; Ithalred, despite being mounted, was surrounded by an array of heavily-armoured spearmen. Neither of them was to be involved in the battle. It was deemed too dangerous to risk them in an initial sortie when the enemy’s strength was not yet gauged.

  Ravens gathered in the sky over the battlefield.

  Prince Ithalred scowled at them, muttering in elvish as he limned a ward in the air with his lithe fingers.

  Bagrik sniffed at the ritual, dour-faced as the allied army moved into position, just as he had described in the war tent. If only all battles played out like those on the strategy table.

  A great clamour arose from the east as a vast and terrible horde came into view, observed at distance through Morek’s telescope. Warriors decorated in blood, and clad in only furs and skins, hollered and raved. Men armed with blades fused into their bones, their faces bound in leather masks, and their skin studded with spikes, cavorted ahead of the main force. In their frenzy, the berserkers tugged at the chains that held them back, blood-flecked foam dripping off their chins from behind the masks they wore.

  Snarling packs of feral dogs, their muscular flanks drenched in feverish sweat, strained at the leashes of their whelp masters on either side of the berserkers. One of the frenzied warriors strayed too close and was dragged down by a pack of hounds. His perverted screams were short-lived as the dogs rent him limb from limb in a grisly dark spray.

  Hammered shields thrashed out a belligerent chorus as bondsmen and armoured huscarls tramped into view, laughing and roaring like madmen. The fierce din was eclipsed though by thunder as beasts swathed in thick, woollen fur and goaded by Norscans wielding long, barbed spears lumbered into view.

  Morek had heard of the war mammoths of the icy north, but had never seen one, let alone fought it. He heard the slayers, given free rein to roam, roar with excitement at the sight of them. A death at the tusks or hooves of one of those beasts would be a worthy doom.

  They are certainly ugly, Morek thought to himself as he regarded the mammoths taking up position opposite his flank through the dwarf’s far-reaching lens, with their broad shaggy ears, long trailing snouts and beady eyes.

  As he watched, Morek’s attention was averted to the middle of the ragged Norscan battle-line, where a massive warlord astride another monster pushed his way forwards. He was a huge brute of a man, all brawn with sinew like rope. A black helmet almost encased his head, festooned with spikes, two curling horns surging from its temples. The beast he rode was a sabre-tusk, a muscular predator of the mountains. Morek had seen such a beast before. Feline, their bodies were an undulating mass of hard, slab-like muscles and their short coarse hair was grey-white to better blend in with the snowy peaks where they made their hunting ground.

  Never had the dwarf seen somebody ride one.

  Unlike the ravenous dogs, the sabre-tusk only eyed the nearby warriors that stood aside eagerly to let it pass. More remarkable still was its master had no lash around the creature’s neck, no goad to cow it; the iron of his will alone ensured his dominance. Reaching the front of the horde he raised a mighty double-bladed axe, the haft of the weapon seemingly melded to his flesh, and roared a challenge. His army and the trumpeting of the mammoths echoed his cry. With the terrible sound reverberating around the mountains and across the plain the northmen came, and in their droves.

  Horns blared down the dwarf and elf line as Bagrik, from his lofty vantage point, gave the order to advance.

  The drums of the hearth guard beat loud and steady in response, a slow rhythm to guide the pace of the refused flank. The sound echoed inside Morek’s helmet as the dwarfs began to move.

  ‘Stay together, forward in good order,’ Morek bellowed down the line, and heard the other captains echo him. ‘We’ll drive these dogs back to sea,’ he promised, to a resounding cheer, his gaze on the closing Norscan hordes. Baying and howling, these depraved men were indeed the hellish beasts he had supposed them to be, and for a moment Morek’s bravado held in his throat.

  ‘Cold beer and soft rinns to any dwarf that stands with me,’ he cried, finding his voice at last. More cheers erupted from the ranks. Only the longbeards grumbled, bemoaning falling standards and the bullishness of youth.

  Still wet from the last vestiges of thawing winter, the wide plain shimmered in the morning sunlight as the elven cavalry began to canter, their shrilling war horns signalling the attack.

  As the hearth guard and clan warrior cohorts made their slow trudge across the battlefield, Morek made out the dispersed groups of lightly-armoured horsemen ranging ahead of the deep wedges of elven knights and chariot squadrons. He was told that these were the horsemasters of Ellyrion, and there were no finer warriors in the saddle in the entire known world. To Morek, horses were for eating, or to draw heavy loads, not for riding. These elven ways of war were foreign to him. But he could not deny their efficacy as the Ellyrians loosed swathes of deadly arrows and launched darting feint attacks across the entire left flank of the Norscan horde, slowly drawing them out to break up their formation.

  The heathens responded in kind, frustrated at their impotency to pin the skirmishers at close quarters, with slingers and javelin hurlers, but only a few of the elves were unhorsed. Behind them, Lethralmir and his knights were closing, with the chariots in support.

  ‘Too fast, too fast,’ Morek muttered beneath his breath as he recognised the eagerness of the elven knights to whet their blades with blood. The northmen still retained their coherency and the ranged barrage had yet to begin in earnest.

  At that thought the skies suddenly darkened and the air was filled with the shriek of thousands of arrows and quarrels soaring overhead. The heavy twang and thunk of the dwarf war machines added a deeper, more resonant, chorus to the cacophony of death and for a few moments the sun was eclipsed by a storm of wood, iron and stone.

  ‘Ha!’ Morek punched the air in triumph as the deadly rain withered the distant Norscan ranks. Tightly packed groups of bondsmen were skewered where they stood, feathered shafts protruding from their bodies like spines. Armoured huscarls writhed in agony as they were pinioned in twos and threes by the immense iron-tipped bolts of ballista, or screamed in despair as the rocks of the stone throwers crushed them. The carnage was relentless, but in truth it was barely a scratch. The Norscans continued to advance, in spite of the certain death that faced them, closing ranks and stepping over the dead and dying as their mighty warlord bellowed his rage.

  Morek heard the familiar clarion of elven horns and his gaze moved northward again, to the elven knights riding up the flank.

  The Ellyrian horse had withdrawn to allow the elven lancehead to attack. Dragon armour blazed red and hot as the knights charged, war horns screaming, and smashed into a thick square of bondsmen with all the force of a thunderclap. Northmen were crushed beneath flailing hooves, spitted on lances or cut down by swords as the elven mounted elite pressed their irresistible assault. None could get close, the elves’ sheer speed and their shining ithilmar plate making them all but invincible.

  Desperate to stem the slaughter, the cowardly already fleeing in their droves from the elves’ fury, the Norscans unleashed their chained berserkers. Heedless of danger, seemingly impervious to pain, the masked warriors barrelled into the knights, blades hewing. Many were trampled, others cleaved amidst fountaining arcs of blood, but the sheer abandon with which the berserkers threw themselves upon their foes gouged a gory cleft of dead and wounded in the elven ranks, as knights were dragged off their horses, or had their steeds cut from under them by Norscan blades.

  Morek observed the deadly skirmish with a small measure of grim satisfaction now that the elves
weren’t getting it all their own way.

  Serves ’em right for going off half-cocked, he thought but was then forced to marvel as the knights marshalled their forces, one wedge breaking off from another to form a second wave with the newly arrived chariots. Together, they smashed into the rampant berserkers who were mown down by the chariots or scythed in two by their bladed wheels. Morek nodded his grudging respect at their prowess as the elves slaughtered the Norscans and reformed their lancehead to converge upon the remnants of the bondsmen.

  With the dragon knights’ small victory, Morek felt impatient for battle, swinging his axe as the Norscans closed.

  ‘Come on,’ he roared, the dwarf warriors echoing his belligerence.

  All the way up the line the dwarfs marched, their elf allies small islands of silver in a sea of unyielding bronze and iron, whilst overhead the sky darkened again…

  From atop the slope, Bagrik watched the second ranged volley fill the air like a massive swarm of hard-nosed insects as it bore down on the advancing Norscan flank. Mere feet from reaping another deadly toll of skewered men, the missile storm struck an immense wave of green iridescent fire that surged violently from the very earth. Arrows burned to cinders and quarrels melted and died in the intense conflagration. Stones flung from the mangonels soared like scorched green meteorites through the wall of flame, cracking and shattering to dust as they hit raised Norscan shields.

  ‘Sorcery,’ spat Bagrik, as if the word left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  The dwarf king saw Hegbrak come forward off the hillock, the runesmith’s power grinding the wheels around and taking him down the slope. He heard the uttered rune rites captured upon Hegbrak’s tongue as the runesmith’s body was enveloped with the magic bound to the anvil. His hair and beard stood on end, as trickles of lightning coursed through it. A nimbus of raw energy, burning with azure brilliance, built around Hegbrak’s sturdy frame. The runesmith, chanting all the while, focussed the power, channelling it into his hammer and holding it there for a moment before he cried out and struck the anvil.