by Nick Kyme
‘Lethralmir,’ he spat beneath his breath. ‘I hope you’re watching this, Haggar…’
The elves rammed against the dwarf defence like a hammer hitting an anvil. Despite the power of their driven lances and the fury of their sudden attack, the dwarfs would not yield before them.
‘You…’ Morek cried, stepping out of the shield wall to level his axe in Lethralmir’s direction as dragon knights and hearth guard cut each other down around him.
The raven-haired elf turned in the dwarf thane’s direction and his eyes narrowed in the shadowed confines of his helmet.
‘Face me!’ the captain of the hearth guard roared.
Lethralmir dispatched a dwarf warrior impudently with his longsword in what might have been a gesture of acceptance. He called out a curt command to his knights and they backed away.
‘Hold!’ bellowed Morek in turn and the hearth guard disengaged, glowering hatefully at the enemy as they withdrew.
The warriors of both races knew a challenge when they saw it. Martial honour dictated that it be observed and that none other than challenger and challenged would fight. No one could intervene until one of the duellists was dead.
Morek was banking on the elf’s arrogance to deliver him into the vicinity of his rune axe. When Lethralmir reared up on his steed and came at him, it seemed the dwarf’s gambit had paid off.
The elf’s first blow was swift and it glanced off Morek’s shield with a loud prang. A second thrust was aimed at his neck, but the dwarf blocked that too, this time with his axe blade. Aloft on his steed’s saddle, Lethralmir tried to press his height advantage. A low swipe arced over the dwarf’s head. As he ducked only then did Morek make his move, ramming his shield into the horse’s armoured chest. The beast neighed in pain and surprise, buckling onto its fetlocks. Lethralmir had no choice but to go with it. As he hung forward in his saddle, Morek severed the elf’s neck as he scrabbled desperately for the reins.
Lethralmir’s head fell from his shoulders to bounce over by Morek’s feet. The expression on the dead elf’s face as it rolled from his helmet was one of profound disbelief.
‘I can fight dirty too,’ muttered Morek, spitting on the decapitated head before smacking Lethralmir’s half-panicked steed on the rump, sending it barging through the other knights and back towards the gates. At the sight of their leader so ignominiously dispatched, his headless body lolling in the saddle as his steed galloped away, the resolve of the dragon knights failed them. They fled, the sounds of jeering dwarfs dogging them all the way back to the city.
The attack on the war machines had failed. One of their nobles was dead and soon the tunnellers would reach the walls.
Slowly, the dwarfs tightened the noose.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Siege of Blood
Dust motes drifted from the ceiling, covering Ithalred’s pauldrons in a grey patina. The elf prince’s armour was dented, his body bruised since his flight over the walls on Awari’s back. Alas, the great eagle had not survived the fall and died in Ithalred’s arms shortly after. Awari had been ancient, older than Ithalred, who himself had enjoyed a long life. The elf prince stumbled as a tremor ran beneath his feet. The barrage was unrelenting. The arcing foundation stones shook with the dwarfs’ anger. Even through rock, Ithalred could hear the pleas of the dying and the clamour of battle from above. It was a constant reminder of his plight. So desperate was it that it had brought him here, to the lowest depths of Tor Eorfith, the nadir of Eyrie Rock itself.
The elf prince was not alone in the half-dark. Commander Valorian, warden of Tor Eorfith in Ithalred’s absence, had joined him.
‘He is lost to Khaine,’ the elf commander muttered darkly. Resplendent in his silver ithilmar armour, chased with gold and with the lower half of the breastplate rendered in the image of a surging phoenix, he looked distinctly incongruous. Swathed in shadows, Valorian was standing next to his prince outside a prison chamber.
Shining a silver lantern into the depths of the gaol, Valorian revealed a ragged-looking elf in the lamplight. His eyes were bloodshot behind a hungry, desperate mask. His once beauteous silvern mane was now lank and wretched. Strips of cloth lay all about him on the floor where he squatted; they were the shreds of his robes, ripped from his body in a maddened rage. Long gashes throbbed angrily from where the elf had raked his skin with his nails.
Ithalred stepped towards the bars of the cage and regarded the feral creature before him without emotion.
‘Still no sign of Korhvale?’ he asked quietly with his back to Valorian.
‘None my prince, though I have searched the city as best I can. For whatever it is worth, I do not believe a White Lion would ever abandon his post. A Chracian would rather die first.’
‘That is what I’m afraid of,’ Ithalred whispered to the dark.
Valorian didn’t hear him and continued with his report.
‘The last of the towers have now fallen, my lord, and I do not think the gates will endure much longer.’
Another tremor added credence to the commander’s remarks.
‘Arthelas?’ asked the prince, without even acknowledging the slow disintegration of his city.
‘She is hidden away from the fighting as you ordered. Though, I have not seen her since before the siege began…’ replied Valorian, pausing a beat, before saying, ‘perhaps the seeress was distraught at the news of Lord Lethralmir’s death.’
Ithalred grunted dismissively.
‘The hour draws near when we must make our final stand against the dwarfs,’ said Valorian.
‘Then we’ll need every sword, won’t we, commander?’
Ithalred’s gaze was fixed upon the caged elf.
‘Are you ready to fight, Malbeth?’ he asked.
The elf ambassador nodded slowly and showed Ithalred his manacled wrists.
‘Release him,’ Ithalred said to his commander, ‘and when the dwarfs break through here… give him his swords.’
The gate was down. And silver-mane was long dead. Morek had felt a measure of satisfaction upon seeing the mage plunge to his demise.
Recompense for Hurbad’s limp, he thought grimly.
Weathering the fusillade from the elven reapers, Morek charged into the levelled spears of the elves that had now moved in front of it. His mouth described a battle cry as he and his warriors barrelled forward. A dwarf charge was a rare thing, likened to a boulder rolling down a steep hill – slow at first but with enough momentum, it could shatter any barrier. Only the elf spearmen stood between them and the city. This close, the captain of the hearth guard was not about to be denied.
Morek smashed one spear aside with his shield, hacked another in two with his rune axe before launching himself at the enemy proper. Dwarfs were impaled on the forest of spikes, twitching in their armour as the elves stabbed and lunged, but it wasn’t enough. Inspired by their captain, the hearth guard trampled the well-ordered elf defence with brutality and sheer fury.
Morek could smell blood in his nostrils as he killed, when the spearmen’s resolve finally broke and they ran. The dwarfs’ momentum carried them further into the city. They wrecked the twin reaper bolt throwers, hacking them to kindling with their axes and dispatching any crew that lingered behind without mercy.
‘Sound the horn,’ cried Morek to his musician, ‘the elgi gate has fallen!’
Bagrik was already moving down the ridge when the signal that the gatehouse was taken pealed through the air.
A foothold in Eyrie Rock, thought Bagrik darkly, now all we have to do is keep it.
As he rocked from side to side with the march of his shield bearers, biting back every twinge of pain and clinging to his fading strength, Bagrik watched the battlefield roll by.
A storm was already brewing in the darkling sky when the hearth guard rear rankers stormed through the broken gate. Rain drizzled in sheets, tinkling against armour and soaking cloth. Sporadic lightning flashes illuminated the elf archers hunkered down either side of the gatehouse on
ruined spurs of parapet, loosing arrows in desperation. It was but a feeble shower to the determined dwarfs, no more deterrent than the rain.
Further warriors surged from trenches and behind abatis, swarming towards the open gate in their hundreds to support the hearth guard.
Across the walls, lines of stout siege towers were locked in position and disgorged warriors into the hard-pressed elf spearmen atop the battlements. Alongside them were racks of ladders with further hordes of armoured dwarfs climbing resolutely to back their kin.
Overhead, the barrage from the stone throwers and ballista had abated. So too had the volleys from the quarrellers below them. Together they loosed sporadically, picking off isolated pockets of resistance, as across the entire battlefield the dwarfs made the final push.
At the south wall, Bagrik’s reserves waited patiently. Five cohorts of one hundred clan warriors, plus all the hold’s longbeards led by Skarbrag Ironback, bided for Rugnir’s sappers to collapse the wall and open up Tor Eorfith completely.
Much to the king’s annoyance, and despite the fact that the walls were overrun in places and their gate was now largely ornate tinder, the elves remained steadfast and refused to capitulate. Such tenacity would be laudable had the king not sworn an oath to bring the city down and slay its potentate. The dwarfs needed that south wall down, and soon.
Below the earth, the dwarf sappers were nearing their goal. Rugnir had ordered the drilling engine removed from the tunnel. He and the miners would finish the job with picks and shovels.
‘A few more feet,’ he said to Kandor, digging alongside him. The merchant thane only nodded, intent on the rock face. Kandor had proven his worth during the excavation, not moaning once and unrelenting in his labour. Rugnir sensed he was not the only one trying to make up for past mistakes.
‘Bring up the zharrum,’ added the miner, and waited for a small group of engineers to make their way forward. They had fat satchels slung across their backs. Within were clay fire casks, roughly spherical pots filled with oil and other flammable materials that the dwarfs would use to burn the foundations of the city. Zharrum, or fire drums, generated incredible amounts of heat and cracked stone in minutes, burned down wood in seconds. They were the last element of the dwarf sabotage and would ensure the collapse of the south wall.
‘We’re almost through,’ Rugnir announced. Flecks of ambient light were visible in the fragile earth wall that stood between them and their goal.
‘Ironbreakers, prepare for battle!’ cried Grikk Ironspike, the captain having only just returned from making his report to King Bagrik and already marshalling his troops. The dwarfs were expecting resistance.
They were not to be disappointed.
As the earth wall crumbled a flurry of arrows spat through the ragged hole leading into the bowels of the elf city. Several miners, unprepared for the sudden attack, were felled instantly.
Pushing past the sappers – Rugnir, Kandor and a few of the others dragging back the dead and wounded – Grikk and his ironbreakers made a shield wall. More elf arrows rained from the gap, breaking harmlessly against Grikk’s gromril bulwark. The dwarf veterans stomped forward as one and bellowed, ‘Khazuk!’
The elf archers loosed again, now just visible behind the curtain of earth dust and falling rock.
Arrows rebounding off their shields, the ironbreakers took another step.
‘Khazuk!’
A third brought them level with the breach.
‘Khazuk!’
Retreating swiftly, the elf archers made way for their second line of defence.
Rugnir saw a flash of silver at first then heard a tinny scream as one of the ironbreakers was spun around, nigh on bifurcated in his armour.
Weaving their web of steel, a group of elven sword masters forced the ironbreakers back, their deadly blades carving red ruin in the dwarfs’ serried ranks.
Iron-shod boots dragging furrows into the earth at their feet, the ironbreakers had little choice but to give ground against the elven onslaught. Grikk duelled with one of the elven bladelords – the cloak and plumed helmet he wore marked him out as the leader – but was getting the worst of it, battered into a desperate defence.
The elves had more. From out of the sword masters’ ranks there emerged a maelstrom of bloody death. Naked from the waist up, a feral creature, an elf with twin blades, cut and hewed and killed. In the few short moments in which he had stormed into the tunnel, the possessed elf had slain a dozen ironbreakers. Blood rained across his body, criss-crossed by arterial spray, as he revelled in the slaughter.
‘Miners to arms!’ shouted Rugnir when he realised the sword masters, courtesy of their rampant slayer, would break through.
The dwarfs were on the brink of victory.
Above, in the courtyard of Tor Eorfith’s gatehouse, Morek and his hearth guard drove onward. He heard the tramp of booted feet behind him, the clamour of dwarf voices, and knew the rest of the army were following.
‘Hold the gatehouse,’ he cried to his warriors, ‘keep the way open for King Bagrik!’
The hearth guard ground to a halt and stood firm with shields ready.
Across the flat stone of the courtyard, elves were storming from arches and alcoves to repel the dwarf invaders. Amongst them was a band of deadly sword masters. Prince Ithalred was leading them.
Stroking the talisman around his neck, Morek offered a pledge to Grungni that he would not been found wanting.
Ithalred fought in a blur. Every blow was precise; each and every strike was measured. It was as if the elf prince had choreographed the entire fight and already knew the outcome. In the few short moments it had taken Ithalred to parry Morek’s first clumsy attack, and riposte with a shimmering arc, slicing the dwarf’s forearm and opening him up completely as he dropped his shield, Morek knew he was outmatched.
The hearth guard couldn’t even get close.
Ithalred killed them, coldly and efficiently, where they stood. The elf prince betrayed no arrogance in his skill, there was no flourish or swagger, no raw and murderous aggression like with the late Lethralmir; he was something else entirely – a very near perfect warrior.
‘Grimnir’s teeth!’ Morek cursed, barely managing to fend off a searching lunge by the elf prince. Had it fallen, the blow would have impaled the hearth guard captain and it would all be over.
‘Rally to me, rally to me!’ the dwarf cried, acutely aware that his warriors were bearing the brunt of a serious battering. Morek backed off for a moment, unwilling to step into Ithalred’s death arc just yet, and used the time to catch his breath. Clan warriors were forcing their way across the moat and in through the gate. Though in their wake, the elves had filled the gap left by the victorious hearth guard with spearmen. Even now, Morek knew his dwindling cohort were surrounded, that the elves had allowed them to get inside the courtyard so they could butcher them. As he cast about, he thought he saw a flash of armour, a lone warrior upon a sparsely guarded section of wall. It was only a glimpse out the corner of his eye, and with no time to look further Morek dismissed it as nothing.
Deeming he’d had long enough to gather his wits, Ithalred came at Morek again. The hearth guard captain was breathing heavily; he nursed a raft of small cuts and his armour felt hot and heavy. The elf had barely broken a sweat.
Morek blocked left then right, more by instinct and sheer desperation than through any strategy. Ithalred shaped for an overhead strike and the dwarf thought he had the drop on him at last.
No one’s that good, he thought, already dodging to the side and preparing to counter with an axe blow to the prince’s exposed back. Ithalred’s attack never came, at least not the one the dwarf was expecting. Instead, he brought his sword around to lash at Morek’s side, a second short blade seemingly emerging from nowhere to stab into the dwarf’s opposite flank.
Morek felt the hot metal pierce armour, skin and flesh. Searing agony gave way to a sudden numbness and the hearth guard captain fell, his rune axe clattering to the g
round after him.
With their leader down, the stubborn resolve of the hearth guard fractured and the unthinkable happened.
They fled. The sight of the veteran dwarf warriors abandoning the fight and running for their lives sent waves of panic rippling through the dwarf army. The elf spearmen at the gate parted, allowing the fleeing dwarfs through who stumbled into the pressing clan warriors and swept them up into the chaotic stampede.
Dwarfs fell screaming from the bridge into the molten silver moat as the broken warriors pushed their way out. Weighed down by their armour, they sank like bronze stones. In a matter of moments, one decisive act had turned the tide of the battle against the dwarfs and to the elves’ favour. Hearth guard and clan warriors fled together and in their droves.
Bagrik roared from atop his war shield. The wrathful dwarf king was only scant feet away from the abject retreat.
‘Turn, Grimnir damn you! Turn back and face the foe!’ Bagrik scoured the faces of the panicked warriors, making a mental note of every single one. They would be remembered forever in infamy in the pages of the book of grudges. Grumkaz Grimbrow was nearby, clasping the mighty tome. As Bagrik called out each name, the grudgemaster wrote it down. But it did no good, the dwarfs kept on running.
From his vantage point, Bagrik could see his lines were suddenly in danger of fragmenting. He wanted this over quickly. A defeat, like the one the dwarfs were close to, would only galvanise the elves. Bagrik had no desire to re-fight the siege again. In his heart, he knew he would not last out a protracted battle. Even raging at his fleeing warriors sapped at his strength – the poison had nearly done for him. He was about to order in his reserves, in spite of the fact that the south wall still stood, when a horn rang out into the blood-hazed night. Its pitch climbed above the thunder, clear as the first hammer strike against the anvil. Bagrik followed its source all the way to the top of the elven battlements.
‘Not possible…’ he breathed, as tears filled the old king’s eyes.
