by Sam Ferguson
The two collided with what must have sounded like a clap of thunder to everyone around them. Borgnat’s sword was caught on Sylus’ hammer, but the dwarf’s feet drove into the orc general’s chest and the two went tumbling off the backside of the goarg to crash onto the ground below.
Sylus was the first to roll to his feet, but Borgnat was able to muster a defense from his knees, stopping Sylus’ horizontal chop by planting the point of his sword into the ground and presenting it as a barrier. The metal rang out over the field, but the sword held firm. Borgnat then jumped to his feet and twirled his sword over as he ripped it from the ground and twisted his arms into a diagonal chop of his own.
Sylus stuck Murskain’s head up in the sword’s path. As the two weapons collided, the dwarf’s sturdy, muscled arms shook and trembled under the force of the blow. Borgnat then launched a kick that landed high on Sylus’ chest, just below and to the right of his neck. From the weight of the kick, the king knew instinctively that he would stumble if he tried to stay on his feet. So, he let himself roll backward with the momentum, somersaulting away from a heavy chop that scarred the ground, but fell short of cutting Sylus as the king rolled out of the way and back up to his feet.
“Igaze furge, de megollek,” Borgnat snarled.
Sylus hadn’t the slightest idea what the orc had said, the orcish language was not something that he had ever bothered to study. The king figured knowing how to put the brutes down was the only thing he needed to learn about orcs.
Sylus charged in, raising his hammer up and to the left. Borgnat prepared a perfect parry, as Sylus expected. The two weapons collided, but Sylus stiffened his shoulders and lunged in under the weapons, releasing Murskain as he sailed in to collide with Borgnat. Their armor clanged, and Borgnat grunted as he fought against the dwarf’s momentum. Sylus hadn’t expected to bring the large orc down, he had only wanted to throw him off guard, and that had worked.
Borgnat came down with his arms. One hand grabbed Sylus’ hair and pulled back as the other arm brought the pommel of the sword down onto Sylus’ helmet. It was a heavy blow, but if there is one trait all dwarves have in common, it is their extremely thick skulls. Sylus ignored the sting and reached for a pair of small, scimitar-shaped daggers at his belt. With incredible speed he plunged the twin blades up on either side of Borgnat, slipping through the joint between Borgnat’s breastplate and his greaves, just over the thick belt. The blades found soft tissue underneath and bored deeply into the orc’s flesh.
Sylus twisted the daggers as he rolled around to the left, pulling the orc’s torso along with him.
Now Borgnat was ready to strike properly. He let go of Sylus’ hair and prepared to chop down mightily. Sylus then did something Borgnat had not anticipated. The dwarf king picked his legs up and, hanging from the two knives, dug deep into the orc, and swung himself under the orc’s legs. Borgnat swung down, and stumbled forward as he lost his balance. The dwarf king let go of his knives and wasted no time clambering up Borgnat’s back as the orc fell to his face. Sylus pulled a large knife from Borgnat’s own belt and then leapt up to add extra momentum as he aimed for the back of Borgnat’s neck.
Sylus came down hard, snapping the orc general’s neck bone as he simultaneously drove the orc’s knife through the flesh.
Borgnat let out a short wail, and then his body twitched twice before going stiff.
Sylus had no time to relish the victory, though. The fight was still raging around him. He let go of the knife and sprinted for his hammer. A moment later his cavedog stopped in front of him and he mounted the great lizard once again. Dwarves swarmed to him, shouting out the great victory and calling the battle for themselves.
The remaining orcs disagreed. They fought fervently. Not until the last orc was surrounded by twelve angry dwarves and put to death with a series of chops and stabs did the battle end.
“Stubborn lot,” Sylus spat as he saw the final orc fall.
Cheers went up through the ranks and Sylus turned about in his saddle, making a mental guesstimate about the casualties. Fortunately, dwarves were also a stubborn lot. Many of the wounded began rising from the ground, drastically reducing Sylus’ initial fatality estimate. Still, the fight had been costly. Including the wounded that were not beyond saving, Sylus had little over half his army remaining.
It had been a terrible cost for the dwarves to pay. Sylus said little as he helped his remaining officers tally the dead and arrange for care of the fallen bodies. He said less as they made their march back to Roegudok Hall.
Yet, even while in the depths of sorrow for his fallen kin, he knew that the price would have been much higher if Borgnat had been allowed to reach the humans unimpeded.
When the dwarves reached the outer gates of Roegudok Hall, they were greeted by a score of the Home Guard, the mountain’s defensive army. They opened the thick, brass gates leading into the outer tunnel and stood silently saluting their kin as Sylus marched the cavedog riders through the tunnel.
Sylus led his army through a long, upward sloping tunnel. The walls were smooth, with small holes in the low hanging ceiling every dozen yards or so. To those not of the dwarven race, the construction of the tunnel seemed strange, but Sylus appreciated the purpose behind its unique design. Roegudok Hall was built on the inside of a great mountain. The sheer cliffs and impassable peak forced all guests, both invited and uninvited, to use the tunnel as the main entrance. Tu’luh, and other dragon lords known as Ancients, had helped the dwarves design the entrance when the dwarf kingdom was first established some three thousand-three hundred years ago in the year nine hundred of the Ancient Era. The tunnel’s slope allowed the dwarves to defend against invading armies by unleashing molten metal, burning oil, or any other deadly liquid they deemed appropriate to scourge the invaders. The defense was so effective that no invader had even seen the gates of Roegudok Hall itself. A few orcish armies had tried over the years, but they did so at great peril, and were either sent scurrying for the south, or were utterly destroyed before they could reach the end of the three-mile-long tunnel.
Even the height of the ceiling was specially designed to aid in defending the great inner palace. With the tunnel only six feet tall, it hindered taller soldiers, yet allowed for the almost comfortable passage of invited guests, so long as they walked. Furthermore, no invader could ever ride a horse or goarg through the tunnel. This fact rendered enemy cavalry useless against the dwarves. Beyond this, Sylus knew of one additional secret defense that could be unleashed.
In a large aquafer above the ceiling was a great reservoir of millions of gallons of water. With a few levers, the aquafer could be drained into the tunnel. At the same time, a great door of iron would slide over the front entrance to the tunnel. The bottom of this door was a razor sharp blade, which was terrible enough for any foe caught underneath, but its true purpose was to block the released water from escaping and draining from the tunnel. Meanwhile, the great gates on the opposite end of the tunnel were also water tight. It created an effective trap that would work if all else failed to stop an invading army.
Sylus and his army reached the main gates and found them slightly open, allowing a wall of golden light to reach out from the extremely tall, arched doors of iron. Sylus needed only to signal by raising his hand. A series of horn blasts echoed through the tunnel and the doors creaked and groaned as they were pushed open to allow the army to ride through.
Even with the many losses suffered, and the foul mood Sylus was in, there was something about crossing that main threshold that always invigorated and cheered him. The sense of returning home, to a place that was wholly his and felt as comfortable as anything in the Middle Kingdom could. He had lived as a prince in Roegudok Hall for over two hundred years before taking his place as king when his father passed on from the plane of the living, yet even still he marveled at the beauty and exquisite craftsmanship that had forged the main hall from the once solid interior of the mountain. The vaulted ceilings almost disappeared well o
ver two hundred feet above Sylus’ head. The ceiling was covered in a layer of gold and platinum plates that reflected the light of the torches and oil lamps hung in exact intervals of fifteen feet up each of the massive columns. Each supporting column had been hewn and worked to perfection. The pink granite stone was smooth as silk and polished so that one could almost use it as a mirror.
Off to the left of the entrance stood stone buildings; a guardhouse and a barracks for the Gate Patrol. These buildings were created with etchings and carvings into the stone bricks, and held in place by a scarlet red mortar that had also been polished to a high shine. The roof of each of these buildings consisted of gold and green shingles that glimmered in the light of the main hall.
A pair of dwarves sitting at a granite table outside the guardhouse rose from their game of cards and saluted their king upon sight. Sylus returned the salute and they returned to their cards after he passed.
There were many more ornate buildings of stone along the western wall of the chamber, but Sylus was now busy counting the great columns as he led his army through them. It wasn’t that he needed to count them, he would have known his way through the main hall if he was blindfolded, but he enjoyed counting the columns. It was almost as if each one was a dear friend welcoming him back from the outside and stretching out warmth from their lamps and torches.
After he had passed ten columns, and several smaller craftsman shops, Sylus turned to the right and led his army through the main pathway through the market. There were tables with trinkets of all shapes and sizes strewn over them. There were also a few tables that offered vegetables, both the kinds that grew inside the mountain as well as those grown in a secluded valley nestled near the top of the mountain. Other vendors offered clothing, books, weapons and armor. A few dwarves had carts pulled up around the back of the shops and tables, filling orders that they would transport to the various settlements outside Roegudok Hall. The hustle and bustle barely paused as the king rode by and the throngs of dwarves watched the first part of the procession.
Sylus knew they meant no disrespect to the fallen warriors. Those working in the market district were extremely busy. They could afford Sylus a moment of respect, but after that they had to return to their work to fill the orders they had. The dwarves within Roegudok Hall had everything they could ever wish for, and all indicators pointed to an era of unprecedented prosperity under Sylus’ reign. That also meant that they were the largest supplier of goods for the settlements outside the mountain. Armor, stone, metal ore, and all manner of dishes, jewelry, and other fine goods were shipped from the mountain as soon as the goods were produced. The great quantities of goods upon the tables for sale within the mountain were only a fraction of what the dwarves of Roegudok Hall produced.
As the army crossed through to the other side of the market, the warriors turned off to the north, eager to corral their cavedogs and unburden themselves. Tonight the wounded would be cared for by physicians and healers. Those without injury would rest. The fallen would be placed in a cool chamber and prepared for their final rites. Tomorrow the mountain would halt its production. None of the miners would lift their tools. The craftsmen would abandon their work benches. All would come together to honor the fallen and begin the funeral rites. As busy as the mountain ever was, the dwarves could never forget to honor their kin who had sacrificed their lives.
Sylus turned and watched the army ride by him, already thinking about the morrow’s activities and what he would say during the services for the dead. He swung a stiff leg over his cavedog and slid off as the lizard bent slightly to ease his dismount. The cavedog then turned and followed the others.
The king made his way to a small building at the base of a grand set of stairs. Inside, a trio of body servants helped him remove his armor. He then left the building and ascended the stairs, winding his way up the spiraling steps cut right into the stone of the eastern wall. The way was long, and would be tiring to all but the dwarf folk, who were built for climbing up and down long tunnels in the mountain. The staircase was twenty feet wide, adorned with stone engravings and murals along either wall. Some depicted historical events, battles, coronations, deaths and births of kings. Others were ornamental designs created by the greatest of dwarven masters. The stairs themselves were hewn right out of the black mountain stone, polished to a high sheen and inlaid with gold that crisscrossed diagonally and glittered under foot as the great chandeliers above burned bright and cast their light down.
Thirty minutes passed before Sylus reached the top landing in front of the throne room. The landing itself was forty feet long and flanked with four sets of armor on display atop pedestals of solid gold. Each pedestal had the name of a previous king carved into it. Those kings were Sylus’ father, grandfather, great grandfather, and great-great grandfather. Sylus went to his father’s set of armor and gently brushed the left pauldron. He then looked a few feet beyond it and saw the empty pedestal that would one day hold his armor.
Sylus concealed the condescending grin that tried to worm its way across his mouth as an idea struck him suddenly. Would they honor Sylus’ armor even if it was dented and scarred from his battles with orcs, or would they recreate armor that would glorify his victories but omit the memory of the injuries and wounds that had come along with the battles?
CHAPTER 2
Year 3,711 Age of Demigods, Late Spring.
2nd year of the reign of Aldehenkaru’hktanah Sit’marihu, 13th King of Roegudok Hall.
Al stood on the landing atop the spiral staircase leading up from the barren market in the main hall. His tired eyes were fixed upon a highly polished set of armor standing upon the fifth pedestal. The golden plaque upon the pedestal read, “King Sylus Magdinium, fifth king of Roegudok Hall.” Al admired the black metal the armor was made from. A silver and gold inlay was set in a weaving pattern at each joint and edge, and a mighty dragon was embossed over the chest. The gauntlets had fierce spikes protruding from the knuckles, and a large ruby was set into the back of each hand. The pauldrons protruded out in a very pronounced way, almost mimicking wings as they tapered down into sharp blades that reminded Al somewhat of the dragon-slayer armor he had seen Master Lepkin wear in recent weeks. In Al’s estimation, all of the armor paled in comparison to the mighty hammer fastened to the wall above the pedestal though.
“The great weapon, Murskain,” Al whispered reverently. “The hammer by which King Sylus forged the greatest and most prosperous generation of dwarves to ever grace Roegudok Hall.” Al smiled and nodded respectfully to the hammer, as if it still housed a piece of Sylus’ soul. “Would that I knew your secret to wealth now,” Al said as his shoulders slumped and he turned his gaze to the floor. “The tables in the market are bare, save for a few trinkets left over from before the war with Tu’luh. We have no ore, no stores of weapons or armor. My brother squandered all of the wealth left by our father. Whatever remained was consumed by the war.”
Al sighed and stretched a hand out to the breastplate before him. “That is to say nothing of the loss of kin we have suffered.” Al looked to the helmet, half expecting Sylus to appear and rebuke him. Still, despite his grief, he had known the risk. There had been no other way to stop Tu’luh the Red. The dragon was far beyond reason, and the army he led would have ravaged the entire Middle Kingdom.
The dwarf king sighed once more and patted the breastplate as he turned and walked toward the golden double doors that separated the stairs from the throne room. Diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires sparkled and shimmered in an arch around the doorway as Al approached. Normally, there would have been a pair of guards before the doors, but Al had sent them away upon returning to Roegudok Hall a few days before so they could help with the burial rites.
When he left Roegudok Hall sixty years ago, he never would have guessed that he would have become king, and then led the dwarven army to fight off an orc invasion from the south after Ten Forts was conquered. Though, even that particular series of battles paled in comparison to t
he height of the war when he led the full might of the dwarven army to Fort Drake in an attempt to stop Tu’luh the Red, one of the nastiest dragons to darken the skies of Terramyr, and cull the zombie army that the dragon commanded.
Al stopped and leaned into the open doorway as the memories came flooding back to him. So many had been lost. Nagar’s Blight had threatened the entire Middle Kingdom, but even in defeating it, Al had lost nearly each and every dwarf soldier that had gone on the campaign with him. Those who had not been slain, had been captured by magic, and then killed when the magic of Nagar’s Blight was destroyed once and for all.
There were good memories too, though. He thought of his most unlikely of friends, a young teenage boy named Erik who had become the Champion of Truth. There was also Master Lepkin, and his wife Lady Dimwater. Even with how many friends and kin were slain, Al knew that he and his companions had fought on the right side of the war. What they did, they did to protect their freedom and their homelands.
His only true regret was the fact that he had not stuck around Fort Drake long enough to meet with Hiasyntar’Kulai, the Father of the Ancients. Seeing the massive, golden-scaled dragon land within the Middle Kingdom once more was something akin to a miracle for Al. It had been centuries since the Ancients had been seen in the Middle Kingdom.
Al sighed and pushed off from the doorway and brought his thoughts back to the mountain and the issues at hand. He had a kingdom to rebuild, and he had to do so during a time of great grief and loss for his people.
Two days after returning, Al had stood at the pulpit, addressing the whole of the dwarven folk in Roegudok Hall and praising the fallen warriors. The tradition was sacred, heralding all the way back to the first king, Persais Magdinium. Al turned his thoughts away from the funeral rites. It was not something he could think about without feeling the sadness that accompanied such loss. He pushed on to the throne room, steering his mind to topics of commerce and trade.