by Gav Thorpe
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 Shella 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.’
‘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?’
‘I know many things, beardling,’ said the pedlar before pausing to blow a trio of smoke rings that floated around Kulft’s head. The baron’s companion coughed loudly and swept them away with his hand.
The stranger looked at Throndin. ‘I know that he who is as hard as stone, shall break as stone,’ the pedlar said, looking at the baron. ‘And he who is as hard as wood, shall break as wood.’
‘Look here, vagabond, I don’t like your tone at all!’ replied Vessal. He looked at Throndin. ‘Can’t you control your people, casting aspersions all over the place like that?’
‘He’s not one of mine,’ said Throndin with a grunt.
‘Well, it seems that nothing can change in a day,’ the stranger said, packing away his pipe and standing up. ‘Even an old fool like me can tell when he’s welcome, and when his wisdom falls on deaf ears. But you’ll remember this, in a time to come, and then you’ll know.’
They watched as he turned away and walked back towards the door.
‘Know what?’ Barundin called after him, but the stranger did not reply, and left the inn without a backward glance.
A party of halfling hunters returned in the early hours the next morning, warning that their predictions had been correct. The orcs were moving in force down the Aver, straight towards Midgwater.
Throndin was unconcerned, as this was exactly what he had hoped would happen. He walked out of the halfling village, ignoring the stray dogs running beside him, and looked across the fields to the east of the town where his army and the baron’s men were readying themselves for battle.
The dwarfs held the northernmost fields, their flank secured by the rushing waters of the River Aver. Behind the dwarf army, atop a line of hills that had recently been home to several halfling families, now evicted for their own safety and Throndin’s sanity, sat the four cannons that had been brought with them. The steam loco sat like a silent shadow behind them, its small cannon not yet fired up. The morning sun gleamed with a golden light from polished iron barrels and gilded ancestor faces, and Throndin paused for a moment to enjoy the sight.
In a staggered line, his warriors were spread across the field, groups of thunderers armed with handguns taking up positions behind fences and hedges, his crossbow-armed quarrellers on the slopes of the hills in front of the cannons. At the centre stood Barundin with the standard of Zhufbar, protected by the hold’s Hammerers – Throndin’s own bodyguard.
At the very end of the line was a mess of halflings, carrying bows, hunting spears and other weaponry. They had arrived at dawn, declaring their intent to fight for themselves, and Throndin had not had the heart to send them on their way. They had looked so eager, and many of them had a dangerous glint in their eyes that had caused the dwarf king to pause for moment. He had concluded that they were far better on the battlefield where he could see them than causing trouble somewhere else.
In consultation with Captain Kurgereich, Throndin had arranged for the halflings to be positioned between Throndin’s axe-wielding hearth guard and the bodyguard of the baron, in an effort to keep them out of harm’s way as much as possible,
To the south were arranged the baron’s spearmen and halberdiers, with his knights held in reserve behind them, ready to counter-attack. The basic plan was to shelter under the cannonade for as long as possible, before the dwarfs marched forwards to finish the battle toe-to-toe. The baron was to ensure no swift-moving wolf riders or chariots swept around the end of the dwarf line and attacked them from behind. It was simple, and both Throndin and Krugereich had agreed that was for the best.
The waiting went on for several hours, through lunchtime (both elevenses and lunchtime in the case of the halflings), and into the afternoon. Throndin began to fear that the orcs would not reach Midgwater in the daylight hours, but the doubts had only begun to form when he noticed a dust cloud on the horizon. Soon after, the easterly breeze brought the stench of the orc horde wafting over the army, causing the horses to stamp and whinny and the halflings to choke.
At the merest hint of the orc smell, a strange mood came over the dwarfs, a race memory of holds being destroyed and ancestors being slain. They began a mournful dirge, which rippled along the line and gathered in strength, as Throndin walked out from his hammerers to stare at the approaching horde. The low blast of war horns accompanied the sombre hymn, echoing from the hills around the battlefield.
There were gasps of dismay from the manlings as the orcs came into view. There were many more than anyone had expected – several thousand brutal green-skinned savages. The horde stretched out from the riverbanks for a mile, their tattered banners and skull totems bobbing up and down above the green mass as they advanced.
Throndin could see their war boss, a broad warrior that stood over a head taller than the orcs around him, his face daubed in black war paint with only his evil red eyes showing through. He wore a great horned helm and carried a cleaver as long as a halfling was tall in each hand, their serrated blades glinting in the afternoon sun.
Upon seeing their foes, the orcs gave up a great clamour of shouting, and beat their weapons upon the fanged faces daubed onto their shields. Their harsh voices cut the air, the cacophony of bellowing drowning out the deep song of the dwarf army. Brassy horns and erratic drumbeats signalled the advance to begin anew and the orcs came pouring forward, waving weapons and shields in the air.
Throndin gestured for his stonebearers and they came forward, carrying between them a lump of granite, hewn into a long flat step carved with runes. Lowering it to the groun
d by the iron rings driven into its ends, they placed the grudgestone in front of the king. He gave them a nod and then turned to face his army, who fell silent.
‘Here I place the grudgestone of Zhufbar, and here we shall stand,’ he called out, his voice clear above the tumult of the orcs. ‘I shall be victorious standing upon this grudgestone, or I shall be buried beneath it. No dwarf takes a step back from this line. Death or victory!’
With great ceremony Throndin took a step up onto the stone and unslung his broad-bladed axe. He hefted it above his head and a great cheer went up from the dwarfs. At his signal, the battle began.
With a loud roar, the first cannon opened fire and its ball went sailing over the heads of the dwarfs. Pitching off the turf in a great explosion of mud and grass, the ball skidded forwards and slammed through the orc line, ripping limbs from bodies and smashing bones. A great cheer went up from the men of the baron, while the dwarfs resumed their mournful hymn to Grimnir.
A succession of three loud reports signalled the start of the bombardment as the other cannons opened fire. Unconcerned by the mounting casualties, the orcs continued forward, screaming and cavorting in their excitement. The swish of crossbow quarrels and the rattle of handgun fire added to the noise of battle as the other dwarf troops loosed their weapons upon the charging greenskins.
Fully a third of the orc host had been wounded or killed by the time it crashed into the dwarf line. Fanged faces bellowing battle cries met stubborn bearded visages set with grim intensity.
The cleavers and mauls of the orcs clanged off mail and plate armour, while the axes and hammers of the dwarfs cleaved through flesh and pulverised bone. Despite their losses, the orcs pushed onwards, their numbers beginning to tell against the thin dwarf line. Thunderers wielded their guns like clubs while Throndin’s axe sang through the air as he cleaved apart his foes.
The ground shook with a great pounding, and Throndin felt the thundering of many hooves. He turned to his right and glanced over the heads of his comrades, expecting to see Vessal’s knights charging forwards to counter some move by the orcs to surround the dwarfs. To his dismay, he saw a wall of boar-mounted greenskins charging through the halflings, crushing them beneath their trotters and spitting them on crude spears.
‘The baron, he has abandoned us!’ cried Barundin, standing next to the king. The prince pointed over his shoulder and Throndin turned to see the humans retreating from the field. The orcs were advancing quickly across the now open field.
‘The oathbreaker!’ shouted Throndin, almost falling off his grudgestone.
The squealing of gigantic boars mingled with the crude shouts of the charging orcs drowned out Throndin’s curses. Spears lowered, the boar riders smashed into Throndin’s hammerers like a thunderbolt.
Crude iron speartips crashed against dwarf-forged steel armour while the boars trampled and gored anything in front of them. The hammerers swung their heavy mattocks in wide arcs, smashing riders from their porcine steeds and breaking bones. In the midst of the fighting, Throndin stood upon his grudgestone lopping off heads and limbs with his rune axe, bellowing the names of his ancestors as he did so.
A particularly large and brutal orc came charging through the mass, his heavy spear held above his head. Throndin turned and raised his axe to parry the blow but was too slow. The serrated point of the spear slid between the overlapping plates protecting his left shoulder and bit deep into royal flesh. With a roar of pain, Throndin brought his axe down, carving the orc’s arm from its body. The spear was still embedded in the king’s chest, with arm attached, as he took a step backwards, the world spinning around him. His foot slipped from the back of the grudgestone and he toppled to the muddy ground with a crash.
Hengrid Dragonfoe gave a shout to his fellow hammerers and they surged forward around the king as more orcs poured into the fray, joining the boar riders. Barundin was caught up in the swirling melee, his axe cutting left and right as he fought to stand beside his father. The king’s face was pale and deep red was spilled across his armour from the grievous wound. Throndin’s eyes were still open though, and they turned to Barundin.
Feeling his father’s gaze upon him, Barundin planted the standard into the dirt, driving it down through the turf of the field. He hefted his axe and lunged forward to meet the oncoming greenskins.
‘For Zhufbar!’ he shouted. ‘For King Throndin!’
The goblins scattered as the lone figure approached, abandoning their looting of the corpses strewn across the narrow mountain valley. Dead orcs and goblins were piled five deep in places, around the bodies of the dwarfs they had ambushed, who had fought to the very end. The goblins backed away to the far end of the valley, fearful of the powerful aura that surrounded the newly arrived dwarf.
He was dressed in rune-encrusted armour, a purple cloak hanging from his shoulders. His long white beard was banded with golden clasps as it spilled from his helm to his knees. The White Dwarf picked his way through the piles of the slain, his gaze sweeping left and right. Seeing the object of his search, he cut right, pushing his way past a mound of dismembered orc bodies. Within the circle of dead greenskins lay four dwarfs, amongst them a battered metal standard driven into the earth of the valley floor.
One of the dwarfs was sitting upright, his back to the standard, blood drying in his greying beard, his face a crimson mask. The dwarf’s eyes fluttered opened at the approach of the White Dwarf and then widened in awe.
‘Grombindal!’ he wheezed, his voice cracked with pain.
‘Aye, Prince Dorthin, it’s me,’ the White Dwarf replied, kneeling beside the fallen warrior and placing his axe on the ground. He gently laid a hand on the prince’s shoulders. ‘I wish I had arrived earlier.’
‘There were too many of them,’ the prince said, trying to pull himself up. Blood bubbled from a massive cut to his temple and he collapsed back again.
Dorthin looked up at the White Dwarf, his face twisted with pain. ‘I’m dying, aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ the White Dwarf replied. ‘You fought bravely, but this is your last battle.’
‘They say you have come from the Halls of the Ancestors,’ said Dorthin, one eye now clotted with fresh blood. ‘Will they welcome me there?’
‘Grungni and Valaya and Grimnir and your ancestors will more than welcome you,’ said the White Dwarf. ‘They will honour you!’
‘My father…’ said Dorthin.
‘Will be very proud and aggrieved,’ the White Dwarf interrupted him with a raised hand.
‘He will declare a grudge against the orcs,’ said Dorthin.
‘He will,’ said the White Dwarf with a nod.
‘Will you help him avenge me?’ asked the prince, his eyes now closed. His breath rattled in his throat, and with one final effort he forced himself to look at the White Dwarf. ‘Will you avenge me?’
‘I will be there for your father, because I could not be here for his son,’ the White Dwarf promised. ‘You have the oath of Grombrindal.’
‘And we know that your oath is as hard as stone,’ said the prince with a smile. His eyes closed once more and his body slumped as death took him.
The White Dwarf stood and looked across the battlefield before turning his gaze back to the fallen prince. He reached into his pack, unfolded a broad-headed shovel, and drove it into the ground.
‘Aye, laddie,’ he said as he started digging the first of many graves. ‘Hard as stone, that’s me.’
Barundin’s arm was beginning to ache as he chopped his axe into another orc head. His armour was dented and scratched from numerous blows, and he could feel broken ribs grinding inside him. Every time he breathed in, new pain flared through his chest.
It seemed hopeless. The orcs were all around them now, and the hammerers were virtually fighting back to back. Barundin glanced at his father, and saw blood frothing on his lips. At least the king was still alive, if only just.
A crude cleaver slammed into Barundin’s helmet, dazing him for a second. He swung
his axe in instinct, feeling it bite home. As he recovered his senses he saw an orc on the ground in front of him, cradling the stump of its left leg. He drove his axe into its chest, and the blade stuck.
As he tried to wrench the weapon free, another orc, almost twice as tall as Barundin, loomed out of the press, each hand grasping a wicked-looking scimitar. The orc grinned cruelly and swung the blade in its right hand at Barundin’s chest, forcing the dwarf prince to duck. With a yell, Barundin yanked his axe free and brought it up, ready to deflect the next blow.
It never came.
A dwarf in shining rune armour crashed out of the orc ranks, his glittering axe hewing down foes in twos and threes with every swing. Orc blood stained his purple cloak and his flowing white beard was muddy and bloodied. With another mighty blow he cleaved the scimitar-armed orc from neck to waist.
Barundin stepped back in shock as the White Dwarf continued the assault, his axe a whirling, glowing arc of death for the orcs. Their clumsy blows rebounded harmlessly from his armour or missed entirely as the legendary warrior ducked and weaved through the melee, his every stroke disembowelling, severing and crushing.
Out of the corner of his eye, Barundin saw something moving, a golden light, and he turned to see the runelord, Arbrek Silverfingers. He had a golden horn in his hand, glowing with inner light. The runelord raised the instrument to his lips and blew a long, clear blast.