“I’m tryin’ to do what no other has done before,” he began, sounding somewhat harassed. “We’ve got elves, dwarves, an’ Centaurs at our disposal. How do we best use our different skills to the advantage against an enemy with superior reach?”
Galanör looked to be really considering that question. “We could—”
“I wasn’t really askin’, lad,” the War Mason interjected. “Kelabor. Can yer kin gallop faster than the average horse?”
The Centaur audibly expelled a breath of air from his nostrils, indicating his offence at such a question.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Doran concluded. He turned back to the open fields and the vast enemy that awaited them. A fiendish grin spread across his face. “I ’ave an idea.”
It took some time to organise the three different races, informing them all of what was about to happen next and what their part would be in it. For most of that time, Kelabor and his Centaurs were flooding the front lines, and blocking out the distant Reavers, as they positioned themselves into Doran’s suggested formation.
Since he could no longer see his enemy, the son of Dorain kept a weather eye on the sky. If Alijah and Malliath arrived they would have no choice but to attack immediately. They would end up throwing away many lives, but stalling him from entering that pit and destroying magic was all that mattered. It made Doran shudder to think of Alijah being the only person in the realm with both magic and a dragon.
Astride his Warhog, Doran trotted up and down his line, assessing his warriors. Most looked ready for battle, eager to settle old scores with the enemy that had destroyed their homes and robbed them of loved ones. They would have that opportunity soon enough.
Though he could see that some were not happy with the definition of soon, given their part in the battle, Doran cared little. They were warriors, his warriors. They would follow the orders he had given and stick to the plan that would keep most of them alive.
Eventually, to the sound of more horns, the Centaurs began to advance as one, closing the gap between them and the Reavers. They moved up slowly, taking the time to spread out. When their advance was sufficient, the elves steadily followed behind, their numbers spread out to match the Reavers in front and the dwarves behind.
With the rhythm of so many hooves growing distant, Doran took the moment to address his army. A nod to Thaligg instructed him to blow a particular horn, one which directed every dwarf’s attention to their War Mason.
“For five thousand years the clans have stood apart!” he bellowed in his native tongue. “For five thousand years we have stained Dhenaheim with each other’s blood. Look to the dwarf beside you now! Battleborns, Brightbeards, Heavybellys, Goldhorns, Hammerkegs. Today they are just words! I do not care about words! I do not care about lines on a map! And I do not care about crowns! There is only one thing that means anything today!” Doran shifted his broad shoulders in his saddle and gestured to the dig site. “Dwarves! My blood is just as red as any of yours and I will spill every drop of it for the dwarves in that hole! Today we fight as one people! If there are any of you who can’t stomach that notion, now is the time to walk away.”
The son of Dorain paused, waiting to see if there were, indeed, any among them who couldn’t stand to fight alongside different clan members. Not a single dwarf moved.
Doran nodded approvingly. “Then prepare for battle, brothers, for I expect Grarfath to tremble at your roar!” he shouted, eliciting a thunderous growl from the army. “I expect Death itself to dread your fury!” The dwarves began beating their shields and armour. “I expect Verda to never forget the day the children of the mountain unleashed their wrath!” The cacophonous response was deafening, leaving Doran to simply raise Andaljor into the air.
The War Mason guided Pig around to follow the advancing elves and Centaurs. Russell was there, absent his horse now, with his new battle hammer in his hands.
“I didn’t catch a word of that!” he shouted over the dwarven war cries.
“It was very inspirin’!” Doran informed. “Ye should feel inspired!”
Russell nodded once. “Inspired,” he agreed, turning to the enemy.
Thaligg and Thraal blew their horns and every captain along the line did the same. The fiercest dwarven army in history broke into a charge, led by Doran himself. Russell sprinted alongside him, having no need of a mount over a short distance.
Now, the War Mason just had to hope the timing of his plan was perfect.
Further north, the Centaurs were ensuring just such a thing. Galloping towards the enemy, their numbers scattered across the plains, they were inviting the aim of the merciless catapults. Their projectiles were easily seen as they set sail across the sky like burning comets. Just one had the power to kill scores of Centaurs.
“Now,” Doran muttered under his breath.
Far from the sound of his voice, Kelabor blew into his horn, signalling his people. Now, they were really running. They left the gallop of a horse behind and revealed their true speed. This was the undoing of the catapults, their first salvo destined to overshoot and strike naught but grassland. Indeed, the open plains between the Centaurs and the staggered elves were bombarded by flaming projectiles that exploded on impact. Not a single drop of blood was shed.
Now, galloping like demons, the Centaurs moved into Doran’s suggested formation. He had described it as a spear to them, for they charged their enemy only four abreast but hundreds deep. Like a battering ram, they approached the Reavers in the centre of their mass, hollering war cries of their own.
But the spear did not penetrate.
At the last possible second, the Centaurs split their force down the middle, veering off to the east and west. With great speed, they charged along the outer edge of the Reavers and lashed out with all manner of weaponry. There was nothing the Reavers could do against such thunderous might. Here and there, they succeeded in spearing a Centaur, but their numbers were taking the larger toll. It also pushed the dark army together in a bid to back away from the encompassing attack.
Now for the elves.
Faylen, Galanör, and Aenwyn led the immortals through fire and smoke, crossing into the catapults’ threshold. From atop their horses, the elves released salvo after salvo of both arrows and spells. No aim was required to hit the Reavers, and those that were struck in the head dropped to the ground, out of the fight for evermore.
Leading by example, Faylen erected the first shield of magic over her head. The rest of her force quickly followed suit and did the same, just in time for the first wave of ballista bolts and the second wave from the catapults. Had the dwarves gone ahead of them, their dead would litter The Moonlit Plains. Doran’s plan, however, played to their strengths and the elves remained safe beneath their magic.
Still charging from the rear of their attack, the son of Dorain could see their shields flaring and flashing as they took the punishment from the aerial assault. It wasn’t a perfect strategy though and several elves were caught in the blast waves from burning projectiles. Others were flung from their mount when the animal was speared by a ballista bolt.
Time was against the dwarves now. The elves had taken the brunt of the siege weapons, but the Reavers would reload them all and fire again soon. They had to cross the field and get stuck in before that happened. Of course, before that, the elves had to breach their front line.
As the Centaurs disappeared around the edges of the Reavers, Faylen, Galanör, and Aenwyn were the first to have their mounts leap into the fray. Galanör’s blades swung out, Faylen expelled destructive magic, and Aenwyn let fly her arrows. Then came the rest, their force aimed at a single point in the Reavers’ line. Much like one of Aenwyn’s arrows, the elves shot through their enemy, almost penetrating to the heart.
Now there was nothing between the children of the mountain and their already occupied foe. With a few hundred feet left to charge, the catapults hurled their load into the heavens. They would make no difference now - the dwarves were too close and t
oo spread out to give anything to the catapults’ range. Doran cheered with righteous glee before the inevitable and violent clash.
And violent it was.
Armoured Warhogs collided with armoured fiends from east to west in an ear-splitting crash. Russell alone performed an almighty leap that cast him deeper into the Reavers’ ranks, a place where his battle hammer could come down with abandon.
Doran was oblivious to all but those directly in his path. He let Pig deal out as much damage as it could, the Warhog’s momentum more than enough to crush a dozen Reavers before the dwarf dismounted and added his swing to the clamour. By then, he had separated Andaljor into axe and hammer, making him just about the most dangerous thing on two legs.
The hammer swung out to the left and the axe chopped down on the right, every blow spelling the end of another Reaver. And behind him, dwarf after dwarf added their mettle to the melee, pouring into the battle with a war cry on their lips and steel in their hearts.
Somewhere in the heavens, Grarfath was laughing.
Doran felt his ancestor’s hammer crush helmets and skulls while the axe hacked through limbs and severed heads. It wasn’t long before he was forced to step over the undead creatures to reach his next foe. As he moved to slay the Reaver in his sights, a Warhog barrelled into it and rammed the fiend into those behind. He was about to cheer the rider when he realised the dwarven warrior was dead, his body savagely impaled by five swords. Doran liked to imagine that he had fought until that fifth and final sword.
With a growl rising from deep inside his chest, the son of Dorain charged in behind the rogue Warhog and dropped his hammer down on the Reavers before they could recover. One of them, unfazed by their shattered legs, pushed up on one hand and thrust a spear towards the War Mason. The dwarf dodged left but the edge of the spear tip cut a neat line up the side of his cheek. Doran was barely aware of the pain. He batted the spear aside with his hammer and sank his axe deep into the Reaver’s head.
Like sharks catching a scent of blood, a group of Reavers cut through a pair of dwarves and elves to reach Doran. Their swords were slick with the blood of his kin, while his own weapons were crusted with the rotten debris of theirs.
“Come on then!” he goaded, banging axe and hammer together. “I’ve got more than enough steel for all o’ ye!”
The dead had no response but to advance on the dwarf, their hideous faces concealed behind their helmets. Gritting his teeth, Doran determined to break them all until their insides were squeezed through the eye slits. At least he would have done were it not for Galanör and his wicked blades. The elven ranger emerged from the battle like a dancer on a grand stage. Stormweaver slashed high and Guardian swept low, so that, after a handful of seconds, Galanör was standing amidst their headless bodies with a victorious grin on his face.
“Show off!” Doran yelled, before swinging both his hammer and axe into an oncoming Reaver. Galanör’s blades flashed again and he was gone, absorbed by the battle.
A staccato of lightning nearly blinded the War Mason when an elven warrior unleashed his magic. He succeeded in repelling four Reavers and burning an entire ballista, but he missed the spearman off to the side. The Reaver launched the weapon with an accuracy it had brought from its previous life, eons past, and impaled the elf through the chest. Before he fell to the ground, there to join his brothers and sisters on the eternal shores, Aenwyn let loose an arrow that brought the Reaver down.
Then she fired five more in quick succession, each arrow well placed to kill a Reaver before they could deliver a killing blow to an ally. Her last arrow spent, Aenwyn dashed from corpse to corpse and retrieved them one at a time before firing them again. When one particular fiend jumped at her, the elf twisted her body and evaded its swing. A swift boot to its back sent the Reaver careering towards Doran’s waiting axe.
Like Galanör, Aenwyn was quickly concealed by the chaos of battle. Doran hoped to see both of them again, but he didn’t give it any more thought than that. They had a long way to go and a lot of Reavers to slay. It was going to be a long day.
At some point, the sun had given in to the progression of stars and a shining moon. Under this new reign, the fields of The Moonlit Plains came to life with their enchanted glow. For centuries, beings of intelligence had marvelled at its beauty and sheer majesty, but not this night. Even if those fighting for their lives weren’t distracted by the heated battle, the enchantment couldn’t be seen through the blood that stained the earth.
That blood belonged to countless elves, dwarves, and Centaurs, all of whom had fought side by side for untold hours and were now dying side by side. The inescapable truth came down on Doran Heavybelly again and again: they didn’t have the numbers. Everywhere he looked, his kin and allies were falling to the many blades of their enemy. He wasn’t convinced they weren’t crawling out of the hole like demons escaping the pits of hell.
He thanked the Mother and Father he had been born a dwarf, lest his fatigue claim him like some human. With what strength remained in his hands and arms, he brought Andaljor to bear and blocked an incoming longsword. Locked between his weapons, the sword was braced as its wielder tried to sink it into the dwarf. Doran looked up at the Reaver with a feral glint in his eye. Then he pulled the axe and hammer towards him, yanking the sword from his enemy’s hands. A strong boot to the knee put the Reaver on its back and a strong downwards swing significantly diminished the dimensions of its head.
It felt good. But it wasn’t enough.
That thought was never so overwhelming as when he heard the deep rumbling growl of a Troll. The ground shook beneath its lumbering stride. Reavers, elves, and dwarves alike were flung into the air by arms as thick as trees. The monster’s chains rattled and whip-cracked as they swung left and right.
The son of Dorain back-handed his hammer across a Reaver’s ankles, taking its legs out from under it, before finishing the fiend off with a heavy strike from his axe. Now he could see the Troll and its rock-like hide. It was heading right for him, though the beast was most certainly oblivious to Doran’s significance.
A tired sigh escaped Doran’s lips. For all his hours of fighting, he had only glimpsed a Centaur here and there. It seemed the bulk of Kelabor’s force were still battling in the north and along the flanks.
“I suppose I’ll be killin’ a Troll then,” he muttered to himself.
The Troll in question, however, swept in with a back-hand that launched four elves and a dwarf into Doran’s path. The War Mason was clipped by an elven boot and knocked to the ground. There were too many dead faces waiting for him.
With a bubbling wrath, he picked himself up and faced the Troll once more. “Now ye’re goin’ to get it!” he promised.
The Troll took no heed of the dwarf and continued to stomp ahead. Doran jumped to the side and avoided being stepped on, but he paused long enough to drive his axe down onto one of the monster’s toes. The beast grunted and staggered right, only Doran’s axe was still buried in the toe and his hand was still gripped to the haft. A sharp yell was raised from the dwarf’s mouth as he himself was yanked from the ground.
Thrown loose from his grip, the son of Dorain tumbled across the battlefield with only his hammer in hand. Protected by his armour, the War Mason jumped back to his feet and came face to knee with a very angry Troll. It roared, blowing out his blond hair, and expelled an ungodly amount of spit upon the dwarf.
Unfazed by the display, Doran wiped the spit from his face and looked at all four of the Troll’s bloodshot eyes. “Ye’ve got somethin’ o’ mine,” he said, gesturing at the axe lodged in its toe.
The Troll growled and raised both of its arms, fists clenched. Doran leapt forward and dived into a roll that took him between the monster’s legs. He felt the ground shudder under the double impact behind him, a blow that would have ground him down to a mangled mess. Rising from his manoeuvre, the son of Dorain rounded the monstrous foot and grabbed his axe, levering it by the top of the haft to pull it free.
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br /> Emerging on the other side of the Troll, he was forced to again dive out of the way as it turned to find him with swinging arms. One of the long chains threatened to take off his head, but the War Mason ducked as it swept through the wisps of his hair instead. Another hammering fist came down, followed by another, both of which he managed to evade by throwing himself around the battlefield. The third blow looked to be unavoidable, and so the dwarf went on the attack and hurled his hammer directly at the Troll’s head. The block of steel caught the beast in the mouth and shattered several teeth but, more importantly, it knocked the monster backwards, saving Doran’s life.
The Troll shook its head, regaining its senses, and focused on the small creature that had hurt it. The beast ignored the arrows that imbedded themselves between the rocky patches of its hide and the swords that chipped at its legs, and came for Doran with a vengeance. The son of Dorain backed up, desperately trying to think of an attack that would bring it down for good.
All he had left in his arsenal was the axe of Thorgen.
Assured of his own accuracy, Doran threw the weapon end over end having aimed for the Troll’s ugly face. If it didn’t kill the stupid creature it would, at least, blind it. From there, he could use what time he had to find another way to slay the monster. The axe, however, got no further than the Troll’s forearm, which whipped up to protect its face.
Doran swore.
Weaponless, he now faced an angry Troll that had the power to crush him with a single hand. The dwarf braced himself, entirely unsure what he was going to do.
The answer was nothing.
He felt the pressure of a large boot pressing down between his shoulders before he saw Russell leaping over his head. The old wolf gained enough height to face the Troll at eye level, his battle hammer held above him in both hands. Using the flat of the hammer, Russell buried the weapon right between the monster’s inner eyes. The force behind his blow was strong enough to crack the rocky hide and direct all four of its eyes inwards.
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