Dan Parkinson - Hammer and Axe

Daergar night-fighters, on their way back from harassing the human camps, were not as fortunate as the Theiwar. A blaze of eerie light caught most of them with their masks off and blinded them as two squadrons of invaders raced among them, slashing and cutting. The Daergar skirmishers left nearly forty dead on that bloody field—almost half their company.

It was mixed infantry that stood off the mobs of humans who made it almost to the ramparts. Under direct command of Barek Stone, four companies of Thorbardin guards formed ranks below the sloping roads, and the humans who made it there, past several other dwarven units, were no match for them. The fighting lasted no more than minutes, and then the invaders turned and disappeared into sudden darkness.

The surprise attacks had not reached Thorbardin, but, added to the fighting of the day before, they had taken their toll. Of twelve hundred dwarves who had formed the outer defense the previous morning, no more than a thousand remained. Willen Ironmaul heard the reports and called in the guard units to form an intense cordon on the main slopes, from the west rampart to the east one, and it was there, battered and bloodied, that the defenders waited for morning light.

Dawn’s first banners, rising above the plains of southern Ergoth, revealed a grim panorama below Southgate of Thorbardin. Hundreds of morning fires wove layers of smoke above the lower slopes of Cloudseeker Peak, where thousands of human warriors massed, making ready for all-out assault on the dwarven fortress. No longer concentrated on the distant Promontory, the human hordes had moved forward through the night, gaining ground in skirmish after skirmish, until the open meadows were behind them and just ahead were the massive slopes of the fortress mountain.

By first light, the human invaders prepared their attack, while barely a quarter mile ahead of them, and a thousand feet up, dwarves by the hundreds poured forth from the portal of Southgate to stream down the sloped ramparts and reinforce the defensive positions on the face of the mountain, desperately close to their final barricade—Southgate.

Willen Ironmaul and the Council of Thanes had determined that Thorbardin must be defended from without for as long as possible. “Only if we hold the slopes,” Willen advised the council, “can we avoid a state of closed siege. If we have to, we will retreat within and close the gate. But when that is done, we can no longer fight. We will be trapped within our own fortress, and the realm beyond will be undefended. Reorx forbid, but if it comes to barricading ourselves in Thorbardin, Kal-Thax will be lost.”

A closed siege, the thane leaders agreed, would be the end of the dwarven realm in the Kharolis mountains. The greatest strength of Thorbardin—its impenetrability—was at the same time its greatest weakness as a custodial fortress for the realm around it. There were only two practical entrances, Southgate and Northgate. If the gates were both closed, and no one could get in, then neither could anyone get out.

Once Thorbardin was closed, the humans could mount siege on both gates indefinitely—and in the meantime they could loot, plunder, and occupy all the lands Thorbardin was built to protect. And the dwarven forces, within their subterranean stronghold, could do nothing about it. Without the presence of Thorbardin and its fighting forces, the lands of the Einar and the burgeoning settlements of the Neidar would be lost. Thorbardin itself might survive—for a time—but Kal-Thax would not. Thus it was decided that, though Northgate was now closed, Southgate would remain open at all costs as long as there were dwarves enough to defend it. Closing the great gate would be the final retreat and the last resort.

By calling up all the reserves, Thorbardin’s outside forces could almost equal those massed out on the slope. But the talking drums said that more humans were crossing Ergoth now, drawn by news of war and dreams of plunder. Through border traders, the knights of Ergoth had sent warning. Something was happening within the human city of Xak Tsaroth. The overlords’ minions had withdrawn behind the walls, the city had been closed, and no news came from there. Now only the scattered outposts of the human knights stood between roving hordes and the road to the west, and the knights had their hands full defending their own lands.

Effectively, the warning was that the dwarves were on their own now, and may the gods protect them.

It was a grim and determined Damon Omenborn who stepped through the final gateway on this morning. He wore full field armor beneath a gray cloak, and in the crook of his arm he carried the red-crested helmet that had belonged to Mace Hammerstand. He carried both sword and hammer, and the shield slung behind his shoulder was emblazoned with the hammer-and-fist legend of the Roving Guard. Behind him, two hundred similarly armed and similarly grim young dwarves filed into view.

Cable Graypath, First of the Ten, recognized the chief’s son and bowed slightly in recognition of the proud symbol he wore, then stepped aside. Beyond him, Willen Ironmaul turned, and his eyes narrowed at the sight of his son. “What is this?” he growled. “Damon, who appointed you captain of the Roving Guard?”

“They did,” Damon said, returning his father’s frown with one just as strong and determined. “The survivors of Mace Hammerstand’s force. They came to me after nightfall and asked my pledge. I gave it. Mace was my friend.”

“I see,” the chief of chiefs said. “Well, as leader of the Roving Guard, it is your right to choose your duty. Have you a choice?”

“The wizards,” Damon replied without hesitation. “I have seen them, I have dealt with them, and I have taught the Roving Guard what I know. I seek leave to concentrate my forces on the magic-makers among our enemies.”

“The wizard Kistilan?” Barek Stone asked.

“He is my primary target,” Damon said.

“The wizards hide behind their hordes,” Willen said, scowling. “How can you get to them?”

“Let me try,” Damon urged. “No one else is better equipped to fight them. I have tasted their vile magic. I have even learned a little of it.”

Willen sighed. There could be no argument on that score. His son was right. “But I had counted on having you here,” he said. “If the wizards get past us . . . if any of them should get inside the gate . . .”

“Trust Gem Bluesleeve,” Damon said. “That wily Daewar has a plan for that.”

“I know of his plan.” Willen shuddered. “I hope I never have to see it put to practice.” He gazed at his big son, then shrugged and clapped him on his metal-clad shoulder. “The members of the Roving Guard were within their rights to select you, Damon. And you are within your rights to name your own assignment. Very well, you are so ordered. Just. . .”

When his father turned away without continuing, Damon asked, “Just what?”

“Nothing,” Willen growled, not looking around. “Nothing more than I would ask of any warrior of Thorbardin. Take care of yourself. . . Damon Omenborn.”

Damon saluted, the closed-fist salute of the Hylar, then turned and strapped Mace Hammerstand’s crested helm onto his head. With no further formalities, Damon marched away, down the eastern rampart, toward the old Theiwar trails. Grim and determined, his volunteers—for that was the nature of the Roving Guard, all were volunteers—marched at his back. To a dwarf, they were remembering Mace Hammerstand and the awful thing that had killed him—a thing brought forth upon Kal-Thax by the conniving and plotting of wizards.

Assisted by magic, human engineers had been at work in the forests flanking the eastern Promontory, and now siege engines rolled forward across the meadows—catapults, sling-rams, and caissons creeping along on wheels and runners in the shadows of tall, shielded towers which could each hold and protect a dozen ranks of archers and darters.