Quest The Siege of Belgrath Part 2: Battle of Irithul

“Wha’ do ah ‘ven hire ye’ ifh not tah kill? Git goin’!”, the Dwarf Seargent commanded.

Douglas held back his protests of ‘strategy’ or preferred options than holding onto a dead city neither side benefited from retaining, and yet it would fall on deaf ears. Dwarves were notorious for being exceptionally prideful, leave alone stubborn, and telling them that destroying the entrance or otherwise retreating were the best options would be met with a quick kick to the shin, and a very angry bearded midget telling you exactly why you don’t get a say in it.

At the end of the day, the dwarf was right. Douglas was hired to kill, it was the most lucrative way to attain some wealth being a Kavoshian, and nobody respected his intelligence or reason as much as his ability to kill and maim. They’d rather call him a ‘Pale Eyed Monster’ than give him the respect to listen, and while annoying, he couldn’t blame them. Dwarves didn’t like magic, and hiring him was a stretch regardless.

At least it paid well.

Douglas took some time to strap what little amount of ‘armor’ he had been able to afford, a few boiled leather pieces like a gauntlet and pauldron, but nothing to protect his core. Just a loose of set clothes of reasonable quality he had stolen in Alliria, with a crowning mask used by many mercenary mages. It was a lesson he had learned from Agron, when out and working for the masses, hide your identity as well as you can to ensure they never trace you back. It didn’t work for Agron as his notoriety expanded, but Douglas wasn’t well known and it was far more likely to offer something.

Tightening it all, he pulled a thick strewn hood over the mask and moved to stand. It wasn’t the most comfortable attire he’d ever put on, saving that right for the luxury wear Elbion’s balls had offered, but something about it felt right. A certain sense of confidence that pervaded when one was covered in protection. He only hoped it would give him the confidence to work through what would become the bloodiest day of his life.

As he came up to the makeshift walls of the main tunnel, Douglas glanced around at his companions. Most were untrained, a ragtag team of paramilitary dwarves covered in bucket helmets and wooden blocks of armor, holding hammers and butcher knives alongside what was left of their military. The enemy’s numbers wouldn’t mean as much in these tight corridors, but Douglas knew that without some help, this would be a God’s Blessing to win and nothing more.

Hopefully the God’s looked well upon the dwarves and their ancestors today, because there was nothing left for them but their finest hour.

Maho Sparhawk​

“Five silver pieces? That’s it?”, Hawthorne said with a heavy sigh.

He’d signed up for the Molthal Legion expecting little, but eighty seemed a bit low even for the area. He supposed he couldn’t blame them, the area was notorious for Blight Orcs and mercenaries were almost as common out here as they were in Amol Kalit. It wasn’t exactly like he was a hot commodity in the Blightlands afterall, but still, the sentiment hurt.

“Won’t even pay for the trip up here…”, he said disdainfully.

In truth, he hadn’t even come up for the mercenary gig. The Wolf was here for something bigger, a target that paid out thirty thousand ducats of Elbionese gold; and if that wasn’t a fair shot at a few months of luxury he didn’t know what did. A certain ‘Douglas Haley’, a Kavoshian wanted for the murder of a leading elder, some man James had already forgotten the name of. The victim would be remembered by the family leftover, but his job was to get the killer, not mourn the dead.

As he wandered by most of the camp, he saw figures like Verys Synsere strapped to a pole, but knew it wasn’t his place to interfere. Instead, he stood a small distance from her, pulling from his travelling bag a small drawing of Douglas. Something about the accuracy of these things disturbed him, but he knew it was often draw by mind mages going directly off perceived memory, so he supposed it couldn’t be helped.

Lucky for him, a lightning wielding Kavoshian Mage was easy to track in these lands, especially since the boy made the mistake of travelling through Alliria before his arrival here. If anywhere, James had contacts there, and plenty saw him conversing with a certain Kitsune for some reason or another. Given a few more weeks, Douglas would certainly see the light of Alliria once more; assuming everything went to plan.

Adjusting the face wraps, James looked out onto the preparing battlefield. Rear guardsmen preparing for more assaults from dwarves, a whole slew of blight orcs preparing to ram their clubs down every throat in a tunnel, and him; the would be mercenary stuck in some formation he wouldn’t stick to. Afterall, once the fighting started, he’d probably just drag the mage out by his hair, and walk him face first back to Alliria.

A smile crept on his face as he stowed the drawing, waiting for the distant horn of the commanders signalling the attack.​

“String ‘er up, then!”, a dwarf yelled to another as Douglas passed.

They’d been busy since late the night before setting traps between the average medical emergency. The dwarves had a strategy set out, one of using their tunnels and homefield advantage to their benefit as hallways were collapsed to extend the route the accessory routes would take to get behind the lines. In addition, traps of varying degrees of dismay were set up; some pressure sensitive collapses intended to be faux routes of ease, while many more were feces covered pungi sticks intending to let septic take over.

It was a cruel, almost demeaning pattern they had taken, but while many dwarves had already protested the use of such tactics, many more thought losing the city would turn out to be a far worse hit to the ego; and so the decision was made to sacrifice honor for victory. Mining satchel charges of varying quality were dredged up from the depths, gates were locked and prepared, and every working ballista was directed towards the opening of the tunnel leading to the city. Only a matter of time now before the enemy would walk into their tunnels, and force their hands, with many of their traps manually set off; they had to have perfect timing for the casualities to be enough.

Douglas thought the strategy was fine, but knew that holding the city would still be difficult, and so he wandered through the lines seeing if there was any outright openings or issues in the walls or fortifications that would harm their chances. He hadn’t made it all the way out here just to be killed by a Blight Orc with too much adrenaline in his system, afterall.

A few of the dwarves began moving hefty bronze cannon like machines up smooth stone ramps to their eventually destination, the second part of the plan they had, it seemed. Fire was a great way to scare an enemy into submission, he only hoped the reports of a fire mage in the enemy ranks wouldn’t turn that intent back in on them; but he had faith they’d come up with something should it arise. Afterall, there were a few mercenary groups here that had anti-mage experience, or at least so they claimed.

Whispers around the camp had directed Douglas towards a small forming camp of what appeared to be hardened dwarves working out their supplies, many already moving to reinforce the horribly dilapidated walls of Belgrath; a start he supposed, but they’d have to hurry if things turned south quick. The masked mage made his way to the man who appeared to be calling the shots, quickly putting out a hand and moving the mask he wore to offer a greeting;

“Master Dwarf, a pleasure. Name’s Douglas Haley, I’m one of the Mages they hired to defend the city.”, he said as he glanced between the group.

“Not to stare a gift horse in the mouth here, but where did you guys come from? As I understood, there wasn’t supposed to be any more reinforces.”

Haelen Blacklocks

---

“How entertaining…”, Rundal whispered to himself, as his illusioned hand stroked his faux chin.

He’d been following Douglas since his departure with his book, fully intending to get it back, and yet the more he watched the instances the boy had put him through to retain possession, he wondered just how far he would push himself to understand its depths, and what he would do if he found out exactly what secret it held. The lost story of a god that never ascended, waiting patiently for someone to make a house call.

Rundal twisted his lips into a curt grin, bringing his gaze back towards the enemy camp, doubly interested in the appearance Telemachus; the elven mage who perhaps thought himself greater than he was. The curse of a conjurer, binding lesser beings to their mortal will, a shame such potential was wasted in such an endeavor, but it wasn’t something Rundal would attempt to fix. What was more curious was his voluntary involvement in a conflict that seemingly had nothing to do with him.

Did he have something to gain? Probably, but the question was what.

Readjusting his mask, Rundal wandered up to the walls as one of the many mercenary battle mages hired for the position of saving the great dwarven city of Belgrath. A ruin if there ever was one, Rundal quietly remarked a time he had visited the city when it was in a fairer light; one not so dilapidated, sad, or disappointing. How many would be buried here today?

Probably not enough to bring the city's life back, but some of the dwarves could hope.

“Oy, git ya’self te’ work!”, a passing dwarf yelled at him, obviously annoyed the mage seemed to be daydreaming.

“Y-Yessir!”, Rundal attempted to stammer out, hopefully enough to convince the dwarf he’d been caught. He supposed it’d be interesting to find out how it all went down.​

“Khazar…”, Douglas offered, scratching slightly at the meager stubble he held from weeks of not shaving. Certainly lacked the dwarven knack for facial hair, but at least he had something.

“I’ve read about it. Kingdom sealed off to the rest of the world? I can’t imagine what it was like…”, he said with a delicate shake of his head, as to not upset the dwarf commander.

Dwarves were notorious for short tempers, as Douglas had already learned, and mentioning one of their sieges as ‘history’ might not sit well with the long beard before him. At least, he hoped ht would catch an attitude and kick him in the shin, as the last to do so left a nasty bruise. The little bastards were often stronger than they looked, attributed to their stocky, burly frames.

One of the younger groups of Belgrath’s impromptu militia moved a caravan of ballista on carts to The Gate of Irithul, while an older, greyed out dwarf commanded them on; in tow a set of ballista from years prior, some rusted and in poor condition, others barely fit to be shot. Perhaps the shrapnel of the shots would make for a good deterrent, but it was only a meager hope.

As Douglas looked back to Haelen, he offered a small grin;

“If all goes as Commander Grudgebearer claims they will, perhaps you’ll see the city until morn’.”

Folding his arms, he finally took stock of the man’s retinue, twisting his grin slightly off as he considered how untrained they appeared;

“Will your men be up to this? Not to question them, but they seem like a motley crew.”

Haelen Blacklocks​

“Then for both of our sakes, I hope tooth and nail is enough.”, he said idly, glancing to the map Haelen had motioned towards.

It was true dwarves were persistent, if nothing else, but they both could see the fault in the commander’s logic. How much would they sacrifice to retain a hold nobody cared for? It’d fallen into disrepair for years under Grudgebearer’s kindred guidance, and it was bound to do so for more. If by certain luck today would not be Belgrath’s last, then tomorrow would surely come, small pine boxes in tow for each the dwarves to suffer a fate beneath these mountainous caverns.

As the two spoke, the third accomplish walked into the fray, ever seemingly proud Commander Grudgebearer; a youthful visage as far as dwarves go, likely gotten into the position because his father or grandfather was once someone important to the now tomb of a city known as Belgrath. He spoke quick for a dwarf, and practically posturing himself before the men;

“Ah’ll ‘ave no discontent among’ muh troop, Blacklocks. Wha’sthis ah ‘ear ‘bout yuh given’ orders behind mah back?”, he said with as much anger as the dwarf could muster.

Douglas took a small step back, understanding already this conversation would only end with both of them mad at him if he intervened. Instead, he glanced aside quick to one of the many legions practicing methodic, slow, drills on how to properly swing a frying pan, or hammer, or whatever you managed to grab out of your home. A motley crew indeed, and one without a defined leadership, it seemed...

Haelen Blacklocks​