Quest The Siege of Belgrath Part 2: Battle of Irithul

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

​

2 Days had passed since the Siege began...


The battlefield was laden with dead. Both Dwarf and Orc corpses lay still on the hard ground, harsh in the daylight. Blood sank back into the soil, running rivers underneath the ground on which soldiers still fought. The Steel of Molthal clashing with the brash metals of the Dwarves, sparks flying through the air, small comets of light meeting the opposing wind. The sun’s bitter brightness reflecting off of armour, as swords and axes crashed down on their rivets, clashed with their plates, and met with their metal.


Lor-Holdram had fallen. The multitudes of Dwarven soldiers were forced to retreat back into their tunnels, deep under the Fort’s foundations. The mighty half-giant Gerra, son of Molthal, spearheaded the attack. He stood tall, fighting Arnor, the great warrior that took form in a bear. Telemachus, possibly the greatest Conjurer in Arethil, stood at the rear of the battle, defending the Dwarven attackers who wished to entrap Gerra. He stood beside the Maho Sparhawk, friend to Gerra and foreigner to Battle.


Mar’Cal, the Wanderer, ally to Gerra, supported the Siege, providing a large force of men, and driving back the Dwarf forces back to their fortress which they now sought to hide in.


On the other side of the Battle, Birtingr Hrutr, Dwarven Warrior, helped lead the opposing forces against Gerra. They rallied every available Dwarf, no matter how inexperienced, and threw them out into battle, against the fierce and visceral Orc hoards. Commanding his archers and Crossbow wielders, they launched a volley against the rear tents that supplied Gerra’s army, and on the surgeon’s tents, where Sparhawk and Adam resided. Whilst Sparhawk returned to Battle, Adam shadowed off to the Armoury, where he is getting more than he bargained for…


Kjaran Mak Aodha, a brave warrior, despite his leg injury, fought on against the oncoming Orcs, determined to fight until the last breath of the last orc has been spent.

Now, the Molthal legion presses the attack, after the rear defense was dealth with, all forces were engaging in brutal tunnel warfare with the dwarves and their blade-bought warriors. Gerra seeks to take the mighty Gate of Irithul, one of only two gates that lead to the underground city of Belgrath itself.

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(OOC)

For those of you who were posting in The Siege of Belgrath, this is taking place two Days after the last post. : )

This is the second part to the Thread The Siege of Belgrath. Feel free to join in on the thread, and ask any of us if you want more information on what’s going on (especially since it’d take a long time to read the original thread.).​

 

[Douglas Haley]

______________________

“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​

 

[Gerra]

Cold wind bit at his face as he stood upon the battlements, panting with exertion. Blood wept from his torn scalp and trickled hot down brow and cheek, stinging his eyes. Below lay his fallen foe, Arnor the Bearshifter of the eastern tundra, a ruin at the base of Lor Holdram's outer wall, body beaten and broken.

Gerra's eyes lifted, to survey his host. The fort was taken, they had victory. He lifted his shield over his head and a wordless shout tore from his lips, joined on the wind by thousands of triumphant shouts from his soldiers arrayed in and around the fort.

His sense of victory was fleeting. In the distance, he could see the smoke and flames among his tents and the shapes of warg riders chasing down dwarven marauders on rams. The camp provisions would need to be brought within the fort, lest any more dwarven reinforcements arrive from the countryside in an effort to lift the siege.

Despite looming doubts, he still felt the giddiness of battle lust threading through his veins and his gaze returned to the fallen Arnor. Strong warriors, once bested, still had their uses.

"Put him in irons," Gerra called down in Blight-tongue to the spear-shakers below, his voice like muted thunder. "He will be tribute for Menalus."

* * *

...Two Days After the Battle of Lor Holdram

The son of the Ash King frowned at the map spread out on the table before him. A central tunnel ran from Lor Holdram to the Gate of Irithul, but a dizzying array of secondary tunnels branched off the main one, weaving this way and that like the diggings of a crazed ant hive.

Lost in thought, Gerra touched gingerly at the stitches sewn into the top of his head, where the Bearshifter's teeth had dug into his scalp and ripped open a flap of flesh.

"Astyanax, where are Sparhawk and Telemachus? We must march soon."

 

[Telemachus]

Spoiler

LOR HOLDRAM
UNKNOWN PASSAGE

DAYS EARLIER

Telemachus moved carefully through the narrow corridor - a forgotten passage hewn through the stone in some remote corner of Lor Holdram. A faint light shone from his staff, illuminating the way in an eerie white. Unlike the rest of the fortress, this section had been forgotten and abandoned centuries ago. A "secret" passage had led to it from a barracks, though in reality it had been sealed up completely. The Blight Orcs were busy stamping out the last pockets of resistance to notice or care that Telemachus had slipped away from most of the fighting.

Were it so that he had been entirely unnoticed.

Laodice, the Sidereal Elf adept that had harassed him earlier in the battle, had followed him. "Is this a usual thing for you? Spelunking in the middle of a battle?" she commented, navigating over a fallen pillar after him.

If she hadn't proven useful in saving most of the Blight Orc supplies from being destroyed by fire, Telemachus might have repudiated her. But she had, and so she was only a nuisance instead of an outright obstacle. He continued in silence. There was only the sound of their footsteps on the cobblestone.

"No comment?"

"None."

"Pity."

Nuisance indeed.

The rest of their walk was blissfully devoid of conversation. The passages wove deeper and deeper, but eventually Telemachus found what he was looking for. It was a circular chamber. An archway that led into the next room had been blocked off with rubble and debris. Jagged stonework jutted awkwardly out from within. Completely sealed.

The air rippled in front of them - the telltale sign of a Wind Stalker. The ones in the gatehouse had already been dismissed now that their purpose had been fulfilled. This one was still busy. Dust occasionally peeled off the wall as the elemental struggled in vain to carve itself a way through.

"Hey, that's one of ours," Laodice observed. "What's it doing down here?"

Telemachus gestured with his staff, drawing the Elemental towards him. "Following orders."

He dismissed it. A gust of air blew through the room as it evaporated, back to whatever plane of existence it called home.

"Are you going to elaborate or...?"

He did not elaborate, as his free hand was already rummaging through his traveling pouch. "Take the three most skilled adepts in your troupe and bring them here. Have them help you clear this passage."

"Hey, we can't just..." She trailed off after being handed a coin purse - far more than what Gerra was paying the lot of them combined, to be sure - only to resume again. "What are we digging for?"

"Nothing you or the others have the capacity to use," Telemachus droned, and handed her a small scroll, bound shut with a length of string. "If Astyanax trespasses here, use this."

Laodice examined it skeptically, but dared not break the seal. "What, to kill him?"

"Indirectly, yes."

LOR HOLDRAM
WAR ROOM

PRESENT DAY

Astyanax teetered about at the edge of the room, occasionally stealing glances at Gerra's stitches, silently believing he could have done a better job. But like all sensible people, Gerra would not allow Astyanax to tend to his wounds. The Stars knew the only reason Sparhawk allowed it due to his inability to protest at the time.

For all the recognition he got for it, too! Astyanax had saved Gerra's prize spellcaster - the one who occasionally moonlighted as a sheathe - and all he got was the Blight Orc equivalent of a pat on the head... Which was to say, people glared at him less often and the cooks stopped spitting in his gruel.

He perked up when Gerra spoke his name, only to dismay when he still wasn't presented with a reward. "Your grace, the last I observed him directly he was overseeing the adepts in their treatment of the wounded."

Either that or still sulking about, looking for things Astyanax had already called dibs on.

"Perhaps, your grace," Astyanax ventured, "It would be best to plan the assault without him. My associate is not exactly known for his strategic mind. I myself have served in many a siege, and..."

The opening of doors cut off Astyanax, as it often did. The elite guard shuffled aside to allow Telemachus and Maho Sparhawk entrance. As usual, Telemachus bowed in a perfectly dignified manner, posture perfect. Astyanax grimaced for the duration.

"You requested our presence, your grace?"

 

[Haelen Blacklocks]

Haelen had been only leagues away when he got the notice. His kin were besieged, the last great city of the Dwarves was set to fall. As the exiled prince rested in Tholbor, the parchment in his left and pipe in his right, he gazed out the window and up into the mountains. The Great Gate of Khazar remained closed, perhaps forever. He grumbled, such a fate would not await Belgrath!

"Eobe!" Haelen Blacklocks roared with the fierceness of his ancestors. The tavern was quiet this early in the morning and one could hear the coming footsteps of a dwarf. The door burst open and a young dwarf stood at the ready. "Gather ta' men, Belgrath is ehn' need" Haelen ordered.

As the son rose over the Valley of Tholbor and set itself against the fallen Kingdom of Khazar, the entire town of Tholbor had been summoned. Every smith, farmer, woodsman and mason had been called to arms. Their armour were pots and pans, ancient heirlooms and rusted buckets for helmets. They were a sore sight, complimented only by a handful of veterans from the Iron Legion of Khazar. Mallets, scythes, axes and hammers for weapons, while the few among Haelens most elite wore black steel plate armour and wielded fearsome swords, two-handed axes as tall as the dwarves themselves and hammers that could squash a goblin whole.

They set off in the shadow of Khazar towards Belgrath, snaking through goat trails and hidden passages that the dwarves kept secret. Under the earth they ventured into the primordial tunnels that once connected ancient Dwarven realms. Decrepit and full of danger, the 500 strong were unaccosted on their march. The sparse creatures of this dark realm refused to challenge a host so large.

They made utmost haste, covering vast distances in a matter of days. These ancient underground highways allowed speed unmatched by the varied terrain of the ground above. As they neared Belgrath, those in the outermost limits of the Dwarven realm would hear their coming. The earth rumbled in their wake and the halls echoed at their call. "Khazar!" The trumpeting chorus resounded, far distant in the tunnels. Once more, again and again, louder and louder as they neared "Khazar! Khazar! KHAZAR!"

Like a story from a bygone era, the remnants of the Kingdom of Khazar was coming.

 

[Cuut'Thul'Lulu]

Mar'Cal met with his men before the tunnel fighting began, "Alright so from what I'm understanding, we will be fighting in small confined spaces now. This means that you will all have to fight as a group. It is a lot less likely you will get a chance for a one on one fight so make sure you know how to fit into a fighting row. You need to cover your ally and they will cover you. I need you all to be able to become a part of the machine that we will be fighting as. You have already fought with them, hopefully you learned something about your allies. Finally make sure you are equipped for what we are about to do."

Vallen, Mar'Cal's second in command, looked at Mar'Cal's legs. They still wore scratches, but were in much better shape. Some of the men had assumed the vials he'd drank were some kind of alchemical potion that one with Mar'Cals wealth could afford. Vallen was not so sure after seeing what had happened up close, and the vial the 'potion' was in. He suspected it was a simple dose of 'Heart Stoppa', but that should have caused him to pass out, and slowly die as his organs shut down, not give him an adrenaline boost and wake up. Also what was up with the weird appearance he had taken on. Mar'Cal was not what he seemed.

Mar'Cal marched off to get his orders for what he and his troops were to do during the battle. while he searched for the command tent he cursed the southland under his breath. What type of land had strange human dragon hybrids, except instead of frost, spat fire. That was the opposite of what was supposed to come out of a dragons mouth. Second he cursed this land for their hatred of the pestilent arts, what they called necromancy. He had learned after the first few times even asking after a practitioner was hated, and he was better off not asking, and assuming the answer was no. It would be a whole ton easier for him if he had someone who could rot the wounds away, rather than having to find rare poisons that caused necrosis. What most offered instead was some type of magic that would stitch his flesh back together, or grow flesh, as though he were a cloth that needed stitching, or to grow like a plant. These southerners were messed up in the head.

Realizing he had used all his thrown weapons fending off the dwarven calvary, he decided after getting his men's orders, he'd head over to an armoury to get some more throwable weapons. If this did turn into tunnel fighting at least he'd have stuff throw at the enemy while they advanced, that is, as long as the ceiling allowed.

 

[Gerra]

"Indeed," Gerra said, glancing up from the map of the tunnels to note the arrival of the two mages before returning his gaze to the matter at hand, "You performed admirably in defense of the camp. And your efforts with the wind stalkers gave us command of the fort. It is no flattery to say you won us the day, Telemachus."

The half-giant sighed grimly and mentally noted the sour tones of Astyanax's earlier comments. That one would need placating, of some sort. Gerra found his necromantic proclivities repulsive, but he would use every tool in his arsenal. And it was only recently that Sparhawk himself had retreated from the practicing of that dark magic in favor of the conjuring of fire.

Too many issues chose to rear their heads at the most inopportune of moments. The mouth of the tunnels had taken two full days to dig clear and the efforts had exhausted two of his cohorts. The dwarves they encountered in the tunnels would be fresh and no doubt awaiting them with every nefarious mechanism in their repertoire.

Which brought him back to Telemachus.

"But, we have another battle before us, which will be more costly than the last by far. The enemy will have traps prepared. Caltrops. Collapsing caverns. Pits filled with sharpened stakes. And I know not what else. Your conjurations will be critical in triggering these mechanisms without sacrificing my warriors."

His gaze rose once more, fixing Maho Sparhawk. "I see you have recovered well from your wounds, brother. When i saw what that... youth... had done to you, I feared you dead. Rage overtook me, I think I might have killed the boy." He pursed his lips, then continued. "If you feel capable of rejoining the fight, your flames will be invaluable in clearing out the tunnels."

Finally, he turned to Astyanax. "Do not think I forget you, or what you have done for Molthal. I have a place for you in the vanguard. Raise the dwarves who fell this day, as many as you can. In the gloom of the tunnels you can lead them directly into the enemy. They will be mistaken for allies, until it is too late. You will be the first hammer blow upon the shield of Belgrath. Together, we will break them."

 

[Verys Synsere]

Verys had lost track of how many days it had taken to reach this dingy camp underneath the shadow of a great mountain range. The fact of which was rather spectacular, in a horrible way, because she never lost track of anything numerical. She could still remember exactly how many water barrels were needed for each size of ship that came to port, but the days since her kidnapping? Not so much. In her defense, she’d never had to count anything while shackled and crammed in the back of a tiny wagon with a dozen other boxes of what she suspected to be weapons based on the clinking protests they made with every. Single. Bump. Of which there were many.

Not to mention the lack of food, or the fetid, unclean water they gave her to drink, or the two men -- one bearded and gruff, one greasy blonde and shrill -- who were likely to cuff her if she didn’t comply immediately. All she could do was try and keep track of *where* they were going. North, certainly, but mostly due east. Higher up in altitude, judging from how the temperature dropped and the wind bit just a little bit more eagerly and a bit more deeply through her thin coastal clothes. She tried her best to keep the map in her head, but without a good track of days and without the ability to see the landmarks around her, it was sketchy, at best.

It would be hard to get home.

A thought that echoed even more loudly through her mind as they finally reached the Outpost, the one that the men had been talking about for weeks. It was here that they would meet the mens’ other partner, who would hopefully have “product” to sell at “the Front” as well. Verys wasn’t sure what “the Front” was but felt comfortable in assuming that it wasn’t exactly a sort of place she wanted to arrive at shackled and bound.

She hadn’t had much of a plan -- that was, until they’d stopped for lunch the day before, letting her stretch her legs while the bearded and greasy men ate, and she’d spotted a bunch of pale blue flowers with bright red centers. She’d picked as many as she could without the men noticing, shoving them in her sleeves until she’d collected what she hoped was enough.

That night, bound and left in the back of the wagon while the men slept near the fire, she’d worked the rope that bound her shackles to the wall just enough to reach the waterflask that hung from the driver’s seat.

She was hoping against all hope that she’d paid enough attention to Nan Gray’s warnings, and remembered the one entry in her herbology guide well enough.

When the bearded man jerked her out of the back of the wagon, she felt the first bit of optimism. Every stumbling step he took, half directing, half dragging her across the dirt of the Outpost to the poles at the opposite end of the camp, that optimism grew and sprung into hope. She HAD remembered correctly, she thought, victorious, as the man muttered nonsense to himself while tying her shackled hands to one of the rings on the poles. He fumbled with it, looping it through several times without actually succeeding at doing anything effective, then turned and followed the greasy man, who’d disappeared into the shack at the far end of the poles. Doubtless both of them now fully suffering from the hallucinogenic properties of the plant, one that Nan Gray had called ‘Ghostthistle’ because it made one see ‘ghosts’ if they ingested it.

Verys gave her hands a hard jerk, the rope unraveling and falling out of the ring. Freedom!

Before she could take flight, however, there was the sound of horses behind her -- the other partner must have arrived with whatever ‘product’ he had managed to find. She couldn’t run now, he’d spot her and she wouldn’t have time to get her satchel from the back of the wagon. So she threw the rope over the ring once more, clutching it in her grasp in a way to hide the fact that it wasn’t actually bound as she bent her head, trying to look as small and unremarkable as possible…

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

2 Days previous...​

The battle was fierce. Gerra and the other commanders were fully aware that, if the rear guard were to make their way past where Telemachus and Sparhawk now stood, it would spell disaster for the Siege, leaving Gerra vulnerable to attack. The chances of them winning at that point would be incredibly slim. The Siege would be a failure. Every man that stood facing those Dwarves were aware of this. Aware of the fight that would be fought, the lives that would be lost. But they would fight till there sweat no longer cast itself off their brows, and their blood no longer run through their veins.

Lucky for them, the rain of bolts that had bothered them seemed to slow down, likely due to the conservation of Ammo. Telemachus was a brilliant strategist, far better in battle than Sparhawk, the difference between the two was monumental from the beginning; he quickly gave orders, the Orc force they had been afforded quickly being put to work.

It wasn't long before the Dwarves were being pushed back, struggling against the sheer oppressive power of the savage Orcs and their kin. They still fought back with a fierce ferocity, firing wave after wave of bolts, sending out their strongest warriors, their carefully crafted Hammers caving in the skulls of Orc after Orc. It was evident however, that the Orcs (along with Telemachus's stratagem) had won Gerra the advantage. They were losing ground quickly, and though they continuously crashed with the Orcs despite their desperate situation, the day was lost for them.

One after the other, the Dwarf commanders at the Rear-attack were running out of options, knowing that if their men were to fight any longer, it would cease to be a battle,

it would be a slaughter.

Sparhawk kept a supporting role, taking orders directly from Telemachus, being delegated areas to combust, weapons to smoke out. He knew he could not let himself slip back into the form he had familiarly let himself form into this time, else he would lose control of his head.

Soon, we can return to Base camp...

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Present
​

Sparhawk and Telemachus had succeeded in their orders; they had defended the camp - or what was left of it - from the Dwarves that sought to foil Gerra's plans. Neither had much time to rest, and Sparhawk was in a sorry state when he returned with Telemachus:

Due to the amount of Fire magic at his disposable, he forgot to realise that his clothes were not immune to it's burning effects. The upper section of his robe was in tatters, scorched edges painted it. Luckily for him, robes were cheap and plentiful, so he simply picked one from what remained of the Camp, it was however, too big for him, and coveted him like a curtain. His staff most likely lay in ruins with the tent he had broken it in, no longer of any importance to him. He had bigger things on his mind.

He and Telemachus entered the tent to be presented with Gerra, the other commanders, and surprisingly Astyanax, the Necromancer who had saved his life. His eyes widened as he turned to greet him.

"You- you saved my life. I've never been the greatest Orator but... Thank you... i owe you my life." He bowed deeply to him. If it wasn't for his necromancy, he would have surely perished. And though Sparhawk didn't agree with the means he used to heal his fatal wounds, the end result was the same nonetheless.

And of course, Gerra, his brother in arms, greeted him with kind words that comforted him deeply:

His gaze rose once more, fixing Maho Sparhawk. "I see you have recovered well from your wounds, brother. When i saw what that... youth... had done to you, I feared you dead. Rage overtook me, I think I might have killed the boy." He pursed his lips, then continued. "If you feel capable of rejoining the fight, your flames will be invaluable in clearing out the tunnels."

"If your command demands i Burn them in their wretched little hole, i am ready to carry it out... Brother."

Strange, doesn't sounds like something i'd say...

 

[Telemachus]

It was always nice to receive praise for one's efforts. Or so most would think. Telemachus remained devoid of expression for the duration of Gerra's speech, while Astyanax looked on with severe focus. Like a hound desperate for scraps off the dining table, searching for any sign it might be offered a morsel.

Such was the lot of necromancers.

Fortunately Maho Sparhawk obliged him, though in an awkward manner that generated something between an embarrassed grimace and a knowing smirk from Astyanax. Thin lips parted, and the dark outline of his black tooth could be seen.

That expression quickly vanished when Sparhawk snapped, snarling about burning the Dwarves in a more sinister manner than he had heard Sparhawk speak before. It must have alarmed Telemachus too, for the conjurer turned his head to look at Maho for a moment, raised an eyebrow, and returned his attention to Gerra.

Conjurations would certainly come in handy during the battles to come, but Gerra lacked good judgement - or perhaps imagination - as to their proper use. With Laodice and the other skilled adepts 'missing,' it would fall to Telemachus to shoulder the burden of the summoning rituals. This would reduce the number of conjurations, but not their effectiveness.

"I am limited in the number of summons I can anchor to this plane, your grace," Telemachus said. "The clearing of traps may be better suited to the undead marshaled by my colleague..."

Astyanax was still rubbing his hands when he chimed in, "Yes! Yes, your grace. It would be an honor most high to succeed where the magicks of my compatriot will doubtlessly be inadequate."

 

[Gerra]

Twin hairless brows knit together in an inscrutable expression: displeasure at the countermand; confusion as to the apparent weakness of the "First" among conjurers; consideration of the suggestion; disdain for Sparhawk's utter naivety; pondering his sudden appetite for violence; a weariness with the constant bickering of sorcerers; foreboding at the slow approach of the inevitable. Perhaps all these and more besides.

The half-giant waved a hand dismissively. "See it done. Masters Sparhawk, Astyanax. Leave us. Tend to your preparations. I would have words with Telemachus alone."

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

"Oh, uh, of course."

It burdened him, the thought of not having Gerra's respect. That dismissive hand that waved them away did more damage than a hail of arrows ever could. Of course he'd want to speak with Telemachus. He was the intelligent one. He - usually - had a plan, and if not, a grand strategy he could use when the time came. He rarely relied on others, and in Sparhawk's time of need, he led brilliantly. To be called a Brother and not have one's respect. That was true dishonour. And he knew for sure that Telemachus had won Gerra's respect.

At the end of the day, Sparhawk was just a wizard with powers he hadn't even earnt. Who'd have respect for a man like that?

Not Gerra. Not yet.

Sparhawk made his way out of the tent, and towards an open area that looked down upon the battle that had just ensued. It was hard to believe what had happened days prior, the eerie silence that lingered in the air, contrasted by the mounds of Dwarf and Orc bodies that littered the battlefield. It was an awful sight. In hindsight, Sparhawk found it hard to justify his actions, the cost of life for the reward; was it worth it?

No, that didn't matter. If it was under Gerra's orders, the means must be justifiable.

His thoughts dawned on his previous actions days prior. That form he kept slipping into concerned him deeply. On one hand, it let himself let go of his inhabitions, and battle at his fullest potential. On the other, if he let himself slip into it for too long, he could potentially surpass his limits, and injure himself. Or even kill himself.

He would never put himself under such risk for such small gain again. He had a bigger part to play in Gerra's plans, and he wouldn't let himself die so pointlessly.

Once we get in those tunnels, then i'll prove myself worthy.

I will.

 

[Cuut'Thul'Lulu]

Mar'Cal sat in his makeshift tent while he waited for his men to finish finding each other and gather. While he waited he thought about the order for them to be the rear guard. Mar'Cal was a touch conflicted with the orders to be part of the rear guard. It was what he had expected, and was ideal in most ways, but still his feelings couldn't help but be mixed. A rear guard was best made up of a few men skilled in fighting alone, and capable of adjusting as the situation called for it. Mar'Cal's men filled that role in a great way. It was less likely though that Mar'Cal would find a great fighter, but still, those he would fight would be more likely to be elites. He also would be more like to engage those he did run into into a duel, a much more preferable option than fighting as a part of a unit. He was less likely to find combat in the rear as well. His men would see these things as benefits. Mar'Cal had to agree that this was the ideal for them, still a part of him wished to be able to just be where the most fighting was. In the past his sense of duty had kept him from fighting there, now he had a different duty he had to follow.

Mar'Cal stood as the last of his men made their way in. "I have received our orders. We will make up a part of the rear guard. I doubt this is that much of a surprise to anyone. Some may be wondering why I insisted that you learn with the orc soldiers, this was so you would be able to learn how to fight with them, as well as learn how to fight better yourselves. It was because of our performance in the last battle we earned this position, so keep up the good work, and we will continue to be rewarded. Dismissed, I want you all ready for the upcoming battle."

Mar'Cal stepped out of the tent once more, and took in the rest of the tents. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, and he didn't know a whole lot about this land, but something seemed strange about this whole siege.

 

[Jame Hawthorne]

“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.​

 

[Telemachus]

Telemachus spared Maho Sparhawk a nod as he left, if only out of sympathy that Astyanax would be following him out. Astyanax himself bowed again and muttered some platitudes before slinking out. The two locked eyes as Astyanax moved past. As usual, nothing but animosity seemed to exist between those stares.

Normally Telemachus might have shown difference to whoever had saved Sparhawk's life. In the case of Astyanax, Telemachus could only promise to kill him quickly as reward for his good service. His misdeeds were far greater than a trifling trial like rescuing Sparhawk from the brink of death could rectify.

The First among Conjurers waited with perfect patience, utterly silent, for Gerra to relay whatever message he had.

 

[Gerra]

When the tent flap closed, Gerra looked up from the map and looked down upon Telemachus with a gaze which smoldered like two hot suns.

"What are you doing?"

 

[Telemachus]

The Elf stared back, and his eyes reflected nothing. Strange that Gerra would require clarification in this matter, but the sons of Menalus were not bred for their intellect.

"I am presently answering your summons, your grace."

 

[Gerra]

“You are indeed. Strange, is it not? An elf of your capabilities wants not for coin, judging by your garments you are not in dire straits,” the half-giant mused, “Nor do you seek to curry favor with the sons of the Ash King, like Astyanax. So what are you doing here. Do you have some grudge against dwarf kind?”

 

[Douglas Haley]

______________________

“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.​

 

[Telemachus]

Ah. Gerra suspected there was more to his presence here than it would seem. Astyanax had been wise to use sycophancy to hide his goals, and Telemachus silently cursed that wily necromancer. Though of course the fault was his, not Astyanax's.

As much as he would have liked it to be.

Telemachus closed his eyes and sighed softly through his nostrils, as if preparing to divulge some terrible shortcoming.

"Many of the adepts that have joined this army are from Aegos," he said, voice flat. "They are quite young. And in several cases the immediate offspring of members of the Council of Diviners."

The Council of Diviners governed Aegos as any magocracy would, although they in particular were famed for their prolific use of Divination magic.

It was not unusual, these days, for younger Sidereal Elves to feel the spark of adventure. It was difficult to say what was driving this change. Perhaps increased human trade. In many cases, the older Antikathri were incapable of preventing their impetuous offspring from leaving. And since those same offspring were often reckless and incapable of coherent leadership...

"The Diviners have asked I accompany your force in order to ensure the survival of their kin," Telemachus finally admitted. "I am obliged by blood to honor this request."

It would seem, for the briefest moment, that the most painful part of this process for Telemachus...

...Was admitting he was not being paid for this service.

 

[Haelen Blacklocks]

On the fringes of the city preparations were underway within a bustling camp. Tents were erected, firepits ignited. A camp blacksmith was seen engaging in heated conversation with an official from Belgrath as they haggled on supplies and prices. The militia from Tholbor were poorly armed and were seeking better equipment. Despite the city being under siege the merchants of Belgrath were as fierce as ever.

Militia milled about as they were awaiting orders from the far more experienced and elderly veterans of the Iron Legion. Nearest the back of the camp was a small pavilion, hardly befitting for humans but ample of room for dwarves. Within Haelen Blacklocks was discussing tactics with the soldiers of the Iron Legion, numbering only a dozen. Despite their lack of numbers they were a sight to behold. Clad head to toe in the black steel of Khazar, a rare sight in the world since the fall of Khazar

Douglas entered just as a sergeant from the Belgrath forces was departing with a bundle of parchments. "Ghosts, all o' them," the sergeant could be heard muttering as he left. The young dwarf shook his head in disbelief and fled from the camp towards the inner city. Haelen Blacklocks stared at the intruder with a single questioning eye. As Douglas introduced himself Haelens face seemed to flash with a hint of childish joy and followed by bitter sorrow, he grimaced, "Ah magician. Eh know yer kind well, Master Mage." He scratched at his beard, "Eh were good friends with Ricardt, an' once upon ah time.. Cataris."

"Eh am Haelen Blacklocks. Prince o' tah Kingdom o' Khazar." The fallen kingdom of Khazar, now just myth and legends to the vast population of this world, and a distant memory to the Dwarves. This would be the largest gathering of the survivors of Khazar since it's fall, as most kept themselves hidden in the Valley of Tholbor under the shadow of their great mountain. Of the Dwarven realms they lived closest to the Blightlands.

"Nay, Belgrath is one o' tah last surviving Dwarven realms. Tah other small'ah realms meh beh too busy bickerin' tah come aid.. but weh already lost our realm, weh will not let anotha' fall while weh still breathe," Haelen answered Douglas' question on reinforcements. "Weh will assist with tah defender," Haelen said as he swung his hand towards the table in the centre of the pavilion.

The map was an old one, outdated by modern standards but still listed ancient passages around Belgrath long since forgotten. Haelen described how his men were able to slip into Belgrath using these primordial Dwarven roads. He suggested that if the city fell they could evacuate by the way they came, and then detailed his plans as he had miners digging out pitfalls in thin passages, smiths prepared boiling oil and a gathering of young Dwarves made headway in collecting as many explosives as they could. If Haelens kinkin neeto fall back they would not do so without collapsing the tunnels. Haelen appraised Douglas, wondering what the young magi was thinking.

 

[Douglas Haley]

______________________

“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​

 

[Haelen Blacklocks]

Haelen grumbled as Douglas mentioned the fall of Khazar. The Iron Legion members shuffled their weight from one foot to another, reminded of their failure to protect king and people. "Weh were bettah' defended t'an Belgrath," Haelen said and spat onto the ground, "T'is city has be'n rotting fer years. Even if weh win.. Belgrath will fall intah ruin without stable leadah-ship."

The elderly Dwarf prince nodded along to Douglas as the magi mentioned Commander Grudgebearer but it was obvious this dwarf doubted the abilities of said commander. Haelen was no master tactician but he knew a lost cause when he saw one, but he himself was a lost cause and giving up was not in the nature of Dwarves.

When Douglas gave the camp an appraising look Haelen butted in, "Shut yer fucken' trap kid, t'ese are ARRAGOTH." His hand gestured to a world map where Khazar was still marked, despite modern maps no longer marking the location. "Weh've been foightin' Blight Orcs fer as long as dah Elves ben' eatin' leaves." Haelen turned his eye onto his kin, "Weh are ah sore sight but weh fight tooth an' nail."

 

[Douglas Haley]

______________________

“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​

 

[Haelen Blacklocks]

Haelen Blacklocks said nothing, that was agreement enough. He turned his back to Douglas so as to resume his planning of the defence. He was not in battle attire this evening, having chosen to adorn a thick robe of sheepskin and wool. He almost looked ready to be pampered were it not for his shaggy beard, scruffy hair and eye-patch.

When the Commander entered the tent Haelen did not turn around, instead he continued instructing those of the Iron Legion who would act as sub-commanders for the battle, and elite soldiers during the last stages of defence if it came to it. When Grudgebearer spoke up, roaring his displeasure, it was only then that Haelen turned and acknowledged him.

Despite Haelen wearing robes and fresh from Tholbor, and the commander battle-weary from recent conflict, Haelen looked more the warrior and commander. "AYE!" Haelen barked back, "Eh'll respect yer orders, I won't instruct yeh men behind yeh back," Haelen agreed, "I'll instruct them teh yer face, young'en." He strode forward and though they were of the same height Haelen seemed all the taller. His face grizzled from centuries of adventure, war and misery. He had been tried and tested in hellfire and still stood proud, despite the fall of his kingdom, his father, brother and his people. "Belgrath will fall when tha' longbeards let tha' wee ones play war."