Completed The Siege of Belgrath

[Gerra]

The bear reared up and Gerra's hammer swung through empty air, then the furious behemoth came down on him, all teeth and claws, seeking to crush him into the rock of the battlement with its heavy paws.

The half-giant braced himself and raised his shield. The paws collided against the crude Molthal steel, claws squealing against the shield's face. The weight of the bear pressing on him, pressing him down like a falling millstone. He felt it in the joints of his knees and in the trembling muscles of the forearm which bore the shield.

Grunting with the strain of staying upright while the bear placed its weight upon him, Gerra drove forward, taking one step into the bear and then smiting at its hind leg with all his strength.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

He was so focused on the aspect of killing, that he forgot he was fighting.

He was reminded by a strike to his leg.

It hurt.

A lot.

Even as a bear.

He recoiled back, howling in pain. He went to all fours, growling and snarling, backing off from Gerra for a brief moment.

Then, he charged. He pushed down on his shield like before- but, like a certain dog, went to take a bite out of his face. He was slower, thanks to the Half-Giant hitting his leg. He was favoring the other now.

 

[Gerra]

The hammer met fur and flesh beneath, a true and bruising strike, mayhap even to the bone. In pain, roaring, the beast gave temporary breath, falling back only to launch itself at him once more. The bear shifter threw the bulk of its weight upon him like a battering ram and his joints shrieked their protest as he met it, bracing behind shield. Then the jaws came over the top, snapping, slavering.

Teeth tore into his scalp and his skin wept hot blood in sheets even as he pulled his head back from the snapping jaws.

His own mouth set in a grimace of pain, he brought his hammer up and shoved it into the snapping mouth.

If the beast-man sought to tear his flesh from his face, let it find the ferrous skin of Molthal iron instead.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

That son of a bitch shoved a fucking hammer into his mouth.

The audacity of some people.

Then, it dawned on Arnor as his gag reflex was tested.

He shoved a hammer into his mouth.

So, Arnor doubled down and bit into the hammer, teeth grinding on the metal. And.... he pulled towards his thumb, trying to break the half-giants hold on his hammer.

Hit me in the leg now, why don't you?

 

[Adam]

Chaos still reigned within the walls. Adam of Healdwicc stuck to the shadows, picking his way through the dance of death. He had a knack for blending in ... he wasn't too short or too tall, his armour neither gleamed nor rusted. He was just a man, as it were.

Picking his route carefully, he arrived at the entrance of the armoury. Gods bless these disciplined blight orcs, who maintained formation and had not yet broken ranks to loot the insides of Belgrath. They understood that there was still a long way to go, and they had purpose given to them by a son of a god. Adam had none of that. He only did what was he was drawn to do, and that was to take what was rightfully his. Finders keepers, after all.

He ducked through the half-collapsed doorway, taking a torch from the wall and illuminating the gloomy beyond. Glorious. A large cavern opened before him, filled to the brim with dwarven armour, blades, axes and crossbows. The unnatural light of the underground indicated further caverns that would stretch out into Belgrath itself. It was beautiful. A wealth of equipment lay at Adam's reach, and he knew not where to start.

The young man stepped carefully into the room, knowing that it would be full of traps and security devices. He had to find something worth taking and get out as quickly as possible. Lingering and getting greedy would only tempt fate. But he did not know what exactly he was looking for. Something extraordinary, perhaps.

On the other side of the room, a dislodged stone in the sturdy walls caught his eye. For a huge slab such as that to be moved when all that surrounded it remained strong ... that was strange.

 

[Adam]

The dislodged stone was alluring. Adam stared at it for gods knew how long, mesmerised, his head cocked to the right and his mouth open. Huh. The stacks and shelves of well-forged dwarven armour were forgotten for the time being. They were child-sized after all, and would only provide re-sale value to him. And he'd have to lug it all out with him. Which would make him heavy and really, really slow. No, not a great option. He'd go check out that dislodged stone. It was almost as if fate wanted him to. He wouldn't begrudge fate a thing. Who was he to do that?

About eighty metres separated him and the stone slab. Eighty metres of traps, trip wire and enchanted floor stones. Pretty dangerous if you asked the young man. He shrugged.

Fuck it.

He stepped out onto the floor gingerly, toeing the edges of the slab he was on as if he knew what he was doing.

He didn't.

That would likely become apparent soon enough.

 

[Telemachus]

SIEGE CAMP
PIKE SQUARE

The Dwarves had few options of worth: they could attempt to harry the pike square at crossbow range or try charging through it. In either event, only a pointy death awaited them - be it from the business end of a Blight Iron pike or from a hail of crossbow bolts. Whether the Dwarves fled to regroup or died trying to assail the pike formation was ultimately irrelevant - the familiar sound of signal horns came calling from the walls of Lor Holdram.

Without taking her eyes off the walls, Dur-Gil held out an open hand towards her attendant. "Spyglass."

She had it within a moment, and by the next she was already surveying the walls. Empty. The fighting had swept past and over them like a wave of riotous death. The gates hung open, cluttered with the corpses of her kin. Some peppered with arrows fired from kill-holes, others smoldering from the pitch dumped on them.

A worthy sacrifice. The fortress had either been captured or would be shortly. It was time to move in.

"The fortress has been secured," Dur-Gil declared, collapsing the spyglass and discarding it with her attendant. Send the Ninth Legion to gather our supplies and begin withdrawal. The rest will provide cover."

"Of course, Legate."

The fortress was already theirs. These wayward Dwarves were not worth dealing with. Their coward's tactics were beneath her and the Blight Orcs she commanded... But not the Warg riders.

"Where are the Goblins?"

"Awaiting your command, Legate."

She grunted. About time those sniveling Goblins were good for something other than digging latrines. "Good. Get rid of their artillery."

Another signal horn was blown, and soon a horde of Warg riders had split away from the camp, barreling across the open ground towards the Dwarves' artillery emplacements.

SIEGE CAMP
SURGEON'S TENT

Ideas. Of course Telemachus, First Among Conjurers, would have ideas. Plenty of ideas. He was a wise and reputable scholar, after all. A shrewd tactician who had opened the gates of Lor Holdram where centuries of tactics had failed. Why would he not also have a plan for dealing with Dwarven cavaliers who had circumvented their entire army as well as the bounds of logic?

All of this was to say, in fact, no. No, he did not have any ideas. Unless one counted the impulse to extricate himself and Sparhawk from this surgeon's tent. Then yes, one might suppose that was, in fact, an idea of considerable value. "Follow me," Telemachus ordered, and led Maho Sparhawk from the din.

By the time they emerged, the Dwarves had been driven back. Telemachus found several of them impaled against the ground, their rams dead or dying beside them. Astyanax would have had a field day with this. Thankfully he would not get the chance. Telemachus recognized the horn signals as they came up. Dur-Gil was ordering a tactical retreat into the fortress.

The walls must have fallen then.

"It appears rescuing the siege is no longer an issue," Telemachus observed. "They will be sending out Legionaries to recover supplies to move into the fortress. We would be wise to provide them cover, should they need it."

Ah. There it was. An idea after all, and one that would prevent them all from starving to death inside of the fortress they had worked so hard to claim.

First Among Conjurers, indeed.

 

[Gerra]

The bear's maw locked shut around the hammer, crunching down with an ossified crack. The man-beast shook his head violently, like a worrying dog, and ripped the hammer from Gerra's grasp.

Heart thundering and blinking away the hot blood sheeting down his forehead and into his eyes, the half-giant looked around for another weapon. Behind the bear, he saw nothing but the expanse of the Spine and the valley below the battlements.

At once, Gerra's features hardened with grim resolution. He set his feet, gripped his shield with both hands and with a bellow of ferocity to match the bear's own stomach-lurching roar, he slammed the shield into the bear, his full weight behind it, and sought to shove the beast off the very wall itself.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

He had been, by all counts, successful.

By all measures, he had fought valiantly.

His ancestors would be proud. His people could be proud.

But even there were times, when the greatest were overwhelmed, defeated even. Such was a time. Arnor turned back into his human form when he hit the edge of the battlement, and for the first time in a long time- Arnor's ice blue eyes met someone elses with a bit of fear.

Gerra was a determined man. Arnor knew that his assault was a fool's folly.

It was made his feet slipping, giving way to open air all the more disheartening. But he locked eyes with Gerra, the fear subsiding, giving way to rage. The fall would not kill Arnor, it could not. It would take much more than the battlements of a dwarven city to kill Arnor. Arnor made a promise with his stare alone, that he would return for Gerra. That would make him suffer for his actions.

Arnor disappeared into the valley, mixing with the bodies of the orcs he had slain himself. Gerra was left alone on the battlements, victorious- for the time being.