Completed The Siege of Belgrath

[Gerra]

“Dwarves have left Belgrath. . . Though once this city was occupied by over a million of their kind, now only a few thousand remain within the city center of Belgrath itself.”​

MOLTHAL


The voice spake with restless, volcanic fury and the very walls, though hewn dark and grim, didst tremble. “You return without the Necromancer. And without your warriors.”


Menalus, Ash King of the Blightlands, sat upon his obsidian throne. Flames formed his hair and beard, and burning coals his eyes. Even seated, he was taller than the mightiest of his sons.


Enormous iron braziers lined the hall and cast their harsh glow on the figure who kneeled upon the black granite tiles. Gerra bowed his head. Suffocating heat flooded the room from their fires, trapped in by the dark stone walls.


“Their deaths did not go unanswered.”


“An outpost burned. Little more than a pile of twigs.”


“They are just orcs, Lord.”


“SILENCE.”


Gerra bowed his head further, ears ringing.


“Your schemes lack fruit, so I shall give you one of mine. The Dwarves hold onto the city of Belgrath by their fingertips. Take it from them. Give me the city and I will forget your past failures.”


A heavy hand seemed to grasp Gerra’s heart and squeeze. He wetted his lips.


“Yes, my lord.”


“Take it, Gerra. Take it and return victorious… or do not come back at all.”


***


A blight orc legion on the move is a thing to behold. Their helmets do not sparkle in the sun, for their arms and armor are not polished. They are produced en masse from the forges of Molthal. Were one orc to be plucked from the ranks the plate might be found to be ill-fitting. But comfort is not the concern. They know only the forge and war. Even the games they devise upon the plateau are simulations of battle. It is all they know - all Menalus and his sons allow them know.


Each band of one hundred and twenty march in perfect unison, kept in line by their crested war leaders. The scouts surge ahead of the main column, moving lightly in their boiled leather armor.


Suspicious of horses, they rely upon mountain oxen to pull their supplies, while hundreds of slaves make up the legion’s camp followers.


Along the route to Belgrath, they collect mercenaries of the worst sort. Desperate folk keen to taste the promise of Dwarven gold, despite its blood price.


In the midst of this moving mass of bodies, Gerra walks with the Orc Legate, a cabal of Sidereal elves, and his advisor Sparhawk, while the head of the goblin sappers makes absurd boasts.


The road to Belgrath takes weeks and by the time they reach the mountain fort guarding the entrance to the underground city, the defenders will be well prepared. Already, the forests begin to twindle. Gerra wonders if they will have the timber they need for the siege engines. It is mid-summer, so snows do not afflict them, but Gerra knows he cannot let the siege be prolonged lest his legion starve on this mountain for lack of forage in winter.


Six thousand warriors. Enough to take a fort. But the fort is just the beginning.


***


Strong dwarven hands built Lor Holdram centuries ago and still it juts from the mountainside like a defiant sneer, daring any to take it and the gate it guards. No tree stands within a mile of the fort, giving those within a clear view of the wide and well-worn road that snakes its way up to the fort’s portcullis.


Trade used to salt this road with merchants and their like, but trade has all but dried up in Belgrath.


Now, the road is once more awake with the stamping of feet and lowing of animals. Up, up, up the path climbs the Molthal legion, and unfurls before Lor Holdram like a banner of flesh and iron.


War has come to the Spine.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

Ever since they left for Molthal, Sparhawk was pained. When he struck the Templars’ Fortifications with his vengeful fire, his mind ached; tormented by the toll he paid for his power. Every step towards forwards felt like a step-back, The Sorcerer’s mind feeling as if it would cleave in two with any strain, the smallest action now a task to be conquered.

Most of all, though he wouldn’t admit it, he scared himself. It wasn’t like him to not know the consequences of his actions, nor the price of performing powerful magicks, but his most recent actions set in motion an ever-increasing doubt in the back of Sparhawk’s mind. He was constantly deliberating what he had given in exchange for his monumental power: Was it the necklace he had to hand over? Was it the money he had saved? Despite all his wisdom, he outright refused to believe he was no longer the forger of his own destiny, or the master of his own humanity.

He had plenty of time to brood about it, on the long path to Molthal. In his mind, he planned to visit his ‘Prentice Myles before he journeyed onwards, but he realised there was no time for that now. He had set himself on a path that was futile to steer, irreparable to change or to dignity. The closer they got to their destination, the more lost he felt. He was surrounded by mercenaries, soldiers, orcs, all of them being unknown to him, apart from Gerra of course. All those months ago, he couldn’t have imagined meeting him could alter his life so much. Sparhawk had put his total trust into Gerra, and Sparhawk had sold most of his worldly possessions just to afford himself the travel expenses necessary to get him where he was. Gerra steered the course of Maho’s destiny. Right?

When they arrived in Mothal, Sparhawk began to comprehend just how much of an outsider he was. The Orcs that occupied the area glared menacingly at him, peering with confusion and apprehension. Not to Sparhawk’s surprise of course, he stood out among the party, and for all the wrong reasons; he appeared weak. A mild-mannered Sorcerer had no place in Molthal, they belonged in Villages, helping to build boats and curing the mildly sick, not travelling to the far-reaches to the Orc lands, surrounding themselves with soldiers and mercenaries looking to make names for themselves. An Outcast was what he was, and he feared it could be his undoing.

His stay however, was a far-cry from the mean reception he was expecting to receive. He was bedded in fine satins and silks, tended to by servants that catered for Sparhawk’s needs, which mainly included silence to help calm his sore mind, still suffering from his exertion weeks prior. The most magnificent element of his stay was the great Forges of Molthal.

It was a great hall that set itself from the rest of the hold: it was clad from top to bottom in reinforced metals and alloys, the forges themselves bellowing fire out, the molten metal flowing into moulds, and red-hot steel being brought out for hammering and heat-treating. It was a sight he’d remember for the rest of his life, as he knew the warm glow produced by the hall would linger on him until all was said-and-done.

They weren’t there for very long. For most of his stay, he waited for Gerra to finish his deliberations with the various officials and leaders that made up Molthal’s architecture. Thinking on it, building an army would be a monumental task for anyone, and gaining the trust and favour of the providers of such a force would be beyond belief.

Don’t be foolish. Gerra has brought me where i am now. WIthout him, i’d still be a nobody, wandering villages and outposts helping people with their menial tasks. If he could get them all together, he could accomplish anything. The only reason i’m here is because of him, and i need to give something back. I will contribute to Gerra’s Dream, even if i draw my final breath in doing so. I’m nothing without Gerra.

Now, they started on their way to Belgrath, as he had been told by Gerra, being his advisor in the new army he had amassed. Sparhawk had to admit, the army he had gathered was monumental, the ranks spanning back half-a-kilometre. He felt nevertheless out of place, the Orcs surrounding him staring at him, talking behind his back about how he didn’t belong there, and:

“Ij half-thsi avhaav ukhould noav bel katu (A half-man like that doesn’t belong here.)”


He didn’t have the luxury of thinking on such things now they’ve begun their journey. Luckily, his mental and physical wounds he’d suffered had mostly healed, and he hoped that in the times he’d be needed, his power would be utilised in the battle to come.


Even if i draw my last breath.

 

[Telemachus]

The inexorable march of time had seen the great highways of Belgrath reduced. Calamity claimed some, deliberate acts of preservation had sealed the others. By the time of the Age of Chronicles, the Great Gate of Irithul was one of two that remained: too large to seal, too splendorous to destroy.


Like the rest, the road to the Great Gate of Irithul was guarded by a fortress: Lor Holdrom. It was one of the few installations that Belgrath could still afford to man, to safeguard what little trade continued to meander through Belgrath’s ruins. Hewn directly in the mountains, Lor Holdrom’s most defining feature were its solid iron gates: carved into them were a massive relief, a Dwarf driving a lance through the neck of a Gryphon, its leg stuck in a bear trap.


It was mockery few had the learning to remember: a direct taunt to Uroghosh and her hordes some centuries ago, when they had broken themselves here trying to push through to Irithul. It was no wonder that those battles had turned out the way they had. Even as it was now, barely maintained, Lor Holdrom only needed a garrison of a few hundred to hold fast against thousands.

But in those days, it had been Crobhear Orcs swarming at the gates - Orcs who figured building siege towers and battering rams and artillery went against their beliefs. Lor Holdrom hadn’t seen an amassed force since. No on dared. No one bothered.


There were Blight Orcs here now, who felt no compunctions.

Their field engineers looked at the iron gates of Lor Holdrom and licked their lips - fantasizing what they were melted down and reforged.

---​

Telemachus rode separately. He had been enjoying it, too, until fate conspired to dispatch an annoyance for him.

"Well, well, well."

Words wet with grease slithered through the air, working their way uncomfortably into Telemachus' ears. A stench worse than death flooded his nostrils. He'd smelt it before, and had hoped it would be some years before he smelt them again. A moment later before Astyanax had caught up to him.

He brought his horse up alongside Telemachus', grinning like the pallid sack of refuse he was all the way. Telemachus did not look at him, did not look at his rancid smile or the single black tooth crushed in among the white.

Astyanax forsook the graceful robed attire Telemachus and the rest of their kin preferred in favor of leather armor, worn and rugged. He wore a grey and moth-bitten cloak to top it all off, though he had his hood down now, baring his bald head and accompaniment of garish earrings for Molthal's finest to see. "If it isn't the far-fighter himself. I wasn't expecting you here."

"Expecting things," Telemachus replied, keeping his eyes on the road and bitterness from his voice, "Has never been your purview."

"Come now, come now. Be a sport for me. What are you doing here with all the other washed out adepts?"

"I could ask the same of you."

It was not uncommon for tribes of Sidereal Elves to send sorcerers to support Menalus in... Well, whatever it was Menalus did, in exchange for being left alone. But those that were sent were generally mediocre adepts. Capable spellcasters, but the ones afflicted with wanderlust, or worse, ineptitude.

Weeding out the weaklings was something of a shared passion between Blight Orcs and Sidereal Elves. A pity their definitions of weakness varied so wildly.

Astyanax, for all his faults, was no wash-out. His smile only broadened, and he replied in Sidereal Speak to ward away any eavesdropping Blight Orcs. "Oh, you know. Just thought I'd get out and join a siege. It's been a while, you know? And Gerra pays so nicely. Come now, why are you here?"

Just as Telemachus did not leave Elbion unless it was important, Astyanax did not slither from the Iuk-'U. They were after the same object, and Telemachus was loathe to compete for it. He was also loathe to confirm Astyanax's own suspicions.

"I look forward to fighting alongside you," Telemachus said flatly, then spurred his horse on and away.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Braiding one's hair seemed like...a menial task, and admittedly, not important in the grand scheme of battle. But to a Nordenfiir, it was important how one presented themselves in battle, for it might be the way they were presented in death. There was a very real possibility that Arnor could die in the coming battle. The Orcs were coming. Nothing would change that. No rider, no messenger, no prayer, no storm could stop an orc army of that size.

Only strong men and women with steel, meeting their pale, disgusting flesh.

Arnor ran his finger across the blade. The Norden steel was strong, like his people. Crude, to some. But brutally strong. The shield, circular- could withstand the mightiest of blows. Arnor put them both on his back, rolling his fingers into fists between his gauntlets. His armor was simple. He was a Nordenfiir- what armor did he need? He needed only a clear line of sight on the enemy. The Dwarves, impressed with his victory at Knottington, hired him and many others to help defend Belgrath. No doubt the orcs would do the same.

Outsourcing murder.

What a business, what a time to be alive.

Arnor walked the edge of the perimeter, before he heard the crunching of feet and the clashing of iron. The armies of Molthal had come to the Spine. War- had come to the spine. But the Orcs coming had no met many Nordenfiir. Many of them would regret meeting him, many of them would regret coming here. Most of the orcs were die-hard fanatics, loyal to the banner they served. Arnor had no idea who they served.

Arnor didn't care.

Arnor served one master above all: money. And the Dwarves paid him a lot of money just to stand on the wall. And a lot more if he were to remain alive- and the city he was supposedly going to protect. Arnor didn't expect any outcome either way- he was here to kill, not to be a tactician. That would come from others.

He was here to kill.

And he would have his share, and earn his keep.

 

[Lagakh]

Jagged Hilldelver, Gods that was an absurd name. Laga recalled the way the Shaman Elders had spoke of it in such reverence, like gold poured from their lips with every syllable. But all she could think of was how stupid the parents were for not only retaining that surname, but also going with a name that flirted between rocks on the Spine and poorly kept steel. She had settled for it being an adequately Dwarven moniker.

Jagged was a man of many capabilities, renowned for his spell work and craftsmanship within Belgrath-Akkar. The sounds of the forge clinking was rumored to never cease and no one worked the metal in ways Jagged could. But his work with the Dwarven magics, his capabilities with the inner hall fires and maintaining their light, this was the reason Laga had began this pilgrimage from the Gulf of Ryt down to the asshole of the Spine, Belgrath.

She had to admit that it wasn’t too bad to look at it, but it was a city built into the side of a mountain. Sort of hard to make that not look majestic. A majestic asshole.

It wasn’t hard to come by a good drink and a bit of ale, particularly when she had picked up a certain rune that could refill a tankard on her whim. She just needed to draw it in table of wood, speak words of triumph, and fill the etchings with malted beverage. It kept her content as she searched, moving through the small city as if a vendor with valuable wares. She got the impression that the Middle City was more appropriate for her bone structure and height, finding a hovel to set up in until she could see the magma and fires. Despite herself, the world enveloped by the Spine was breathtaking. Stairs that ascended into the cavernous ceiling, stalactites and stalagmites re-purposed into religious centers and forgotten taverns. It was the sort of mindset she could get behind, pray in the morning and find reason for redemption in the afternoon.

When she had finally arrived at Belgrath-Akkar and the Smith Masters told her that there was no one named Jagged around there, she couldn’t stifle the chortle. And they laughed too, because they had agreed with her. Jagged was a stupid name. But disappointment was something that quietly swelled within her, knowing that this trip was going to accomplish nothing beyond disrupting Blight Orc raiding parties and dancing with a bit of Naga’s, West of the Spine.

“Fuck me, is it time yet?” She heard one of the Dwarven Warriors, clad in armor plated in gold, speak out to a group of little-lings. Stooping next to a burned out shack of broken sandstone, Laga proceeded to gracefully eavesdrop.

“Aye. Can you feel the ground rumble? Can you not smell the smoke and rotten steel?” One with a pitch black beard stated solemnly, hands placed firmly on his hips. “Aye, I can smell it. They’re on our doorstep but will leave with nothing but failure and a dent in the arse plates, right where we kicked ‘em.” Another one stated firmly, his blond beard knotted into three even spires. “They’ll go back to Molthal squealing like a stuck pig, those who survive us.” One butted in.

“Aye, this city is nigh impenetrable.” Another stated confidently.

Laga shuddered excitedly at the thought, thinking that maybe this trip could be redeemed. Slinking away from the conversation, she needed to find her way to somewhere strategic. At the very least, this would be a good show. At best, she may be able to get her hands just a wee bit dirty. But Blight Orc blood was thin, wouldn’t be a problem washing it off.

 

[Thren]

The City of Belgrath was surprisingly calm, a fact that surprised Thren to no limit.

He'd been trapped in a siege before, held out in the very depths of a Keep, but he supposed this was different. Belgrath was not yet within sight of battle, in fact the Blight Orcs themselves were still nearly a day and a half away even if they took the outer Gate within the next hour.

The Barbarian supposed it was that fact which kept the people calm, that and they were not truly trapped. Even if they'd brought a hundred times their number the Blight Orcs would never be able to truly encircle the city, thousands of tunnels made that impossible.

Perhaps even the youngest dwarf knew that.

He frowned, still, watching some warriors assemble themselves within the square. They would be the last to join those at the Fort, everyone else staying behind in case the outer-gate failed. They were stoic, all of them, down to the last man. It was a dwarven quality Thren greatly admired.

No blubbering, no crying, just doing what had to be done.

It was part of why he'd chosen their side.

Rolling his shoulders Thren stood from the small finely crafted stone wall he'd been lounging on. The Dwarven Commander was signalling to his men now, and they would soon take their march to reinforce the fort.

 

[Gash]

They had been marching, nigh uninterrupted, for weeks now.

Exquisite agony rippled throughout his taut, muscular frame. He licked his lips, shuddering with delight at the thought that soon enough it would all be over and he would taste dwarf flesh. Ill fitting Molthal plate thumped ceaselessly against his boiled leader hauberk in near perfect time with the others of his warband. The pain was nothing. Gerra's lieutenants had driven them through worse than this, there was hardly anymore need even for the threat of the lash.

Gash had spilled blood before, rivers of it, but this would be the first he saw of war on this scale. Waylaying caravans and massacring hamlets was different sport entirely. If he survived the coming days, he would truly be able to call himself Legionary.

"Form up, maggots!" his Centurion cried out in guttural Ashtongue, roughly shoving each orc in turn as together the half-giant's legion formed a crescent semi-circle before the dwarfhold. Lor Holdram it was called, but Gash did not know that and did not care. Soon it would be nothing but a ruin piled high with corpses.

Along with the rest of his band, he hollered and jeered up at the rampart defenders, slamming the crude glaive which passed for his weapon against a targe covered with jagged spikes. Gash did not like to fight with a shield, he would likely shed it soon enough, but it would be useful in the coming hours. If the Legate called for them to take this emplacement by brute force, it would mean charging through a hail of arrows, with only a meager shield wall to protect them until a battering ram could be brought to bear.

He knew that the blight orcs of Gerra's legion were not the only tools at the half-giant's disposal. He had seen the grim looking mercenaries, the swarthy elfen spellslingers, the Molthal engineers who would no doubt conscript some of them into work teams to gather supplies and assemble siegecraft. But a part of Gash hoped that he would be sent in anyway, to be among the first to stain his blade.

 

[Gerra]

They marshaled themselves in ranks well beyond bow or ballista shot of the fort, the traveling column swelling, then splitting into lines: blight orc legionnaires in their grim plate and chain, with tall pike bearers at the rear and broad shields at the front; light-footed goblins and leather armored orc skirmishers milled about past the legionnaires, while bareshield berserkers beat their chests and shrieked their bated wrath at the walls; vargar riders, mounts snarling for flesh, rode at the rear, the gnashing of teeth frightening the slaves as they came along with the ox-pulled carts laden with supplies; the First Cohort, double strength, came with the rearguard and several hill giants, lured by the promise of Molthal iron, and the mercenaries straggled last - none desperate to test the reach of dwarven ballistae.

A host of thousands.

The cry came up. Make camp. And each warrior went about his duty, for fear of the lash. Foraging bands went off to the forests to gather lumber and the ground to the rear and front of the legion soon bristled with rows of wooden stakes driven into the ground. Though they lived in a hodgepodge of ramshackle structures in Molthal, the blight orcs here were forced to erect tents in perfect rows, pleasing to the eye. The same could not be said for the goblins and mercenaries, who speckled the edges of the growing canvas city with their sad shelters.

Before the sun began to set, black banners snapped over the army, each bearing the red flame of Molthal.

Gerra stood with Legate Dur-Gil. She did not stand of a height with him, nor even many of the other orcs, but she was the most cunning orc he had ever met and well deserved her command. Sparhawk and the cabal of Sidereal Elves also waited close at hand, all of them observing the fort in the dying light.

"Dwarf stone," spat Dur-Gil, her eyes narrowed. "Our rocks will not budge them."

"Mm," grunted Gerra, surveying the thick, perfect blocks which comprised the Lor Holdrom's walls. "Then we will not give them rocks."

"Lord?"

He turned to her, "Slaughter three oxen and let the corpses fester."

A slow, wicked smile split her face. "Yes, lord. I will see it done."

Gerra summoned Sparhawk and the elves toward him with a gesture. "What make your wizard's eyes of this?"

 

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

Dwarven beer was good. Their coin was even better. The hold had done their best to recruit mercenaries before the onslaught. They'd come in trained companies but there were also plenty of lone freebooters or sellswords to be found. They'd called up their militia, raised the levies. Every dwarf capable of wielding an axe had been mustered.

What amazed him was their discipline. There hadn't been a call for defenders of the outer fort amongst the dwarves. Those chosen to die had just stoically shouldered their weapons and marched to the walls. The mercenaries had been given the option and Kjaran had accepted. He'd lost too much dicing the night before and the danger pay would go to settling his debts.

"So many" he murmured to Thren . They swarmed like ants. Molthal had sent a strong force to test the might of Belgrath, the last proper hold in the Spine.

 

[Telemachus]

Encountering Maho Sparhawk again on his way to the command tent, Telemachus evidently had little to say. "Ah. Master Sparhawk. How fortuitous."

You broker enough contracts, you were bound to run into one or two of them again. Hopefully Sparhawk did not use the pretenses of a siege or skirmish to attempt to murder him, as others had. That would generate in Telemachus a feeling that approached sadness. Perhaps disappointment.

Telemachus, Astyanax, and the rest of the Sorcerous Cabal gathered as instructed with Gerra. They observed the walls of Lor Holdram in silence. The Half-Giant instructed his underling to slaughter oxen. Ah. Disease. Telemachus could already sense Astyanax sifting from one foot to another, barely able to contain himself.

When Gerra finally called for the advice of wizards, no one opposed Telemachus stepping forward.

"Your grace, I am Telemachus, first among Conjurers," he bowed in a dignified manner befitting his self-serious speech. "It will take colossal magic to move those walls by force - more than we may muster here. I may suggest subterfuge to see those gates opened. There are several summons at my disposal suitable for such a task. With the assistance of the other adepts here, I shall bring them forth and see it done.

"Summons," Spat Astyanax, as if the word had gone foul in his mouth. He wormed his way out from within the crowd. "That and a copper piece will get you the stale end of Allirian bread."

Astyanax approached, hunched and servile, coming to a stop beside Telemachus.

He wrung his hands and bowed his head repeatedly as he spoke. "Your grace, I am Astyanax, first among Necromancers. Permit me do my work upon the oxen you have selected. I shall speed the festering, charge them with such vile diseases that the garrison will go mad with rot. I need not much - several more oxen to ensure the pestilence is fully spread and, of course, the full assistance of these adepts assembled here..."

Telemachus and Astyanax exchanged looks, though it would be more accurate to say that Astyanax smiled his black-tooth'd smile at the Conjurer. And Telemachus devoted all his force of will to resist the urge to heave. This lasted for the briefest moment, and then both Elves awaited Gerra's response.

Whatever it was, it would best come fast. The magic of the Sidereal Elves, true to their name, worked best under an unobstructed night sky.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The Nordenfiir came upon two fellow mercenaries- he towered above them both, in height and stature. He looked at the gathered orcs, and began to laugh.

"They did bring plenty...but not enough."

He looked to the gathered hoards. Among the battlements, the Nord stood out, taller than the dwarves and human gathered. From the distance, none of the orcs could smell him- but they would. He was well known in some parts of the Spine now- having carved his way through nearly half a Naga invasion force by himself in defense of Knottington- he would now apply the particular level of violence he achieved there, for a greater cause.

"They will breach the wall, but take too many losses to take the city...they will come with everything and leave with nothing."

He thought for a moment, fixing the braids in his hair.

"And we will take from them all that they came with. As meager as it is. The orcs will regret the day they came to Belgrath."

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

I'm out of my depth.

Sparhawk didn't really know what he was expecting when he entered the tent, bustling with the senior commanders, the Sidereal Elves, and most important of all, Gerra. However, what really stopped Sparhawk in his tracks was the face of the Elbion summoner, Telemachus, the very man who'd helped him strike a deal with the Fire-lord Imamu. His presence filled him with a strange mix of relief and dread; relief came with knowledge of Telemachus's skills, being one of the most respected and prized summoners in Elbion, maybe even in the whole of Arethil. Dread flooded Sparhawk, the reality of his situation being presented to him once more terrifying him, remembering the deal he'd struck, and the path he'd set himself on.

"What make your wizard's eyes of this?"

He made sure not to step up first. Though he believed he was an experienced wizard and one that didn't suffer fools, he knew that he was surrounded by far grander wizards; grander than him in any case. Telemachus walked forward Stoically, being - as far as Sparhawk was concerned - the wisest and most experienced of their party, and his words suggested such. He made the situation very clear, not boasting the strength and ability of the Adepts that had followed him. Good, he knows what he's doing.

A strange wizard stepped forwards after Telemachus, countering his idea of using Supporting Summons to storm the gate, with using necromancy to increase the potency of the corpses laid by the battlements. By the way he walked and talked, Sparhawk could tell he was going to be difficult; one thing was for sure, he wasn't going to let anyone tell him he was wrong. Something to prove...

The room fell silent as they waited for Gerra's response.

...

He was Gerra's Advisor, and he needed to give his opinion, lest he look weak to the surrounding orcs and wizards. Who was he kidding, he looked ridiculous...

He moved his cowl back from his head, the light brimming the the scars that populated the side of his face.

"M-m-" Calm down Sparhawk...

"My lord Gerra. I can't speak for the Necromancer, but Telemachus is famed for his wisdom and knowledge in all fields of Magery, especially summoning Magicks. I would follow his counsel- if the College of Elbion listens, it would be advised we do the same. As for myself, i would- will do whatever you deem necessary, my Lord." A bead of sweat dropped from his face, he was willing to do whatever Gerra said, and hung on every word: If he needed to die on the front lines or support from behind, he would do it gladly.

 

[Thren]

"Well they'd have to take the next wall after this one anyway." Thren commented dryly, now sitting a little ways back from both Kjaran Mak Aodha and Arnor Skuldsson.

Belgrath wasn't just some hillfort in the middle of nowhere, it wasn't a castle built by man. This was the greatest Dwarven City that the world had ever known. The Outer forts were just the beginning of the cities defenses. Between here and the City stood miles of dark tunnels, another wall, and then the outer and middle city.

Conquest of this place would be no easy task, and the defenders had the advantage.

For a brief moment the Barbarian glanced up at the massive Nordenfilr, shaking his head slightly and wondering how the man even fit inside of a Dwarven house.

"They'll try something nasty first." He guessed. "Lightning from the sky, plague of spiders, that sort of thing."

Thren shook his head. "Cheer up, Mak. We have it better this time around."

They had supply lines, Dwarven Walls, and mages of their own. Much better than last time.

 

[Gerra]

Gerra looked upon each sorcerer in turn.

"Mmm, a quandary, it seems. What Mr. Sparhawk says carries weight with me. You are both capable in your own fields, of this I have no doubt. But once we gain the fort, the battle will continue underground, and I would not have our redoubt still rotten with plague. Nor can I rely upon the vagueness of 'summons' until they are explained. In detail. Lest you summon a great demon who decides, rather than follow your will, it is better to eat all the adepts and vanish."

The son of Molthal went to the large table that sat in the middle of the tent and poured himself wine. His words came forth haltingly, but like the enrapturing ooze of lava from the earth's crust, full of heat and a mesmerizing glow. "In my youth, a great wyrm troubled my father's holdings. Three among my brothers would often make boasts, claiming that they would destroy the wyrm with ease. When my father asked who would vanquish it they cried out, here am I, greatest bowman in the Blight. No, send me, champion swordsman of your realm. Nay, here am I, blessed by magics of fire, send me.

Each made mighty promises before the Ash King, but he saw them for what they were: the jockeying of jealous sons, each more desperate for power and gold than the last. Who do you think he chose to slay the wyrm? The swordsman? The magician? The bowman?"

He sipped his wine. "The Ash King made a promise to them, just as they had made promises to him. The one who returned victorious would be heaped with riches and join the Circle with the Firstborn. But there would be a reward for failure too. All three he sent out, but only one returned alive: the magician, claiming to have laid low the serpent. He lied of course. They'd never even reached the wyrm, but had murdered each other on the road."

The half-giant swirled his cup.

"In the end, Menalus himself went out and slew the wyrm. My brother he nailed to Molthal's black wall."

Molten eyes looked up and held the gaze of first Telemachus, then Astyanax. "I am not my father. Yet, you have both made such great boasts. What am I to do? . . . Show me tonight what you can give me by your own hands. And then I will see whose plan I favor."

 

[Lagakh]

Tap...tink tink tink...Tap...tink tink tink...

It was no easy task following a set of slow moving Dwarves, ascending the inner lining of Belgrath to mount the extended Battlements. Running like roads carved into a steep hillside, the architecture gave the mountain the appearance of adorning tassel belts, like it was about to do some provocative belly dance in the center of a dimly lit tavern. Laga had seen it, it made for an interesting story to tell the Shadowreavers back home.

Even more difficult was trying to push all of the short men out the way, jingling in their sparkling or rusted armor. Their attention was fixed upon the oncoming horde, which seemed to have slowed progression in lieu of setting up hopefully temporary base camps. Laga considered such a thing a blessing, it would give her the much needed time to consult and craft the runes for protection.

Slinking about the master forge deep within the heart of the mountain, the Shaman had acquired a few necessary items for proper invocation. Primarily, she had found herself a beautiful hammer with a rune covered bass wood handle and a head of polished black steel. Additionally, a large chisel of rippling steel that seemed to resonate even when held motionless in her hand.

Tap...tink tank tink...Tap...tink tink tink...

"Can you back up...or are you like those Kivren? Can't swim backwards?" She uttered as she stood up from the beginnings of the design. Puffing out her chest, she blew hair out of her face as she shooed away some gawking dwarves. "Move along, you're stepping in my circle!" She had spoken to one of the Generals about preparation, but she wasn't actively defacing the battlement. There was already a shallow rune, eroded by time, that simply needed deepening. The limestone made for easy work as she got on the ground, working her way along the symbol.

It had the appropriate markings for ballistic protection but she wouldn't make the same mistake she had on the East of the Spine. The blood used for this magic wouldn't be her own, something far more powerful was needed.

 

[Hath Charosh]

It was safer to count campfires under the cover of darkness than to try and count the marching blocks during the day. Lessat was down and the night dark. He wasn't the only orc watching the host from Molthal march south. There was an anxious energy about the mountain orcs when the force had been spotted on the move. They did not roam far and wide like the orcs of the steppes or savanna. They had homes. Homes that were threatened by the giant King of the Blightlands.

Hath had crossed two scouts from the army on the way here. One of them had tried to recruit him into the Force heading south. They had spoken, traded and then headed their seperate ways. The second one had tried to kill him. He hadn't succeeded. Since leaving the savanna Hath had been forced to fight for his life in armed combat far more than all the years that came before. He was becoming quite good at it.

There were thousands down there. Whilst he had no love of maths, counting in tens was easy enough. He had finally got the hang of Elbion currency based on tens and hundreds. By comparison Vel'anir's system was beyond his comprehension and liable to bring on a rageful tremble or an anxious sweat.

He had never seen a force this large march to war before. Hath had no vested interest in providing aid to the dwarves. Instead he settled down to watch what unfolded.

 

[Gash]

Gash swung his glaive with all his strength, nearly cleaving the third ox's head clean off with a single mighty blow.

The wretched beast of burden let out a strangled cry before pitching forward into the earth heaped alongside the others. With his orders carried out, he trudged back off to where his warband had made camp, leaving Gerra's plague doctors to their grisly work. A gangly courier had the misfortune of stumbling across his path, and the Legionary ferociously cuffed him aside without a second thought. Blight orc culture was not quite feral, but Methalus had taught his legions that might made right.

There were larger warriors pledged to the Bastard Prince of Molthal, but not many, and even less who had survived for so long. He knew that he would be chosen as Centurion soon, assuming he survived the day. Perhaps, if he happened across his commander on the battlefield, he would take matters in his own hands to hasten such a destiny. The way old Kelos had been glowering at him since his return, Gash suspected his ascendance was something of an open secret.

It mattered not, he held the favor of Dur-Gil. The Legate in her wisdom had recognized his killer instinct, normally one of her commanders would have been chosen to butcher the oxen Gerra had requested, but Gash had been singled out for such an honor in front of the entire legion. He quickly grew restless under his Centurion's baleful gaze.

"Where you off to?" Kelos hollered out after him, the challenge of authority dripping off his tone.

"Camp needs more wood," he snarled back over his shoulder.

Everyone knew it was a lie. He was going to see the shamans.

 

[Adam]

Adam of Healdwicc was far from home indeed, and none too happy about it. Ever since he'd traveled beyond the borderlands of the Kingdom of Lach, it had been a cascade of affliction after affliction. First it was the trek through the high passes of the Spine, following that fool Narfi. Then Narfi had not made profit from his dealings with the dwarves, and had refused to pay his guards the full amount they were due. And then Skarwic had told him that he couldn't just kill Narfi as a thief and take it because in Belgrath, stronghold of the dwarves, there were laws against such a thing. And then just as they were preparing to leave, a giant orc host had arrived and besieged the stronghold. Bereft of any real options, the young man had opted to join the defence, and was promptly assigned to the walls. All the others had lucked out with tunnel duty. All in all, Adam was beginning to wish he'd never left home.

He was clad in the collection of poor leathers that usually denoted a second-rate caravan guard, and his sword wasn't much to speak of either. And it wasn't like he walked around with much confidence either. Truth be told, the young man had never been in a major battle, and was doing his utmost not to shit himself. Different people, different perspectives.

The young man wandered the walls, pacing about with anticipation. If the orcs were going to come, he wanted them to come now. He needed to wet his blade in a live enemy, at least before he was killed too. Then the afterlife would be open to him. He pondered the afterlife and the gods as he wandered, deciding that if he indeed survived this battle, he'd start going to prayers more regularly. Eventually, he came upon a small group of mercenaries who looked decidedly too relaxed. One of them was sitting ... lounging even. But then again, when you knew you'd be fighting beside a Nordenfliir in battle, you'd be pretty relaxed too. However, the young man couldn't stop himself looking on in disbelief.

"Cheer up, Mak. We have it better this time around," said the lounger. Adam shook his head in disbelief.

"Really?" He pointed out to the countless campfires that stretched before them."You've had it worse than this? I thought I'd seen orc invasions before, but this is something else."

Arnor Skuldsson Thren Kjaran Mak Aodha

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Arnor stood up, wrapping his gauntlet-adorned hands around the battlements. His gloves did have fingertips- but armor on the knuckles. He learned a long time ago that leather and blood made one's sword-wielding hand...unwieldy. He looked on all the campfires. He counted dozens, by a rough estimate. And he began to laugh. A hearty, joyful laugh. It echoed through the somewhat quiet landscape, cascading over the night- perhaps reaching the outer edges of the orc encampments. It did not sound like a dwarf. His voice was slightly higher pitched- and somewhat soft. He rarely raised his voice above a speaking tone.

But his laugh- that was very much a loud thing to behold.

He laughed for a while, turning back to his fellow mercenaries. He threw up his arms in reassurance.

"This is nothing but a slaughter-" He walked the lines, tapping the shields and arms of those as he passed. "This is nothing but their doom!" He laughed, lightly punching one of the defender's shields. His voice carried across the open landscape. "This is where they come to fail, to die!" He walked the lines, standing tall among the defenders.

"They come to take our lives! We will steal theirs!" He laughed, slapping the wall, appreciating it's sturdiness.

"They come with the intent to destroy! They did not bring enough intent, nor enough orcs!" He boasted, his heavy footsteps walking further along the lines. The mercenary aimed to inspire the Dwarves and his fellow sellswords alike. Everyone was on edge. It helped to have a...inspiring persona. He slapped the shield of a dwarf, causing the dwarf to laugh. He began to slap each shield as he walked, as if blessing the congregation.

"They did not bring enough arrows!" He turned and walked back, looking to the encampment.

"They did not bring enough fire!" He shouted gleefully, laughing again.

"They did not bring enough intent!" He screamed, looking out to the fires.

"They will only be met with death! With defeat! And the ones that remain- will walk home-" He turned and screamed at the orc encampments he could see in the distance.

"CARRYING THE BODIES OF THEIR BROTHERS!"

The Nordenfiir began to laugh again, raising up a defiant cheer from the gathered defenders.

That being said, Arnor was definitely ready for the fight.

 

[Telemachus]

Ah. Of course. Gerra was uninitiated. He had no knowledge of the many varieties of creature that lurked beyond the Liminal Vale. All he had were the vague turnings of a limited imagination: nightmares of unbound demons peeling the flesh from hapless townsfolk. And while that was a fate not uncommon for bumbling summoners, the likelihood of such a thing transpiring here was quite low.

Telemachus received Gerra's anecdote with a level of enthusiasm one might also have in receiving the grocery list of some middling clerk. Astyanax, meanwhile, attended it in rapture, expression pleased - alight as possibilities and schemes flooded his mind. What Gerra wanted was a contest, and only one of the self-described "First Amongs" relished opportunities for showmanship.

Ah well. If this was the path, Telemachus would not question it. At least Maho Sparhawk had sponsored him kindly. Appropriately. Accurately. Telemachus made a note to thank the warlock for his appraisal when time was no longer of the essence.

He bowed to the son of Menalus in acquiescence. "As you desire, your grace."

"Most wise and prudent, your grace, most wise and prudent indeed," Astyanax said in his piping voice, bowing repeatedly and reverently, "I shan't require very long, not long at all..."

If this was all Gerra required for them, both Elves would depart in short order to pursue their aims: Telemachus to his private tent to procure his regents, Astyanax to hunt down one of the slaughtered oxen. The rest of the cabal would be left idle for the night, it seemed. The time of night at which their powers reached an apex would pass uneventfully. Disappointing.

There would always be tomorrow night, of course. In a siege like this, there would be plenty of nights ahead of them as well.

 

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

"Well the walls were lower. And we'd less food" Kjaran explained as briefly as he could. As if on time, his stomach rumbled a little. He didn't like going into battle too full but not his legendary appetite was acting up. Damn orcs couldn't even be considerate enough to mount a timely assault.

He let out a breath as he looked over the assembled host. "There weren't as many orcs though". His eyebrows went up as one of the larger mercenaries, a grim northerner, began to laugh. Kjaran was light hearted but not so much that he'd giggle at the sight of an orc army.

Everyone had their own way to prepare and his actions were infectious in a way. Definitely good for the younger ones. The Blightlander shook his head. Northerners were mad, stone mad. You had to be to live that far on the world's edge, in a land where they said the snow never left.

It made the arid wastes of the Blightlands seem almost palatable.

"Steady on a moment maybe. Let them climb up here before you go tearing into them". He half expected the man to leap from the battlements in his haste to get at the besiegers.

 

[Thren]

"Plus we had no avenues of retreat." Thren reminded the other man with a waggle of his finger, frowning for a brief moment. "And I'm pretty sure something else funny was going on there."

That siege had been absolutely disastrous, in fact The Barbarian still wasn't sure how he and Kjaran had even made it out of the whole situation.

They had been outnumbered, outmatched, and the attackers had made their way into the Keep more than once. They had been pressed and pushed to their limits. He still remembered the gnawing hunger that had gripped the stomach, plus the Pain that had been in his warhounds eyes.

Luckily that wouldn't happen here.

The Orc's couldn't surround Belgrath no matter what they tried, and for some reason that set him at ease. Even though he might well catch an axe or a festering arrow...at least he could get out of here if he really wanted to.

Glancing up at Adam he shrugged. "At the very least they have to come to us, and there isn't as much space up here for their numbers."

He gestured to the small walkway on the wall.

 

[Birtingr Hrutr]

"Hold the reigns tight yet loose! What is hard about it?"

A young dwarf was having trouble with his ram mount as Birtingr stood at the wall of the corral. He wanted to march on in there and take the reigns for himself to show the pebble again how to do it. But the dense youngster wouldn't learn that way. Instead he just sighed out as the young dwarf got thrown off of the ram and landed with a loud thud on the ground. He sighed as the young man laid there trying to regain the breath they had lost.

"Rams are stubborn and ornery beasts. Ya got to be more so or they won't listen." Birtingr yelled. "Now get up and do better or I'll have ya clean out the stalls by yerself!"

Getting back to their feet with some effort, the young dwarf mumbled under their breath. Birtingr didn't know what was said. "Talk back one more time and I'll beat some sense into ya!"

The young dwarf turned to face his teacher with a scowl. Before any remark could be made though the ram charged them from behind and knocked the young dwarf forward. Birtingr cursed under his breath as he hopped over the wall. He rushed over to the youngster and said with a scowl more out of concern than ire, "Never turn yer back on a ram! That was lesson one!"

Birtingr helped the young dwarf up to his feet then grabbed the ram's reigns. Dwarven rams were mean beasts and Byx here was twice so. Few could handle his personal mount, which is what made him so good for teaching the important lessons to the youngsters.

"Ya did good lad." Birtingr said as he patted the ram to calm it down. The young dwarf replied back, "Thank ya."

"I was talking to the ram. You did terrible." Birtingr snapped back. He motioned for the young dwarf to go see the stable master already waiting with some medicine at the corral's exit. Young lads with no experience around rams always were like this when they learned to ride. They saw trained rams and riders bounding about and thought it easy. Rams like Byx learned them quick though on how wrong that was.

Birtingr was considering a casual ride himself since Byx was saddled up already when the horn blew from Ramkin Hold's main tower. He frowned hearing it. Something was wrong if it was blown. He rushed over to the exit still holding onto Byx's reigns as he did. The area was full of activity as members of his clan rushed about. He watched for a moment then stopped one of the younger lads by grabbing onto their arm. "What is happened?"

"Orcs are about to siege Belgrath."

"What?" Birtingr was shocked. Why would anyone want to siege that city? It certainly wasn't at its peak anymore but the defenses were vast and could be held by only a few. If the clan was mobilizing though it meant they were getting involved and he needed to get ready as well. "Get back to it then." He let the younger lad go and pushed them on.

"Time to get ready Byx. We got us a battle to attend." Birtingr said to his ram as he began to head off towards the stables.

 

[Adam]

Adam looked over at where Thren was indicating, his eager eyes observant and soaking up whatever information he could. Yes, the walkway was a hell of a bottleneck. In fact, the fortress was full of them. Sure, the men and dwarves who defended Belgrath were few and far between, but in defending a set of fortifications such as this their numbers might prove sufficient. The young man found himself not fearing death as much as thirsting to wet his blade on a live enemy. The anticipation was called the thrill, and all men of Siaxeny had that tendency somewhere in their bones. He wasn't a trained swordsman but he was willing. Sometimes that was enough.

As the huge Nordenfliir made his speech, Adam roared with the rest of the defenders. His blood was rising.

Why wouldn't the blight orcs just come already?

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

The story Gerra told was much like the folk-tales one heard when they travelled far enough for long enough. Where strength and bravado only got someone so far when in competition with cunning and deception. It wasn't very surprising that such goings on would happen inside Molthal's great lineage, the many sons having to prove their birthright, showing that they were worthy to inherit the great dynasty that reared it's head over the realms of men in Arethil. When he was young, his master Jerik told him stories of such empires. Always, they were built on the deaths of countless, often being those considered 'unworthy' or a means to an end. It ate at the back of Sparhawk's mind; was he serving a good cause? Was there a 'good' cause?

"If you'll excuse me my Lord, i wish to prepare for the Siege." Sparhawk, using what little he'd learnt from his travels, spoke with as much sophistication as he could, before edging his way outside the tent, making his way to his own.

Pacing to his tent, the sheer size of the force Gerra had to utilise was truly enormous. Molthal had granted him a great legion of Orcs, all clad in famed Molthal-Grade Steel. Many would kill to learn of it's craft, and many have. They all looked very intimidating, their size dwarfing Sparhawk's, making him look like a child standing below the waists of giants. An exaggeration of course, but nevertheless he was unbelonging, and the many glances he received whilst walking to his tent only confirmed as much.

His tent was only the bare essentials of what he needed: a bed, a small holding cupboard for his equipment, and a table littered with various food stuffs he'd acquired whilst staying at Molthal. He dropped his cloak from his back, the soft material crumpling onto the floor below him. His staff leant on the bedside, incase of emergency.

He dropped himself onto the bed. He was sweating profusely. His head felt as if it was ready to implode. He was beginning to realise that it came in episodes; sometimes he'd go a week feeling fine, but today was a bad day, and a bad day meant that he wouldn't sleep.

He curled into a ball, scratching at his head, words piercing into his mind, crawling in and out of his thoughts, penetrating themselves into every passing memory, invading his peaceful mind with harrowing images and awful suggestions.

He let out animal-like groans, the pain becoming excruciating.

​

He rolled in his bed, knocking his head against the top of the bedframe as he did, and as Sparhawk riled in his own agony, the purpose of his pain once again made itself known. His mind focused, the words morphing together, no longer stetching and distorting, but evolving into a single, simple goal:

I n c i n e r a t e​

Sleep. That's what i need. Sleep...