Maelthar, Lord of the Wild Hunt
Silas Thorne, Shadowdancer
Sylvani Wildsong, Spellsinger
Branchwraith (Unnamed)
King Thodrik Greymane
Thane Halgar Azriksson, Bearer of the Royal Runes
Runelord Arbrek Silverweaver
Runesmith Lokrin Rammelsson
Dragon SLayer Fengrim Dourscowl
Dragon Slayer Halgi Dragonhide
Longbeards - Tromm Kazzukan
Dwarf Warriors - Clan Svengeln
Ranger Veteran Grundin Stoutlegs
The forest whispered to me long before I saw them. The faint murmur of branches swayed not by the wind but by unease; the scurrying of small creatures fleeing deeper into the glade; the quiet protests of the earth beneath heavy, careless boots. They were here—dwarves.
From the shadows of the underbrush, I crouched low and melded with the foliage, my cloak drawn tight, my bow at the ready. The smell of them reached me first: ash, sweat, and the acrid tang of iron. Then came the sound—the unmistakable grumble of their guttural voices, punctuated by harsh laughter and the clinking of their wretched tools.
Through a break in the trees, I saw their camp. They had carved a scar into the forest, their crude axes biting into sacred oaks as though they were mere obstacles to be cleared. The great trunks lay strewn like the bodies of fallen warriors, their rings exposed to the sky in silent lament.
At the heart of the camp, a fire roared, its smoke coiling upward in defiance of the forest's harmony. Around it, the dwarves lounged—armored figures with beards long and braided, their eyes glinting in the firelight. They spoke loudly, their voices like stones grinding together, mocking the serenity of the woodland.
"I swear on me beard, Thordrik," one bellowed, slamming his mug against a stump. "If another one o’ these damned roots trips me up, I'll have the whole forest cleared before sunrise!"
The others roared with laughter, a discordant sound that grated on my ears.
Nearby, a younger one—beardless, though stocky as the rest—hacked away at a tree with vigor but little skill. His elders barked instructions at him, their tone more derision than guidance. He gritted his teeth and swung harder, each strike reverberating through the glade like a drumbeat of desecration.
My hand tightened around my bow. It would have been so easy to loose an arrow into one of them, to remind them that this forest is not theirs to tame. But no. Their kind is stubborn and blind to reason, and bloodshed here would only invite more of their kin to despoil these lands.
Still, I could not let this affront go unanswered.
I reached into my quiver, drawing a single arrow tipped with a pale white fletching. A warning. Nocking it silently, I pulled the string taut, the bow bending like the arc of the crescent moon. The firelight glinted off the arrowhead as I aimed high, toward the tree line above their camp.
The arrow soared through the night, a whisper against the wind, and struck true into the branch above them. It quivered there, its pale feathers gleaming like a ghostly eye.
The dwarves froze, their laughter silenced. Hands went to axes and hammers, eyes scanning the shadows.
"What in the blasted name of..." one growled, his knuckles whitening around the haft of his axe.
I smiled grimly, retreating deeper into the forest. Let them feel the gaze of the wild upon them. Let them know they are watched, that their noise and smoke and axes are not welcome here.
The forest would endure long after their fire burned low and their voices faded. For every tree they felled, a hundred saplings would rise. And for every trespass, the forest would find a way to remind them: it is alive, and it remembers.
The crackle of the fire was a comforting constant amid the din of the camp. Oskar Granitebeard leaned back against a felled tree, his armor creaking faintly, and took a slow draught from his mug. Beside him, Thorkrim Emberhelm was scratching his beard with one hand and nursing his own drink with the other, his face set in its usual look of sour disapproval.
"Young ones these days," Oskar muttered, nodding toward the beardless apprentice struggling with his axe. "That one swings like he’s chopping butter, not oak. What do they teach 'em back in the halls?"
"Bah!" Thorkrim spat, his voice a low growl. "They don’t teach ’em anything anymore. Too soft, the lot of ’em. Give a beardling an axe and they think they’re a warrior. Back in my day, you weren’t allowed near a tree without five winters of stone work first. You learned patience. Discipline."
Oskar grunted in agreement, lifting his mug again. The mead was strong, but it did little to warm the chill in his bones.
Then came the arrow.
It struck with a sharp thunk into the branch above the fire, its white fletching gleaming like a shard of bone. The camp went silent as if the forest itself had stolen their breath. The young dwarves scrambled to their feet, hands flying to axes and hammers. Voices rose in alarm, and shadows danced wildly as they scanned the treeline.
"An attack?!" one of the beardlings shouted, his voice cracking as he hefted his weapon.
"Hold yer nerves, fools," barked another, older but not much wiser. "It’s just one arrow!"
Oskar and Thorkrim didn’t stir. The two longbeards remained seated, their mugs resting comfortably in their hands as the younger dwarves bumbled about. Oskar leaned forward slightly, squinting at the arrow as it swayed in the branch.
"Elves," he said at last, his tone flat and unimpressed.
Thorkrim snorted. "Aye. Trying to scare us. Typical pointy-eared cowardice. Won’t even show their faces." He took a deliberate swig from his mug, wiping the foam from his beard with a disdainful grunt.
The younger dwarves were still fumbling about, shouting and forming clumsy shield walls, their panic a chaotic cacophony against the stillness of the forest.
"Would you look at that?" Oskar said, jerking his head toward the commotion. "Carrying on like it’s an invasion. All over one little twig-sticker."
"Pathetic," Thorkrim agreed. "If they spent half the energy swinging axes as they do yapping about shadows, we’d have this whole grove felled by now."
They shared a knowing look, their expressions a mix of weariness and irritation.
"You reckon we should tell ’em it’s just a warning shot?" Oskar asked, though his tone made it clear he had no intention of doing so.
"And spoil their fun?" Thorkrim replied, a rare glint of amusement in his eye. "Nah. Let 'em run themselves ragged. Maybe they’ll learn something. Though I doubt it."
With that, the two longbeards returned to their mugs, ignoring the clamor as if it were no more than the buzzing of flies. The fire crackled on, the arrow swayed in the branch, and the forest loomed silent and watchful.
The ruins of the old outpost lay crumbled and overgrown, its stones scarred by centuries of exposure to wind, rain, and the creeping roots of the forest. The Dwarves of Karag Dum had rediscovered the site a few days prior, and King Thodrik Greymane himself had ordered an inspection. The outpost, once a proud sentinel of the Dwarven frontier, might hold secrets that could aid the hold in its long struggle for survival.
But it was not to be reclaimed without contest.
The Dwarves had established their camp in and around the ruins, fortifying what walls remained and setting up defensive lines. The quarrellers and a bolt thrower were stationed atop the sturdiest section of the crumbled walls, their crossbows and war machines trained on the surrounding forest. In front of the ruins, the King’s retinue arrayed themselves in battle formation: longbeards in gleaming armor, Royal Guard warriors with shields locked, and ironbreakers bracing their heavy gromril shields. The Rangers had deployed on the left flank, their stealthy presence aiming to counter any ambushes, while the second bolt thrower and the Goblin Hewer stood ready in the center.
Thodrik Greymane surveyed the forest from his position, his hand resting on the hilt of his ancestral axe. "They’re out there," he rumbled, his voice heavy with certainty. "They’ll not let us keep this place uncontested."
The longbeards around him grunted in agreement, their eyes scanning the treeline with disdain.
Across the forest, Maelthar Wildheart sat astride his mount, his Wild Riders forming a crescent around him. The old Glade Lord gazed at the ruins, his face a mixture of disdain and determination. Behind him, the Glade Guard and Waywatchers nocked their arrows, while Warhawk Riders circled above like vultures awaiting the carnage. The towering form of a Treeman moved with deliberate purpose, accompanied by a host of dryads, their twisted forms radiating malice.
“They desecrate the forest with their clumsy boots and axes,” Maelthar hissed. “Today, we drive them out. No quarter, no mercy.”
The battle began with the twang of bowstrings and the heavy thunk of crossbows. The Glade Guard loosed volleys of arrows, their shafts whispering through the air like the forest’s own fury. The Dwarves answered with a steady hail of rune-marked bolts, their quarrels finding targets even among the darting forms of the Warhawks and the towering Treeman.
The Treeman, a hulking force of nature, drew the concentrated fire of the Dwarves. Each rune-marked bolt struck with a burst of energy, searing its bark-like flesh. But the ancient spirit pressed on, each step shaking the ground.
On the left flank, the Rangers engaged the Dryads, their great axes swinging in wide arcs. The battle surged back and forth, the Dwarves’ grit meeting the Dryads’ feral fury. Slowly, the Dwarves were forced to give ground, their ranks thinning as the Dryads' relentless attacks wore them down.
On the right flank, Maelthar and his Wild Riders launched their charge. The Ironbreakers, their shields locked in a gleaming wall, braced for impact. The Elven cavalry struck like a thunderbolt, their wild steeds lashing out and their lances driving forward. But the Ironbreakers held firm, the runes on their banner slowing the elves' strikes, and their gromril armor turning aside blow after blow.
The clash became a grinding stalemate. The Ironbreakers, with their disciplined ranks, stood like a bulwark against the Wild Riders’ fury. One by one, the stout warriors fell, their shields dented and bloodied, but not before buying precious time for the rest of the Dwarves.
In the heart of the battlefield, the tide turned against the Dwarves. Warhawk Riders soared over the ruins, harrying the quarrellers and silencing the bolt thrower with devastating precision. The Goblin Hewer fired its deadly arcs of spinning axes, cutting through swathes of elves, but it too was overrun by swift and deadly War Dancers.
The center collapsed as the Treeman waded into the fray, its massive limbs sweeping through the King’s retinue. The longbeards, despite their valor, could not match the speed and agility of the War Dancers, whose flashing blades darted between shield and armor.
King Thodrik Greymane himself fought at the forefront, his axe cleaving through enemies with every swing. But even he could not turn the tide. The Treeman’s crushing blows scattered the Royal Guard, and the elves pressed forward, their speed and maneuverability overwhelming the Dwarves’ defensive line.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the battle was over. The Dwarves, bloodied and battered, retreated from the ruins, carrying their wounded and leaving their dead. The forest grew silent once more, save for the mournful songs of the Wood Elves as they tended to their own.
Maelthar Wildheart stood among the ruins, his gaze fixed on the retreating Dwarves. "Let this be a warning," he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of the forest’s will. "The wild will not be tamed."
Far in the distance, King Thodrik paused to look back at the outpost. His jaw tightened, his grip on his axe firm. This was not the end.
The stench of blood and sweat still clung to the air, mingling with the crushed scent of pine and loam. Maelthar paced the edge of the forest clearing, his cloak of feathers and tattered silks whipping about him. His mount, a magnificent stag, pawed the ground a short distance away, its antlers stained red from the day’s carnage.
“How many charges was it, Arendriel? Four? Five?” Maelthar spat, his voice a raw growl.
Arendriel, his second in command, stood nearby, head bowed and silent. His long spear still bore traces of gore, though his posture was far from victorious.
“Four, my lord,” Arendriel ventured cautiously. “The fifth finally broke them.”
Maelthar whirled to face him, eyes blazing with unspent fury. “Broke them? Did you see them break, Arendriel? Did you see their cursed shields fall or their formation shatter?” He jabbed a finger toward the churned earth where the Ironbreakers had made their stand. “Because all I saw was us driving them back—step by grudging step—while those grumbling stoneskins stood unyielding, as if the gods themselves had rooted them there!”
He resumed pacing, his boots snapping twigs and flattening ferns beneath his furious strides. “They didn’t fight like warriors. No, not warriors! Warriors bleed. Warriors falter. They fought like the earth itself—unyielding, unfeeling, deaf to the songs of blade and death. Even my stag’s charge—” He waved toward the majestic creature, who flicked its ears in disinterest. “—barely budged them!”
Arendriel kept his voice calm, though his knuckles whitened on the haft of his spear. “Their standard bore runes, my lord. Ancient ones. Their armor is gromril—”
“I know what their armor is!” Maelthar snapped, closing the distance in a heartbeat. His finger jabbed the center of Arendriel’s chest, punctuating his next words. “And I know that this armor held against my riders, against my stag, and against every ounce of Kurnous’s fury that I unleashed!”
He turned abruptly, his hands moving to his hair, pulling at the wild braids in frustration. His voice dropped to a mutter, but the venom in his tone was no less sharp. “I could see it in their eyes. They knew. They knew they wouldn’t survive. And still they stood there, like some damned statue carved by a spiteful artisan. They watched us with those smug little eyes, locked their shields, and dared us to break them.”
The scene replayed in his mind, vivid and unrelenting:
The Ironbreakers, their formation a wall of unbroken gromril, bracing against the thunder of hooves. His Wild Riders circled, spears and blades flashing, their mounts rearing and kicking at every opportunity. Again and again, Maelthar had led the charge, his stag’s powerful legs launching it forward like a storm given form. And yet, the line barely shifted.
The Dwarves fought in grim silence, their axes hacking in brutal arcs when his riders closed, their shields locked tighter than roots gripping rock. Even when one fell, blood seeping into the forest floor, another filled the gap before his body had time to cool. Their banner, bearing runes that shimmered faintly in the dim light, seemed to sap the strength from his warriors’ blades.
And still, they held.
By the fifth charge, their numbers were a fraction of what they had been, but their line stood, their shields still raised, their boots still rooted. Finally, when the Ironbreakers gave ground, it was not a rout. It was a retreat, orderly and methodical, each step costing his Wild Riders more than it gained.
“They chose to die there, Arendriel,” Maelthar hissed, shaking his head. “Not for glory, not for victory, but simply to spite us. To spite me. And they almost succeeded.”
“My lord,” Arendriel interjected carefully, his voice measured, “we did win. The line broke, and the outpost is ours. Their king’s forces are retreating into the forest.”
Maelthar turned, his expression a whirlwind of fury and frustration. “This is not a victory!” he snarled. “Do you think they care for this patch of ruins? Do you think those iron-plated fools gave their lives to defend it?”
He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous growl. “They wanted to show us they couldn’t be broken. That their stubbornness was stronger than our fury. And for every one of them we killed, we paid in twice as much blood.”
The forest grew quiet as Maelthar’s words hung in the air. For a long moment, neither spoke. Finally, Maelthar exhaled, his shoulders slumping slightly.
“This is only the beginning,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less determined. “These Dwarves are not like the others. They’re not invaders, not interlopers who can be swept aside. They’re roots—deep, gnarled roots. If we’re to tear them out, we must dig deeper. Strike harder. Hunt smarter.”
His gaze shifted toward the battlefield, where the bodies of Dwarves and Elves alike lay scattered. The Ironbreakers’ stand was evident in the pile of fallen Wild Riders before their position. Even in death, they seemed to mock him, their defiance as immovable as the mountain itself.
“Tell the Wildkin to rest,” he said at last, his tone firm. “Tomorrow, we plan. This forest is ours, and no king of stone will take it from us.”
Arendriel bowed and moved to carry out the orders. Maelthar turned to his stag, stroking its bloodstained coat as he gazed into the darkening woods.
“They will break,” he muttered, more to himself than the beast. “Even stone breaks, given enough time and fury.”
The tent was dimly lit by flickering torches, their light casting long shadows on the walls. The air smelled of damp earth and the tang of iron, the latter still clinging to the bloodied axes stacked nearby. In the center of the room stood a sturdy stone table, around which the King and his closest advisors had gathered. At its center lay the Dammaz Kron, the revered Book of Grudges, its iron-bound cover marked with runes of oath and vengeance.
King Thodrik Greymane sat at the head of the table, his armored form looming over the gathering. His great beard, streaked with grey, fell over his polished breastplate, its braids still bound with bloodied copper bands from the recent battle. His expression was as unyielding as the mountains from which his kin hailed, but his eyes betrayed a simmering fury.
“They struck first,” rumbled Brokk Ironmaul, one of the longbeards, his gnarled hand gripping his tankard. “Ambushed us in their cursed woods like cowards. That alone warrants their names in the Dammaz Kron.”
“Aye,” agreed Kargun Stonegrip, captain of the Royal Guard, pounding his gauntleted fist on the table. “And their treeman crushed half my unit. The names of every warrior who fell there deserve to be written in vengeance. Let the entry be clear and wrathful!”
Thodrik raised a hand, silencing them. “Their deeds speak for themselves, but the wording of a grudge is not so lightly cast.” He gestured to the quill and inkpot set beside the great tome. “This grudge will outlive us all. It must stand as a record for generations, precise in meaning and enduring in purpose.”
The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of the King's words pressing on all present.
“It should begin with their leader,” suggested Durmak Hammerhand, one of the younger advisors. “That stag-riding wretch, Maelthar Wildheart. It was his hand that brought this war upon us. He should be named.”
“Bah!” Brokk spat, his voice rising. “What good does it do to name him alone? The grudge is against all their kind, not just one reckless elf. They struck as one, they will pay as one!”
“And what of their spirits?” interjected Kargun, his tone low but fierce. “The dryads, the treeman—they fought beside the elves as kin. Shall we not count them among the guilty?”
“Aye, but what of their purpose?” came another voice. This from Torgald Runehammer, the hold’s loremaster. He leaned forward, his keen eyes glinting in the firelight. “A grudge must speak to intent. Did they strike to claim the ruins? To drive us out? Or simply to shed Dawi blood?”
The room broke into muttered arguments, voices rising and falling as each dwarf aired their opinion. Thodrik sat silently through it all, his gaze fixed on the blank page of the Dammaz Kron before him.
Finally, after a long stretch of heated debate, a voice rose above the din—calm, measured, and weathered with age.
“Enough,” said Oskar Granitebeard, one of the eldest of the Tromm Kazukhan, who had sat in silence through the entire discussion. His deep voice carried the weight of centuries. The others turned to him, their muttering ceasing as he slowly rose to his feet.
“Mark this not as a single slight,” he said, stroking his long white beard, “but as the beginning of a reckoning. The elves have shown their true colors. This war will not be won or lost in a single battle, but in the long march of time. Let the words reflect their treachery, their cowardice, and their challenge to our right to tread where our ancestors walked.”
He looked to Thodrik, his gaze unwavering. “Write this not as a moment of anger, but as a legacy of resolve. They have spilled Dawi blood. We shall spill theirs. Not for vengeance alone, but to remind them that no Dawi slight goes unanswered.”
The King nodded slowly, the faintest glimmer of respect in his steely eyes. “Well spoken, Oskar.” He reached for the quill, his gauntleted hand steady as he dipped it in the ink. The room fell utterly silent as he began to write, his deep voice intoning the words as they flowed onto the page.
**“Let it be known that on this day, in the shadow of the ruins of Khazad Valdruhn, the kin of the forest—elves and spirits alike—did strike against the Dawi of Karag Dum without provocation or honor. Their arrows felled our kin, their beasts shattered our shields, and their blades spilled the blood of warriors noble and true.
This grudge is entered in the Dammaz Kron against Maelthar Wildheart and his kind, whose treachery and cowardice have earned the undying enmity of the Dawi. For the blood they shed, for the kin they wronged, and for the challenge they have laid against our rightful claim, their reckoning shall be as eternal as the mountains.”**
When the final flourish of the quill marked the page, Thodrik leaned back, surveying his work. He turned the book for the others to see, and a murmur of approval passed through the room.
“This grudge will stand,” the King declared, his voice like the grinding of stone. “Let every Dawi who reads it know our cause is just. Let every elf who hears it tremble at what is to come.”
The dwarves raised their mugs in grim salute, their oaths of vengeance echoing in the chamber as the firelight danced on the ancient walls. The grudge was written, and the war had truly begun.
The scent of smoke clung to the air, mingling with the damp, earthy musk of the forest floor. The dwarfs were burning their dead.
Crouched upon the limb of an ancient oak, Laerion of the Waywatchers watched the flickering glow through the trees. The fires had burned low, little more than embers now, but the lingering haze hung thick in the undergrowth. The dwarfs had moved on.
He exhaled slowly, his breath barely disturbing the crisp autumn air. The chase had been long, the dwarfs stubborn in their retreat. Each hour, the Waywatchers had harried their march, loosing arrows into stragglers, forcing them to remain alert, ever-moving. But even now, with their warriors wearied and their wounded burdening them, the dwarfs remained resolute.
A rustle below signaled the return of his kin. Ailean moved like a whisper through the bracken, his hood drawn low over his keen eyes. Beside him, Elenna walked with measured grace, longbow slung over her shoulder.
“They are nearly spent,” Ailean murmured, his voice barely rising above the wind. “The wounded slow them, and their food supplies are dwindling. They make their way to the stone bridge over the Ravenspire, a place of old dwarf-make.”
“They will not run forever,” Elenna added. “They have taken their shame, but they are still proud. Their rearguard stands strong, and their kin will not abandon them.”
Laerion nodded. It was as he had suspected. “And their defenses?”
Ailean’s eyes glinted beneath his hood. “Stubborn. They seek to make their stand at the Ravenspire. They have a strong rearguard under a slayer-lord—Fengrim Dourscowl, they name him. He and his kind have taken their oaths.”
Laerion grimaced. Slayers. That complicated things. Those sworn to the doom-oath would fight without fear, without hesitation. They would not break, nor yield. They sought only death.
“And the rest?”
“The King has retreated, though he rages at his place among those who flee. The warriors at the Ravenspire are chosen to sell their lives dearly. Warriors stand among them, and their quarrellers guard the higher ground. Bolt throwers are hidden along the ridges.”
Laerion breathed in deeply. The dwarfs had chosen their battlefield well. The Ravenspire was a narrow pass, flanked by sheer cliffs and jagged stone. There would be no simple flanking maneuvers, no easy way to slip through unseen. If the elves charged too soon, they would break against the dwarfs’ iron discipline and gromril-clad ranks.
“Maelthar must know of this,” he said. “We move.”
They ran as ghosts through the woodlands, feet barely touching the earth. Not a twig snapped, not a leaf stirred in their wake. The woods belonged to them, and they wove through the shadows with a swiftness only the Asrai possessed.
Night had deepened by the time they reached the hidden glade where Maelthar’s warhost waited. The air here was thick with the scent of damp moss and the distant hum of whispering spirits. Wild Riders stood in quiet vigil, their steeds shifting restlessly beneath them. Among them, a towering figure loomed—a Treeman, its gnarled limbs adorned with ancient glyphs, its deep-set eyes aglow with an inner wisdom.
In the heart of the glade, Maelthar paced. His royal stag stood nearby, stamping a hoof impatiently, sensing its master’s rising fury.
Laerion knelt before him. “The dwarfs seek to make their stand at the Ravenspire. They are wounded, but they are prepared. Slayers hold the pass, and their artillery watches the approaches. If we strike too brashly, we will bleed for it.”
Maelthar’s jaw clenched. “So they do not run as cowards after all.” He turned, fingers brushing the hilt of his curved blade. “And what would you have me do, Waywatcher? Caution? Delay?”
Laerion met his gaze, unflinching. “A storm does not batter the mountain head-on. It wears at the rock, it flows into the crevices, and it finds the path the stone does not guard. The Ravenspire will not hold forever.”
Maelthar considered this, his wild eyes burning with restless energy. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“Show me the way past.”
The dwarfs stood in grim silence, their armor dulled with blood and soot. Around them, the trees loomed dark and foreboding, shifting with the whisper of unseen enemies. Somewhere beyond the treeline, the elves waited. Watching. Stalking.
King Thodrik Greymane set his jaw, his grip tightening around the haft of his war-axe. His warriors gathered in a semicircle before him, their faces lined with exhaustion but no hint of doubt. The Wood Elves had pursued them relentlessly since the battle at the ruined outpost, striking from the shadows, bleeding them with each passing hour. But now, the dwarfs would turn and make their stand.
“This cannot continue,” Thodrik said, his voice rough with frustration. “We cannot fight a battle while on the march, not against such a foe. We must give the throng time to retreat to ground of our choosing. We hold here. I stand defiant in front of these pointy eared, tree loving cowards”
A murmur ran through the gathered dwarfs. They had known this moment would come.
That silenced them.
Fengrim Dourscowl, the Dragon Slayer, stepped forward, his bare, scarred chest heaving with a deep breath. His long orange crest, newly dyed, was still stiff with drying blood from the last engagement. “No, my king. That duty is mine.”
Thodrik turned on him with a scowl. “Your oath does not outrank my duty, Slayer.”
Fengrim met his gaze without flinching. “Nor does your duty outweigh your responsibility to your people. A king belongs among his kin. A Slayer belongs in the place where death is certain.”
“Aye,” rumbled Oskar Granitebeard, one of the Tromm Kazukhan, his long white beard shifting as he leaned on his warhammer. “A king must see his people safe before he sees his own doom.”
Thodrik’s grip tightened on his axe. “If I do not fight for my people, then what use am I to them?”
Oskar exhaled through his nose. “A king who fights is an inspiration. A king who dies is a cautionary tale. You know this.”
Thodrik ground his teeth, his fury rising. The humiliation of their defeat at the outpost still burned within him, the shame of retreating was a wound deeper than any blade. Every instinct in him demanded he stand, that he bleed for the honor of Karag Dum.
“Will you tell me to run, then?” he growled.
“No,” Oskar said evenly. “But I will tell you to lead.”
Thodrik’s glare swept across those before him. The slayers stood with bared heads and hard eyes, each one knowing that this was the last march they would take. The Ironbreakers stood resolute, their shields marked by deep gouges, their gromril still stained with the ichor of the forest spirits they had battled. Quarrellers and warriors, bloodied but unbowed, watched him with unwavering respect.
Fengrim Dourscowl did not smile, but there was something close to satisfaction in his gaze. “Your place is ahead, not behind. Let us do what we must, and lead our kin to safety.”
The words struck deep.
Slowly, reluctantly, Thodrik exhaled. His anger did not fade, but it settled, tempered into something harder, colder. He turned to the gathered warriors.
“Very well,” he said. “Fengrim Dourscowl shall lead the rearguard. I shall lead the rest of the throng to the Ravenspire.”
A few of the warriors sagged in relief, though none dared show it openly. Oskar nodded once, approvingly.
Thodrik turned back to Fengrim. “You will hold them as long as you can.”
Fengrim grinned, a savage thing. “Long enough, my king.”
Thodrik did not return the smile. He raised his axe in salute, then turned away, marching toward his awaiting throng. He did not look back.
There was no need. He already knew how the rearguard’s story would end.
The Dwarves marched in bitter silence, their boots crunching against the damp forest floor. The scent of sap and rotting leaves mixed with the iron tang of blood that still clung to their armor. They had lost the battle at the outpost. Many had fallen. Many more had taken the Slayer’s Oath, stripping themselves of their honor and their place among their kin, seeking only death in battle.
King Thodrik Greymane stood at the head of the retreating column, his knuckles white as he gripped the haft of his axe. He was their king, and his duty was to his people. But with every step away from the battlefield, his heart burned hotter with shame. His warriors, his kin, his oldest friends—were about to die with axes in hand, while he led the retreat.
The Elves had not relented.
They hounded the march, shadowy figures flitting through the trees. A whisper of movement, a glimpse of green and gold among the autumn boughs. Arrows darted from the darkness, striking down the wounded. The quarrellers and rangers returned fire, but the forest swallowed their bolts whole. Every league they marched, the Elves were there. Watching. Stalking.
Fengrim Dourscowl knew they could not flee forever. The King’s duty was to the hold and the clan. But his duty, his purpose, was to end his shame in battle. And he would take as many of the damned knife-ears with him as he could.
When the time came, he volunteered to lead the rearguard.
He stood now among the Slayers, their heads newly shorn, their beards dyed bright orange. They had cast away their pasts, seeking only a death worthy of song. Their axes gleamed in the twilight. The enemy was near.
Fengrim turned to the King, who had lingered longer than he should. Thodrik’s face was dark with anger, and he clenched his axe like he might still turn back and fight. But he could not.
“Go,” Fengrim growled. “Your place is with the clan. Our place is here.”
The two old warriors held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Then, with a deep breath that seemed to cost him greatly, the King turned and rejoined the retreat.
Fengrim turned back to his warriors. “Aye, lads. Let’s make it a good one.”
The forest breathed around them.
Then the Elves attacked.
The Battle of the Slayers' Stand
The first sign was the screech of a warhawk. The gyrocopter, a proud construct of Dwarven engineering, soared through the treetops, belching steam as it engaged the swift-moving hawk riders. Crossbow bolts and arrows danced between them in the air, and then—an explosion. One wing of the gyrocopter sheared away, and the machine spun wildly before crashing through the canopy. The warhawks, victorious, wheeled and dived upon the exposed Dwarven war machines.
The Slayers saw none of this.
Their eyes were locked ahead, where the first figures emerged from the gloom. Glade Guard, their green cloaks blending into the trees, notched arrows and loosed. The Slayers raised their axes in defiance as the storm of fletched death descended, but they did not waver. One by one, they fell. A Slayer did not flinch in the face of death. Behind the archers the forest itself seemed to join the battle, Dryad and a Treeman moving into sight.
And then came the charge.
Maelthar Wildheart rode at the head of the Wild Riders, his royal stag pounding the forest floor with powerful strides. The Slayers braced, but the Wild Riders did not charge them head-on. Instead, they swept around the flank, striking at the quarrellers who had sought to cover the Slayers' advance. The Dwarven crossbowmen fought bitterly, but their weapons were for distance, not for close combat. Elven blades flashed, and the quarrellers were broken. The Slayers were too slow to respond, caught between multiple threats.
Fengrim saw the battle turning. He saw the towering shape of a Treeman striding forward, each step shaking the ground. He saw the shifting, twisting shapes of Dryads slithering between the trees, their clawed limbs grasping for flesh. His axes burned with a hunger to fell the mighty tree, but before that could happe He saw the Shadowdancer spinning through the melee, his movements a blur of impossible grace.
Enough.
With a bellow of fury, Fengrim charged.
His axe cleaved through the first Dryad he met, splitting its bark-like flesh in two. He roared, kicking aside the thrashing remains as more came upon him, but the Dryads were endless. Clawed fingers wrapped around his arms, his beard, his weapons. He wrenched himself free, slashing wildly, but they pulled him down.
He saw the battle as he fell.
The Dwarves of the center held, their armor and the battle standard’s runes keeping them alive against the relentless Elven assault. But the flanks had crumbled. The Wild Riders now cut through the Dwarven ranks like a reaper through wheat. The warhawks silenced the last of the bolt throwers. The forest belonged to the Elves.
Fengrim let out one final roar as the Dryads dragged him into the earth.
The Aftermath
The Dwarves were broken. But they had done their duty. The King and the survivors had escaped. The rearguard had fought long enough for them to reach safety.
Maelthar rode among the fallen, breathing hard, his stag’s sides heaving. The battle had been a victory, but it had not been easy. The Dwarves had held like the stones of the mountain, as they always did. He looked upon the bodies of the Slayers, and a strange feeling stirred within him. Admiration? Pity? It was hard to say.
He turned his gaze to the retreating Dwarves in the distance, vanishing into the trees. This was not over.
The forest had not yet claimed all the trespassers.
And so the hunt would continue.
The steam-belching engine of the gyrocopter shuddered as it banked through the thick canopy, its rotors whirring violently to keep the machine aloft. The pilot, Rurik Coppernose, clenched his teeth, his gloved hands gripping the levers with iron strength. Sweat dripped into his thick beard, the heat from the boiler behind him battling against the cool forest air that rushed past his open cockpit.
Through the trees ahead, he could see them—swift-moving shapes flitting between the branches. Warhawks, their wings outstretched, riding the wind as if they were born from it. Their riders, clad in shimmering green, moved as one with their beasts, bows already nocked.
Rurik snarled, yanking hard on the control stick.
“Come on, ye bastards,” he growled, pulling back to gain altitude.
He had to hold the skies. If he could keep the warhawks occupied, the bolt throwers might have a chance to scatter the Elves.
The gyrocopter shuddered as he fired. A hissing jet of steam erupted from the nozzle beneath the cockpit, blasting toward the nearest warhawk rider. The Elf twisted in the saddle, guiding the bird into a sudden roll that sent it spiraling to the side, just beyond the reach of the scorching blast.
Rurik swore. He pulled the gyrocopter into a sharp climb, hoping to gain a better angle.
The warhawks responded in an instant. They broke formation, three of them peeling away while one dove straight for him. The Elf riding it leaned forward, bow drawn, and loosed an arrow in a single smooth motion.
Rurik barely had time to jerk his head aside as the arrow streaked past his ear, embedding itself in the metal plating behind him.
“Yer gonna have to do better than that, ye twig-lovin’—”
The second arrow struck his engine.
There was a sharp hiss, then a deafening bang! as steam erupted from the wounded machine. Rurik felt the gyrocopter lurch, the rotors above him faltering. His stomach lurched as the machine tilted, the weight of the damaged boiler dragging it down.
“No, no, no—!”
A third arrow hit the wing strut. The warhawks were circling now, sensing blood. Rurik wrestled with the controls, trying to level out the descent, but the forest below was rushing up to meet him far too quickly.
Branches snapped like brittle bones as the gyrocopter smashed through the treetops. The impact wrenched Rurik from his seat, his safety harness snapping with a sickening crack! He tumbled from the wreckage as it spun wildly, crashing into the earth in an explosion of fire and steam.
Rurik landed hard, the wind driven from his lungs as he rolled across the forest floor. He gasped for breath, his body aching, but he was alive. He reached for his sidearm, a sturdy Dwarven pistol, and scrambled onto one knee.
The warhawks had landed. The Elves dismounted in eerie silence, moving with the quiet grace of hunters closing in for the kill.
Rurik bared his teeth. He raised his pistol, aiming for the nearest Elf.
But before he could pull the trigger, a shadow fell over him. A massive shape loomed behind the Elves, towering above them. The scent of earth and ancient bark filled the air. Rurik turned his head, staring up into the hollowed eyes of a Treeman, its gnarled limbs stretching toward him.
“Ah, sh—”
A branch slammed down.
The last thing Rurik Coppernose saw was the canopy above, golden with autumn leaves, before everything went black.
The night was deep, the air thick with the scent of sap and blood. The forest was alive with whispers, the unseen eyes of the trees watching as we moved through the gloom. My Wardancers slid between gnarled roots and low-hanging branches, as fluid as the evening mist. Their blades shimmered under the pale glow of the twin moons, eager for the song of battle.
Ahead, the Dwarfs trudged through the undergrowth, their heavy boots crushing leaf and bramble alike. Even in retreat, they moved with stubborn defiance, a slow and unyielding tide of iron and spite. Their ranks were thick, their shields locked together, their grim faces set in resolution. Crossbowmen lined the flanks, their bolts already nocked, their watchful eyes scanning the trees.
But they would not see us. Not yet.
I let my mind drift into the Veil, slipping into the weave of shadows and hidden things. Words of power, older than the stones of these mountains, passed my lips like whispered secrets. My hands wove the patterns of unseen tides, and darkness gathered around us, thick as mist on a winter’s morning. This was the Dance of the Unseen, a spell meant to shroud us from their sight, to let us slip past their notice until the moment of the strike.
But the winds faltered.
The darkness curled at my fingertips, dissipating like smoke caught in a storm. A pressure—ancient and immovable—pressed against me, shattering my spell like glass under a hammer. The dwarfs carried their cursed runes, their cold, unyielding magic unraveling my work before it could take hold.
I hissed in frustration. The Dance had failed.
From the treeline, a quarrel streaked towards me. I twisted, feeling the air part as it tore past my shoulder. The next was faster. Too fast.
I dropped low, spinning into a roll as the bolts rained upon us. My Wardancers moved like specters, each one bending, twisting, and leaping through the hail of steel. But even our grace had limits. I heard the dull thud of impact, the gasp of stolen breath. A brother fell, clutching his side where a bolt had pierced the filigree of his warpaint. Another staggered, an iron quarrel embedded in his thigh.
The dwarfs had seen us. And now they sought to snuff us out.
A cry rang from the right flank, the bellow of a beast and the shriek of fey steeds. Maelthar and his Wild Riders burst through the undergrowth, hooves tearing through the fallen leaves. The horns of the Stag Lord called the hunt, and the elven cavalry descended upon the rear of the dwarven lines like a storm of hooves and silvered blades.
Now was the moment.
I raised my blades high, a wicked grin curling my lips.
"Dance!"
The Wardancers surged forward, their feet barely touching the ground as we spun through the storm of bolts. The quarrellers, so focused on the charging riders, barely had time to react. We were upon them before they could reload, our blades flickering like fireflies in the gloom.
Steel clashed with flesh, and the world became a dance of death. I moved between them like a phantom, a whirlwind of knives and motion. Their armor slowed them, their beards swayed as they turned to fight, but they were too slow, too rigid.
Behind them, I heard the roar of snapping wood and shrieking spirits. The Dryads had broken through the flank, their clawed limbs raking through iron and flesh alike. The forest itself screamed in fury, lashing out at those who defiled it.
The Dwarfs fought like the mountains they hailed from—unyielding, unbreakable. But even stone cracks beneath enough pressure.
And tonight, the storm had come.
I sees 'em. Swift an’ light, them pointy-eared gits move like ghosts through the trees. Ain’t like our lot—crashing, stomping, breakin’ stuff just for fun. Nah, these ones slink and slide through the branches like they was made o’ mist. But I sees 'em all the same.
I crouch low in the underbrush, my knuckles sunk into the soft dirt, breathin’ in the smell o’ blood on the wind. It’s faint, but it’s there—Dwarf-blood, sticky an’ thick. I can taste the fight that’s already been, and the fight that’s comin'. ‘Cause there’s always more fightin’. That’s why I came sniffin’ about in the first place.
Big Boss Borruk Bonecruncha told me to go look-see what was happenin’ in the woods. See, we heard the clang an’ roar o’ battle days ago, an’ every orc with half a brain (which ain’t a lot of us, mind you) knows where there’s a fight, there’s scrap left over. An’ where there’s scrap, there’s stuff to take. Good armor, sharp axes, maybe even some humie booze if we’re lucky.
But this… this is better.
I watch the spindly elves sweep through the undergrowth, all quiet-like, their fancy cloaks flappin’ in the wind. They ain’t lookin’ for us. They’re after the stunties. I seen their kind before, prancin’ about, thinkin’ they’re the lords o’ the woods. Fast, sure. Good with bows, yeah. But soft. Too clever by half. Too reckless, too eager for blood.
An’ that’s why they ain’t gonna see us comin’.
I grin, tusks glintin’ in the moonlight, an’ sniff the air again. The elves is spreadin’ out, thinkin’ they got all the time in the world to play their little hunt. Good. Let ‘em. Makes ‘em easy pickings.
I start to slink back the way I came, my heavy boots crunchin’ the leaves, but careful-like. Ain’t no use ruinin’ the surprise. Gotta get back to Boss Borruk, tell ‘im what I seen. He’ll like this. Oh, he’ll love this. The boyz been gettin’ restless, scrapin’ for a good fight, an’ what’s better than catchin’ some slippery knife-ears off guard?
By the time they smell us, it’ll be too late.
I let out a low chuckle and stomp off through the dark, already picturing the look on Boss’s ugly face when I tell ‘im we got fresh meat waitin’ in the trees.
Blood’s on the wind. An’ this time, it ain’t just stuntie blood.