The Dwarven HegemonyAct 1: Reclamation
625 AL
Durognarin Gates
Durog VIWaiting for the levy to be prepared had not been as torturous as Halzmar had expected, yet no news had arrived from any of his wayward sons on their gallant, yet extremely dangerous quests. He had faith in them, a faith that could not be shaken by a silly fear for their capabilities in battle and leadership. They would hold thrones of their own soon, and they would understand the burden that he carried, of leading his people to a better future. Yet here he was now, leading the young and old alike to a war that didn't truly concern them. Domination of the Wildlands was necessary, too long had the constant raiding on small holds and traders been given no thought. Unfortunately his attempts to create order had only pushed the entire region into anarchy, now the Dwarven army was being mobilised, ready to show the world that the Dwarves were not a race ready to recede into the background or slowly fade away.
With the toughest, thickest and best armour in Dwarven opinion, and good luck to the poor sod trying to argue against the point against one who delves deep, his army looked magnificent. The beating of the drums kept a discipline unmatched by most armies, though often Halzmar worried whether the humans had already gotten the better of them. Stories reached him of the Paletine Republic, their fierce 'enlightenment' of both his own people and others, of the Alfheimr Empire and their fierce Nordmen, the religious zeal that inspired the Kingdom of Aerusalem. Yet in his opinion they all lacked the loyalty, the courage, the stubbornness of his own people. The Dwarves had been the only force to challenge the Elvirion Empire all those millenia ago, and they had truly suffered for their attempt at keeping order. The other races had scurried away, faded away or were destroyed. But the sons of Durog were far more resilient than that, and here they were again, a might empire stretching from mountain to mountain. It was still not enough.
Strength had to be shown, no matter how brutally, how cruelly or destructive. All these wild folk knew was how to raid and pillage, against such an organised army they would melt away like flies. Halzmar had been so focused upon his own thoughts that he did not even notice his own daughter, Sigrun, standing next to him. "Father, you seem worried" she said softly, lacking the harsh voice of an elder Dwarven matron that wold likely afflict her later in life.
"These are all my sons and daughters, are they not? How can a father let them march off to a war that needn't concern them?" he said, reopening his earlier dilemma. How had his father coped with such questions, or had he not coped with them at all? Most historians looked damningly upon Izzun, his later madness and harsh conquests blurring a successful and peaceful rule of fifty years. How would they remember Durog V? A benevolent ruler, a cruel tyrant, loving father or murderous conqueror?
"They fight for you, you are Durog reborn, in you I think they see a chance to return to the glory of the old days. I don't think they are wrong" she said, stunning Halzmar with her intelligence and warm message. Truly out of all his children she had been blessed with his love of the scholarly arts, yet she was able to perfectly blend such knowledge into charismatic speeches in a way he had never been able to.
"Aye, then I shall give them this glory. I will return soon Siggy, you have my word" he replied, pulling her in close for a quick embrace before dismissing her kindly. One last look at the fifteen thousand who would accompany him to war and death, before he mounted upon his favoured steed and set off.
625 AL
Battle for Dur-Ganar
Prince Gorvan"What of the eastern barracks? Have we taken them yet?" roared Gorvan, standing and shaking a makeshift command table. The runt of a captain next to him squeaked out an excuse as to why the area had not been taken yet, causing him to shout in frustration. Progress was slow.
"Prince Gorvan! The western barricade is failing, three more infernal golems have joined the assault, they tore
Zakhvast the Indomitable apart!" shouted a lowly sergeant, his armour blackened with soot from the constant fires bellowing in the distance and his face covered in blood and spit.
"Divert thirty berserkers to the western barricade, and one of the iron golems. That is all I can spare right now" replied a very tired, and therefore bitter, Gorvan. The assault had become a damned siege, and they were still trapped in an unfavourable position. He had miscalculated, believing that the enemy were weakest in the eastern pass yet three days of constant fighting through rubble and ruin had resulted in little ground being taken. Almost half of his berserkers were dead, and his message for reinforcements to the humans of Alfheimr and the King of Dur-Fulgrun would take weeks to arrive at best.
"My Prince, the
Wyrdlocks are in position!" shouted one of the Wyrdseers. They were a new invention, and quite a strange one that had amused and shocked all who had seen them. Round and monstrous things which, when a magical surge was sent through them by the Wyrdseer, shot out runes carved with rather explosive messages into crowds of foes. They were also especially useful in breaking down stone structures, though the traditional catapults were far more adept at this task. Three of the machines had been set up, with a further five yet to be readied. Two had already failed, the spirits inside them fading away as the battle disrupted the tender connection that some of them displayed.
"Faaaahr!" shouted an elderly Wyrdseer, causing those at the command table to plug their ears as the deafening noise erupted around them. A large rune flew through the air, over the massive hole that separated them from the Dur-Ganar Citadel, before it smashed into a huge crowd of Spreeks. Bodies flew everywhere and screams were thrown about as much as limbs as chaos broke through their ranks. Another blast, and again, and soon their war machine was in tatters.
Gorvan turned to one of his captains, "Push three companies into the eastern barracks, from there they will make their way into the marketplace and clean up any resistance, before heading around into the noble quarter and then the Citadel", the man nodded and threw himself to the task. "Delvar, take four stone golems and six companies to the western barricade, overwhelm them while this chaos lasts. Make straight for the citadel, this is our last chance" and the captain nodded, barking orders to his men.
"Valak, gather the wyverns, we make for an assault right there" he said, pointing his arm at the mighty gates of the Citadel, "If we disrupt their command chain we break them into little more than a rabble. I have observed that the weaker ones can do little without being commanded by the golems or the strongest of their kind". Valak sprinted towards the wyverns, leaving Gorvan to gaze across the abyss that he would soon be crossing. A true leader leads by example, his father had always told him, now he understood.
625 AL
Dur-Vezjan Camp
Prince BezzuliIt was a crude wall, having been hastily constructed by Korzikuan and the orc Burguk Jregh to keep adventurers out of the sacred ruins of Dur-Vezja. Yet Bezzuli knew the truth, a truth known only to a few chosen by his father Durog to hear it. The place had been infested by a monstrous race, ones who had created the Soulforge in an attempt to become gods. Had they been warped by their own creation, or punished savagely by the Vaulted Ones? Nobody knew, and according to his father the blighters weren't very talkative. He would have to wrench it from their screaming last breaths, in an attempt to sate his curiousity.
Oh, will you? whispered the wind, a voice so malevolent it made Bezzuli shudder. He looked around, but he could see nobody but Korzikuan stood beside him. "Who is there?" he asked, demanding an answer from what was possibly a simple breeze.
"It is just me, Master Bezzuli, there is no-" replied the ever vigilant golem, before it uncharacteristically paused in the middle of it's sentence. It too looked around, and Bezzuli almost thought he could see a hint of fear emanating from the, now slightly dimmed, green eye markings that emanated from its face.
"Korzikuan?"
"I have not felt this fear since..." muttered the golem, a being that was not meant to feel fear in any case. His own name meant Bringer of Fear, yet here he was the one feeling it.
"Since you were last here, with my father Durog" he said, correctly surmising the situation. The golem nodded, which made Bezzuli feel even worse. How could he succeed where his own father, the mighty Durog V, and the venerable Bezzuli Nikunzav, failed?
You reek of fear little prince screeched the wind, causing blood to slowly dribble from his ears. Bezzuli wiped it away quickly, shaking his head as if to remove the demonic voice. "You will pay for what you did to our people, monsters" he muttered.
Come then, son of Durog, and meet your people sounded the piercing scream that pushed Bezzuli to his knees, leaving him clueless as to what they meant. He didn't even realise that his eyelids were slowly closing, and would only vaguely remember Korzikuan grabbing him and carrying him to the camp below under cover of darkness. His campaign would begin in the morning, yet he already felt as if he had been defeated.
625 AL
Battle of the Lesser Palendar
Archprince Vikram"Get those shields locked together, hold Dwarves hold! Captain Gulur, direct fire to their western flank now! Chieftain Zhavesh, send your swordsmen to the centre, have them fill in the gaps now! Fulkam, don't let them breach through our eastern wing. Fulkam, Fulkam! Bollocks, somebody take up his command" bellowed Vikram, watching one of his favoured captains lose their heads. The battle was a complete disaster, he watched with disdain as the beastmen rampaged through his eastern flank and ran straight into his rearguard, threatening his supplies.
"By Falk this is hopeless" he muttered, watching as Zhavesh's inexperienced and cowardly tribesmen were cut down by their own kin. Zhavesh had abandoned his brethren to join him, and now Vikram knew that it was because the beast was a coward rather than a loyal subject. It was only a matter of time before he turned upon them.
"Your Majesty, should were abandon the field?" asked one of the junior captains, suggesting a tactical retreat that was not unwise, but unacceptable for a King of the Dur-Zennar to initiate.
"No, I will join the fray myself. They will know the meaning of fear. Axes mates, let us tear these beasts apart and remind them why they submitted to us in the first place" he growled, brandishing a very large battle-axe of a great quality and standard, yet it's ornate presence was "ruined" by blood stains from recent battles. Vikram thundered into the field, the lines having broken away and the battle having devolved into complete chaos where commands meant little and only the valour of the soldier and sheer numbers of the armies meant anything. He waved his axe around crazily, decades of combat experience paying off as he felled weak tribesmen pressed into a war they didn't truly understand. They were made for simple pillaging of defenceless merchants, not fighting battle-hardened dwarven princes with an appetite, a lust, for battle.
"Chieftain Saljeel, face me you spineless coward. I'll rip your spine out and strangle you with it, tear off your limbs and beat you to death with them, burn you alive with the fiery hate of my heart!" he roared, beating his chest and sending those closest to him scattering. They had heard tales of the Warmaster.
A tall creature, with tufts of black hair scattered around its body, two mismatched horns sprouting from its head, one huge one covering its left eye, with two goats legs adorning its bottom half. It bore a frayed cape made from the skins of unlucky travelers, and it snarled an inhuman challenge as it brought a scimitar, likely taken from a caravan, to battle. Vikram charged toeards it, bellowing a hate-fueled cry which rallied his forces behind him, smashing any Oguin stupid enough to be in his way, as he made his way towards his adversary.
625 AL
Siege of Dur-Targen
King Fruhar "Blackflame""Volley, now!" shouted Fruhar the Black Flame of Dur-Targen, usually shortened to 'Blackflame' for the sake of time. His love of using fire in combat, and his midnight beard which curled erratically had earned him the nickname. Bolts whirled into the enemy forces below, sending Oguin and Orcasi alike scattering as they sought cover. Trebuchets rained fiery death upon the savages, flaying the skin with the most horrible heat and crushing those stupid or unfortunate enough to be in the way. Such a mess earnt a childish laugh from the King, raising the spirits of those near him.
The enemy force numbered around twenty thousand, a significant force but not one that could likely take his city. Dur-Targen was a maze, hard to navigate at the best of times, an invasion of any Dwarven stronghold was tough, to put it lightly. No, there was no serious chance of them losing this assault, and a series of sallies would break any attempt at a prolonged siege, that or reinforcements. Soon he would be able to take to the field, and hunt the monsters down in a more jovial and spirited manner.
He looked below, from the high walls he and his senior commanders were perched upon. The gate to Dur-Targen lay below them, but that merely led to a series of underground forts ready to accommodate any trespassers. They were not as ornate as the ones in Durognarin, nor as sturdy as the ones packed in Dur-Zennar, but they were many and they were guarded by his loyal lads. Nothing could-
"Your Majesty, get down!" shouted one of his lords, piling in to him and whisking him away from the balcony as a stone rune thundered into it an exploded. The devastation came to him immediately, the bodies of his senior commanders were strewn about, and the lord perched above him who had just saved his life now sported a large rock jutting into his back. Guards pulled Fruhar from the destruction, as a few of the other survivors limped away and brought awful news to their king. The gate was breached, the enemy were pouring in, he had misjudged everything.
625 AL
Battle of the Lesser Palendar
Lord Marshal Zavost"Looks like Bonny Prince Vikram needs our help" chuckled Zavost, watching the calamity of a battle unfold from his excellent position nearby. With him stood four thousand of the aptly named Wildland Legion, Dwarves who lived in the harsh hills of the Wildlands with rights and traditions of their own. When promised security and new lands by Durog V, they had quickly sworn their fealty and been rewarded with large swathes of hills rich in goods and farmland. Now he was fulfilling another promise that he likely didn't know about, their secret desire to kick some Oguin and Orcasi butt.
"We gonnae join 'em Zavvie?" inquired one of his marshals, a young lad with few scars to prove his mettle. Perhaps today he would be blessed with one, or a few, then he would definitely gain a woman if he hadn't already got one. Zavost gave no answer, instead he gripped his spear tightly and began a quick jog towards the enemy lines. Tactics and planning was overrated, especially in a battle that had already devolved into a chaotic and mindless field of slaughter such as this. His jog became a sprint, and his sharp breathing became a raging warcry.
How the Oguin had not spotted the Legion coming from a mile away was a mystery, yet with little wish to fight other than fear of their leader, the chieftains had not bothered to send out scouts other than in the direction of the Archprince. They barely scrambled together a resistance as thousands of screaming Dwarves rampaged into the midsection of their army, causing chaos and disrupting any semblance of order that the force had. Those at the back simply bolted, chieftains among them, while those at the front were pushed further in. Some desperately tried to throw down their arms, but the bloodthirst of the Durognar was strong that day, and blood flowed across the green fields as if it would never stop.
It did not take long for the battle to end, a miserable and blood soaked field littered with Dwarven and Oguin dead. Nearby were a few chieftains, kneeling before the Warmaster, gripping the head of an unusually deformed Oguin as a trophy. They bore his shouting, roaring and spitting as he cursed them for their treachery, before accepting their pathetic excuses and ordering them to rally their clans in support of the Hegemony. Then he began thundering towards Zavost, and his heart skipped a beat.
"By Durog, he is scary" he said, earning stunned looks from his marshals who had never known him to feel fear. But who couldn't feel fear in the presence of the aptly named Warmaster?
625 AL
Northern Orcasi Wildlands
The Vizolsh"Slaves, that is what they made you, but is that what you chose for yourself? No! This is why we take arms, this is why we will strike back at those who have oppressed us! We are not savages, we are a Federation, a united front against those who have tortured us, murdered our families and pillaged our villages. Stand with me, and we shall forge a new nation from the ashes of their old empire! Stand with The Vizolsh!" shouted an unusually tall and muscular orcasi. His skin was a very dark shade of green, and he had the same brutal features that marked his race. Yet this one was different.
He had seen much of the world, and little of it had been to his taste. He had served as a soldier for the Paletine Republic, as an auxiliary, and those years had pressed into him an education and understanding of war. He still wore Paletine inspired decor in his clothing, yet most of it had been changed to a more traditional Orcasi style to promote his representation of his people. He had returned several years ago, seeking to bring a similar enlightenment to his people, though his would start with the freedom of his race from the well forged Dwarven chains.
Before him, chanting his name, were sixty thousand of his followers. They came from all walks of life, from both genders, any age as long as they could carry a weapon of some life. They shared his dream, even if most of them couldn't truly understand it. Freedom was to be theirs, and it would come with the burning of every Dwarven city. First they would destroy the Targennar, who had ruthlessly been purging their kind for a millenia. Then he would set Durog V's head upon a spike, and show the Dwarves that their God-Ancestor was not so invincible. Then the rest would fall, and out of their screams and agony a new nation would rise up, much like the phoenixes which he had read about.
The reclamation had begun.