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[Minalkra Matal]

Prologue
10 Felsite, year 796
The Age of Myth

The smell was what got to him.  Zor Axeabbey yanked his spear from the belly of the writhing goblin, twisting it as it came loose and blocking the sword of his victim's partner with the shaft.  Zor didn't mind killing goblins, it's just that the smell they left was horrible enough to put a dwarf off his ale.  The sounds of battle surrounded them as they danced, ringing through his head, into his very bones.  Tucking his spear into his armpit, he spun it around his body, adding momentum to his swing and slicing the goblin's throat with the blade.  Zor mentally counted another tic, twenty.  Twentieth goblin to fall to his spear today.  He supposed that's why they called him Spearmaster.

Zor took a moment to survey his surroundings.  The last wave of attackers had left literal piles of dead.  Though the ash of the ground could still be seen in some places, it was rare to find a bit of it untouched from the day.  If not covered by bodies, it was splattered with blood or worse.  The sky hung low with clouds, soot he thought.  This place had once been a jungle.  Now, it was an ashen wasteland.  Only a few tree stumps poking up to sow when the great jungle trees had once stood.  Elves would have had a fit had they made it this far south.

A clanging caught his ear, the sound of sword on shield.  Zor whirled around, his spear at the ready.  A goblin, tattered and limbless but for one arm, had tried to stab at one of his men from under a pile of dead, only to be cut down like the dog he was.  He noticed some more goblins but their will had been broken and they were retreating towards the hills, a few of his last speardwarves jogging after them.  He let out a sigh.  Perhaps they could continue the march, then.

"Zor!  Bowgoblins on the hill!"  Etur, another squad leader and a legend in her own right, though with mace rather then spear, pointed toward a bank of hills to the north.  Ranks of goblins, running into range.  Zor let out a curse.

"We'll have to charge them, Etur!  Even weak arrows can peirce the best of dwarven plate!"  He smashed his gauntleted fist into his cuirass, the etchings of dwarves and elves in trade still unmarred from the days battle, though soiled with blood and ash-mud.  Raising his spear, he let out a roar.  "Spear phalanx, to me!"

Recruits.  That's what their instructors called them.  Meat was more like it.  Rushed into battle with little training and outfitted with wood spears and simple iron chain armor, his squad of ten dwarves had been whittled to near nothing.  Four dwarves, most with wounds, answered his call, a pitiful 'phalanx.'  But others came as well.  Fresh squads, recently sent from the reserves, also formed up.  Untested, some shaking visibly.  More meat for this hellish grinder.

Etur and her macedwarves were also forming, her own squad in as bad a shape as his.  Worse, as she hadn't any reinforcements yet.  It should be enough, he judged.  Bowgoblins were not known for their bravery, the most cowardly of a cowardly race.  But still, they had some distance yet to run before they could meet spear with shield in melee.  Strange, though, the air seemed more heavy with smoke then it had the start of the day.  And it seemed to be getting hotter to him, though in the Roasted Jungle it was hot year round.

A recruit next to him let out a cry and fell to her knees, a look of terror etched onto her face.  Zor looked at her in alarm and then back to the bowgoblins.  His heart dropped from his chest, the blood rushing doawn as well.  Had he not seen countless horros that day, he too would have fallen.  Behind the goblins, dancing with glee and malice, a pallor of death and smoke.  Demons, their fiery bodies giving off waves of heat.  Lines of them, an army of them.  Rank upon rank of death made real.

Around him, he felt the will of his recruits, his friends and the sons of friends, wither.  It was not hard to see why.  Around and behind them, nothing but ash and the stumps of dead trees, haphazardly sheered off near the base.  No cover for demonfire or arrows.  Ahead, goblins readying bows to fire and further, demons of darkness and heat that would cause even the fiercest of champions to give pause.

"So it comes to this, then."  He glanced once more at Etur, her own squad staring dumbfounded at the sight.  She felt his eyes on her and glanced back at him, her eyes filled with tears.  "For the dwarfhomes.  For our families!  For our friends!"  Zor felt his voice growing louder, though it did not seem intentional.  He felt distant, as if watching the scene unfold from on high.  "For all those that perished on this field this day, for our wounded and captured slaughtered to the south and for our allies!  For the Queen!  For Aran!  Strike the earth!"

The last left his mouth with a dwarven roar as he slammed his spear into the ground once before leaping forward.  With cold determination in his heart, Zor charged, spear lowered.  For a moment, he was alone.  Then, around him, he felt and heard them.  Dwarves.  First, only a few.  Then, dozens of them.  Maybe even hundreds.  Some shouting as they charged, others silent and mourning their own deaths.  But all the dwarves that were present that day charging.  Once battle was joined, then he would shine.  He would spin and duck and block.  His spear would dance the dance of death, of champions.  For now, though, he was just one more point in the Queen's army.  The goblins dropped to one knee and readied their weapons, the demons behind them tossing balls of flame in their hands in anticipation.  All in all, he thought, it was a good day to die.

[Minalkra Matal]

"My Queen."  Lorbam Brightbury, Champion of the Walls of Rhyming, bowed, his muddied armor dripping on the cave spider silk rugs at his feet.  Behind him, the flaps of the tent rustled shut, their expensive embroidery out of place in this war camp.  He put that thought firmly out of his mind.  Now was not the time to mention the nobilities love of comfort and excess.

The Poet-Queen, his Queen, Morul Trailedtorch, looked up from her reports, her steel blue eyes drooping with exhaustion underneath her adamantium helm.  He armor, though spotless, seemed to hang on her frame as if it bore the weight of the entire world.  The etching on it showing past victories of their nation, so much hope.  He must have been looking for a time because she need to motion for him to continue.

"The goblins have outflanked us to the north and south.  Our thrust westward is blunted by ranks of speargoblins and bowgoblins.  The elves are reporting heavy casualties in their skirmishes and the men have retreated to prepared positions south of the Hills of Roasting."  He paused, unsure of how to continue.

She waved him silent before he could, however.  "I know.  Reports have been filtering in all day about this . . . tragedy.  Shin has refused my prayers."  She leaned back, her obsidian throne grinding at her armor, and closed her eyes.  "How are our warriors holding out against them?"  Lorbam knew better then to become familiar with the nobility and had prided himself on his distance from them.  Still, the queen seemed to have grown even colder then usual as of late.  However, it was his duty to ensure the safety of his nation and carry out the will of his Queen.  Above all, Lorbam took his duty very seriously.

"To be blunt, my Queen, poorly.  The recruits are falling like flies and even with our truly legendary dwarves bolstering them, we are losing more and more each moment.  The goblins, in a rare moment of ingenuity, have deforested the field between the southern and northern hills.  It must have taken them nearly a year to destroy such a jungle."  Lorbam shook his head.  They must have had help from somewhere.  He left that thought unvoiced.

"Regardless, our southern flank is breaking, the recruits in a rout back toward our camps along the river.  The northern flank is holding, but I've received reports of a large force of bowgoblins being sent there as well as . . ."  He paused.  The severity of what had to be said made him question how to say it.  ". . . demons, my Queen."  Her eyes snapped open, wide, at the word.

"Demons?  Here?  How many?"  Her mind drank in the enormity of his words.  It had taken the Mountainhomes of the Walls of Rhyming almost a full century to prepare and launch this offensive.  The wealth of their trading nation had been poured into armor, weapons, rations and defensive positions from which to launch such an undertaking.  Add the treat of demonic invasion to he reports she already had received . . .

"Reports are sketchy, as few who face them survive.  Before the last dwarf messenger went mad, he mentioned a 'sea of fiery red' and 'an army of hell.'  Even without the demons, however, our thrust toward the goblinhomes has failed, my Queen."  He stared directly into her eyes, their strange dullness a polar opposite to his own bright and fierce eyes.  "Even should we reach their obsidian towers, past all the bowgoblins and demons, we would loose too many dwarves to properly breach them.  The Two Hundred should be able to bolster our retreat, buy us time for an orderly withdraw."

Queen Morul sat gazing at him for a long moment, seemingly unable to grasp the monumental disaster that loomed before them all.  The flaps of the tent stirred briefly at some passing breeze, thick with the smell of ash and sulfur.  Somewhere in the distance, a mule whinny-hawed at his handler.  The faint sounds of orders being barked drifted in.  For a time, neither said a word.

"You are wrong in that, Champion."  The Queen's voice rang out clear and strong, despite the exhaustion evident in her form.  "Of our Two Hundred Legends, only ten remain."  Lorbam gasped.  He knew it was bad out there, but this was catastrophic!  The pride of the Walls of Rhyming, slain by goblin hands.  He stumbled backwards, falling to a knee as the enormity of it washed over him.  Kadol Tuftgrinder, he who could slay ten goblins with his twin blades; Kikrost Heartsway, the mother of legends herself, able to shoot a titan in its eye from four hundred paces away.  A hundred other names and faces leapt to his mind.  A hundred stories, of friends and companions, of sieges and war.

"Yes.  Today, the Walls of Rhyming has lost a greater portion of it's strength then it had ever before.  Today, because of the failure of our trade partners in coming to our aid, I have denied Shin Silvertrade."  Lorbam had not the strength to respond.  For many years, Shin Silvertrade had been the deity of the Kings and Queens of the land.  True, some had worshiped Vosh or Doduk the Bronze Musics, but most had followed Shin and the Walls of Rhyming had grown wealthy for it.  The Queen closed her eyes wearily, though her voice still shone with power.  "Aran, Lord of Strength, it is he who now holds my soul.  For truly, it is strength we must have for the trials to come."

"Champion, recall all troops to the eastern side of the river Hatetugged the Glitter of Climates.  Lead the goblins into their own field.  We'll have to set up ambushes of green recruits to lead them on," she held up her hand at his intake of breath, "else they will gather and attack enforce."  She looked at him with those hard, tired eyes.  "Some sacrifices must be made, Champion."  He swallowed and nodded, understanding her orders but not able to face them just yet.  "Mass our crossbowdwares on the eastern side of the river and destroy the bridge once the last of the dwarves are across.  We'll force them to wither in our rain of fire."

"What of the other bridges, my Queen?"

"Station the remaining Legends at those with the melee recruits we have left and support them with crossbowdwarves once the tide of goblins splits.  As much as I'd like to destroy every bridge from here to the Tight Sea, I can't afford to cut off the plains so soon."  She stood, her shoulders firm.  Motioning to some unseen servants, she began to fasten her armor tighter about her chest and waist.  "I will head to the next bridge north to support the efforts there.  You head to the south."  The Queen yanked a hammer out of a nearby stand, letting the masterwork object fall to the floor, like so much kindling.  All around the tent, orders flew and dwarves prepared to head out, oblivious to the wealth they left behind.

"Today, the goblins of the Torments of Uncertainty will know the power of dwarven rage."

[Minalkra Matal]

And so it came to pass that the fruit of a hundred years of dwarven labor was spent on what would be known as the Ruthless Fields.  The goblins were forced to retreat, though the cost was almost too much to bare.  Two thousand dwarves, including two hundred legends, fell in that war.  The Queen was counted among those that perished, though never once did goblin foot touch dwarven soil.  Her daughter Sazir would begin her reign with mass funerals held to honor the lost dead.  The worship of Aran kept and Shin Silvertrade was regulated to a minor deity.  The Walls of Rhyming would forever be known as an impenetrable fortress-nation, ringed with the fort-cities of her dwarves.  The Torment of Uncertainty, bolstered by their pyric victory, would send waves of troops to their deaths trying, ever trying, to break the walls that held the dwarves safe.  But with blade and bolt, the dwarves withstood and prospered.  

The humans and elves lost much as well, though not nearly as much as the dwarves had.  The elves of the north, known as the Weather of Tenderness, had watched entire forests fall to goblin axe and had suffered in body and soul for it.  Their greatest warriors, Terathi Scarrose, was captured and tortured to death on the Hills of Cruxes, where dwarven infantry had held out against demon and goblin both.  Never again would the nation of Dafo Coli raise hand against the goblins of the west in active contest.

The humans of the south, fighting through the murder camps of the goblins, had been bloodied and forced back.  They had seen first hand the torments dealt out to the enemies of the goblins.  The men had wished to push through to their allies, for their god Luthi the Consideration of Calling had taught them the importance of loyalty and oaths.  Alas, their king followed Remsi the Wooden Seasons and, after seeing the death wrought by goblin hands, ordered his men back.  Gogol Silveryfished would rule for another four years before his murder and his son, Bepa Dippedframe, would rule in name only until his death another 55 years later.  A civil war would rage and Gagu Tameflier would eventually rise to lead the Confederations of Bristling.  Through his devotion to Aco the Pearls of Swimming, the god of trade, the Confederation would prosper once more but the great divide in faith would always mar their nation.

[Minalkra Matal]

Sorry about the flood-post situation.  I was playing around, trying to find the perfect position when I stumbled on an odd-yet-awesome sight.  Goblin towers ten levels BELOW the level I started on.  Soo, I started to look around, explore the world and whatnot.  Eventually, with the surroundings and such, I began to try to write a story of my fort.  It . . . didn't work out.  I always messed something up royally and all my dwarves ended up Ratman food, strangely enough.  However, I was inspired to write this little bit in lieu of a fortress-story, at least until I can get better at this game.  Also, accidental world-floods are baaaad.

[Jamini]

I found it quite enjoyable. I'd love to read more if you ever write it (or anything else.)

Top notch, thanks for this. ^^v

[ricemastah]

That was really good. I liked it. And with the new version around the corner.... stories like this can be made from just making new worlds!

[Minalkra Matal]

quote:Originally posted by ricemastah:
<STRONG>That was really good. I liked it. And with the new version around the corner.... stories like this can be made from just making new worlds!</STRONG>

Alas, that is what this is becoming.  My dwarves seem to think it more important to dig DEEPER then to dig smarter.  It seems, then, that I'll have to dig smarter for them.  Perhaps I am seeking perfection where instead a more ad hoc way of playing should be used.

Regardless, I actually, surprisingly, hope to turn this into some sort of long term 'game log' as it were.  My stories will never be as entertaining as the dear Captain's nor as outright madly hilarious as Boatmurdered but I hope to make some sort of directed fiction through it all.  But thank you both for your encouragement.  And to all who read, as well.