Otr glanced at his battle line. Twenty thousand heavily armored and armed dvergar. All positioned on the rocky outcrops of the slopes of the mountains flanking the secret pass to the main dvergar stronghold in the Western Dvergar Mountains. Linked and embedded tall shields protected infantry ranks. At their back were dwarven crossbowmen, armed with an improved version of the Zhong repeater crossbow. Further up were ballistae and catapults. Their mages were distributed all along the line.
What a vacation, he thought to himself. You come to visit your father, and you end up in another battle. I should have brought that Dvalin fellow and his lads along, they didn’t seem to have enough fun back in Hedmark. Or even some of the lads back home in the Northern Dvergar Range. Nah. I don’t think the Elders would have allowed it. Jotnar activity seem to be increasing.
Otr glanced at the ranks of warriors preparing for battle. Most were rubbing their shields and armor with a mixture of clay and vinegar, magically bonded together. Even spears and pikes got the same treatment. On the vast desolate plain below, the southern edges of the Plain of Fire, Otr could see Sutr’s advance legions moving into position.
We might have a higher tolerance to fire than other races, but it doesn’t mean we're immune to it. On the bright side, the fire jotunn’s minions are also definitely killable by fire. Lots of it though.
The dwarven lord was curious about the big shapes he had seen ponderously moving forward from the far side of the vast plain. Such huge monsters have never been seen before and he naturally wanted to know more about them, but the distance was too great for him to pick out details. He walked to the ballistae commander standing a hundred feet away and gave out helpful comments to the preparing dwarves as he walked along the lines of defenders.
“Quickly now, you bunch of lily-livered pansies! At this rate, we should be inviting those blasted offsprings of Sutr to dinner instead! You call that preparing? I’ll get better results from dead drunk, half-blind, lame, and witless humans! Move your lazy, fat, and heavy asses! Are you sons of the mountains?” he shouted.
A rumbling roar from thousands of voices greeted his words. Battle drums sounded.
“Good! For a moment, I thought I was fighting with the svartalfar!”
Noisy laughter greeted his words. Otr reached the dwarven detachment leader.
“How's it going, Nabbi?” Otr asked.
“We’re still bringing up ammunition, my Prince. Though I see big ones at the rear of our enemies. I can’t say I know what they are.”
“I saw them too. Don’t mind them. The fire jotnar would be idiots to use them in the coming battle. They’re going to be employed when they’ve forced the gate. Right now, those flying snakes are the ones which worry me,” replied Otr.
“Some look familiar, the usual crop of fire drakes. Others are new,” observed Nabbi.
“Nothing that tunneling stones won’t cure,” snorted Otr.
“It does appear they brought a lot of their forces to the coming merriment,” commented Nabbi. “I estimate about 40,000 now on the field, with more coming in.”
“More to kill, brother. Though the scouts did report the land of fire is indeed on the move. The battle won’t be today or even tomorrow. They’ll gather their scattered hosts first before they attack,” grinned Otr. “That gives me time for some drinking tonight.”
Then he thoughtfully looked at the enemy gathering on the great plain.
“I never thought I’d be happy to see normal enemies, even in those numbers. There’s something abominable about fighting swift undead who fight and think like the living. That Hedmark excursion was bizarre, to say the least,” said Otr.
“I did hear about that, my Prince. Strange enemies, indeed. Good thing we didn’t lose too many of the lads, and I hope that kind of undead don’t show up in these parts. On our present playmates, the warning about the jotunn lords had already been sent to the various dvergar realms. But I heard most are already fighting either Sutr or Ymir’s forces,” mentioned his companion.
Otr grinned. “It’s going to be the worst and biggest crock of draken shit, Nabbi. And I am not talking about that cursed Fafnir either. The good news is we’re in the front seats! Imagine that!”
The dokkalfr mage stood among his dead and dying brethren. The attack had been unexpected. They didn’t foresee that the jotnar knew about this particular entrance. The sudden impact of several magical offensive spells laid low most of the guard detachment, and the freezing spell which followed either immobilized the surviving defenders or made it difficult to move.
The ensuing swift onslaught of four-legged and fanged terrors left no doubt as to the eventual fate of the dokkalfr outpost. Only the wounded mage remained, his magical barrier reduced almost to its breaking point. The small space before him quickly filled up with the deadly marauders. The mage raised his staff and grimly smiled.
It’s going to cost them, the thought ran through his mind as he grasped the weapon with two hands and violently slammed it on the ground with all his remaining strength, breaking it in two.
A whirlwind of flames erupted from the broken staff, savagely burning everything in the small space in an instant, reducing everything to piles of ash.
More jotnar steamed into the opening and quickly fanned out, moving deeper into the Dokkalfr Mountains.
The mercenary stumbled through the thick jungle undergrowth. A few hours before, he had been with his comrades at the large earthen fort on the borders of the Cahokian Dependency, a vassal state of Kemet.
His company was left to reinforce the fort’s complement because of disturbing news about a rebellion in the kingdom. But they didn’t worry too much about it. They were stationed on the border, far from any conflict. Even if the rumors were true, it was but an internal matter for the Dependency. The winner will bow to Kemet after the dust had settled.
The dawn assault came suddenly. Frightening man-spiders came out of the ground inside the fort and swiftly silenced the guards. What followed was a massacre in some of the barracks. Sleepy men were torn apart as they came out of the fort’s structures.
Then the gates of the stronghold were opened and the horse-mounted rebels swooped in, arrayed in the distinctive Cahokian method of a rider and a javelin-armed warrior in medium armor on the same mount. It gave the combination unparalleled mobility and attack power – the shield of the passenger protected the bow-armed rider and gave the option for the warrior to either dismount and engage a weakened enemy or continue with the harassing attacks. The horse itself was protected by cloth-and-metal armor designed to absorb or deflect arrows.
This time, the co-riders dismounted and continued what the loathsome man-spiders started. The mercenary was lucky enough to have his bunk at the end of their quarters and after he saw what was happening, opted to use the window instead. Clambering down the wooden palisade, he was spotted by an enemy rider. He ran, ditching whatever armor he was able to put on. Speed was key, and his sword was enough.
He gave thanks to his gods as he reached the forest, but continued running, the torrent of sweat now accompanied by noisy wheezing. The warrior was out of breath and tired beyond the limits of his endurance. Long minutes passed. He looked back; sword tightly gripped in his right hand. No sign of pursuit. He slumped his weary body back against a large tree. A few minutes to rest, his mind and exhausted muscles insisted.
High above him, thick cobwebs were dropping on the weary warrior.
The small pass facing north was one of the Dual Monarchy’s openings towards the mountains bordering Muspelheim, the land of fire. Dwarven realms could be found under the vast mountain range and trading parties would sometimes venture forth to visit designated points earmarked for such profitable expeditions.
Lately, two such trading caravans had returned empty-handed, to the disappointment of the border guards who had become accustomed to generous largesse from the happy merchants. Dwarven guards had told the traders that the realms are closed for now because of some disturbance coming from the Plain of Fire.
Inside the fortified settlement, the night shift was already doing the rounds, lighting the torches around the small outpost. For a small fortification, one would have thought the garrison to be commensurate to its size. But the stone wall enclosing the compound hid the better part of a thousand fighting men, two hundred cavalry, and twenty war chariots. The Empire knew well the benefits of trade with the dwarven realm and the peaceful co-existence that came with it. The army was more to protect the merchants than the border. And the Dual Monarchy had assiduously avoided establishing larger forts on the lands facing the Western Dvergar Mountains lest the action be interpreted as a prelude to war. That was the last thing the rulers of the Empire wanted - the dwarven realms provided a much-needed buffer against incursions from Sutr’s domain. The Empire already had enough on its hands dealing with the attacks from the Void Lands.
One of the two guards on top of one of the towers idly noticed that only half of the torches of the fort had been lit. He nudged his companion and pointed out the strange occurrence. As they watched, they saw a warrior come out from one of the rooms and walk towards the parapet. In the growing gloom, the pair saw clouds of mist appear at the back of the unsuspecting man, solidify, and pounce on him. One of the forms clearly had a scrawny hand over the warrior’s mouth. The stupefied duo looked at each other. Then one rushed to the large gong and started furiously beating it, ringing the loud alarm throughout the fort. Men within the enclosed field halted and looked up at the source of the loud noise.
“Edimmu! Edimmu! Edimmu!” shouted the other guard at the warriors gathered below. The listeners exploded into action. Officers shouted orders and men hurried to grab their weapons and armor from their tents and weapons racks.
On top of the largest building in the compound, a figure smiled.
Deep in the bowels of Hades, separating it from the accursed plane of Tartarus, sat a massive round bronze mirror half a mile in diameter. Secured by chains of adamantine to the floor of a vast cavern, the artifact’s surface glowed with eldritch sparks amidst a swirling vortex of blue energy. Flickers of power ran up the metal cables, powering the giant magical orb.
Around it stood rows of gleaming humanoid constructs, each a hundred feet tall and armed with giant versions of metal weapons. They all bore the mark of Hephaestus, the sign being a horizontal hammer above an anvil. The Greek deity of forging had learned a valuable lesson from his experiment with Talos, the huge bronze warrior who had protected Crete back in the First World – colossal forms also make for oversized targets.
Suddenly, a huge flaming hand, with clouds of smoke roiling with immense power, came out from the mirror’s surface. The mirror and its chains glowed brightly in response to the intrusion, and flashes of massively powerful energies attacked the unwelcome appendage. The hand became an arm, and the arm revealed a gigantic shoulder. A fiery face contorted by agonizing pain emerged and a great cry shook the vast cavern. The metal constructs started to move.