Chapter one: The New Army
The year is 2215, also known as the second age. The human imperium is stretched to the breaking point; its authority and might challenged along every border. The greatest thread lies in the north, where the massing forces of orcs, goblins and other monstrosities mass for a grand campaign. In an time of constant warfare and strive, Mankind ruins it very soul due to the constant plotting and political backstabbing. Once great families now fight for power as the emperor himself steers the realm to a slow and painful death. Where the human race is still hobbling on, painfully, the Elven as a race are almost nearing total extinction. In this age mankind and elvenkind stand together, holding onto the last line of defence before the horde of monsters sweep into the rest of the known world, the north and east already completely taken wiped out.
Catapults, one of the Soldiers had screamed, though the young elf was sure they had nothing to do with cats. At the first sound of their racket, he had moved the stray cats to the safety of the storeroom. The storeroom was close to the house of healing, allowing healers to work quickly and efficiently. Cats belonged in the house of healing, both as symbol for resurrection and their helpfulness. In the Houses of Healing, the cats had the usual task of hunting and killing the vermin. Left unchecked, mice and rats soon would chew through the medical texts and ruin the bandages and herbs. Though guarding the supplies was important work and worthy of any cat, the cats in the Houses also had a second, higher calling. Some healers claimed that their presence calmed restless minds and cheered downcast hearts, some even claimed that their purring helped broken bones to knit faster, so the cats made it their duty to sit with the injured and sick. Many of the humans that now lived among them were doubtful, although they kept their mouths shut about it, thinking the cats would make a decent meal when the food as running low. Strange how the two races still held some distrust, even during the threat of an overwhelming shared enemy.
It ought to have been chaos. Gladrios was overrun with refugees from both the kingdoms of men of the north, and west, not to speak of their own people from outlying villages who had also sought shelter within its walls. But someone—or perhaps several someone’s—clearly had a genius for organization, and it even seemed as if Gladrios might have originally been built with just such a purpose in mind. The calm of the elves and mankind’s ability to obey orders were the perfect mixture, however unstable it appeared. The men still had a solid army, some eighty thousand strong, not counting all the lost souls in the world who were either in hiding or fleeing. The army was exhausted and nearly shattered, only a quarter of them garrisoned within the elven capital Gladrios, the last one still standing. The capital was besieged on all sides, a horde of orcs, goblins, trolls and other monstrous creatures held the city by its throat. The human army had tried to attack it from behind, crashing at the rear of the enemy. They had fought bravely, yet could hardly dent the horde that was determined to exterminate every sentient creature. Fifty thousand men had died that day, leaving only twenty thousand alive within the city and sixty thousand to fend for themselves outside, retreating in every other direction.
Elven and Human messengers had been send to every kingdom known in the world, both south and east still stood. To the humans amusement, a Elven messenger had been send to the east, trying to get the lost dwarves to help them. The humans said they were a myth, some fiction concocted by old elves that ate too many psychotropic mushrooms. Legends and stories were all that was left of the dwarves, however grand a tale they might still be. Elves claimed they were like steel and rock, hard, unyielding and composed. They were around four and a half to about five feet, although much wider in their shoulders than the average human. Humans loved to depict them as bearded little bears, fat and constantly drunk. The foolish humans had never read the ancient scriptures, nor had they even seen a Dwarven sword, a relic that still had kept its edge after all this time. No, the humans did not think the Dwarves would come, nor did many of the Elves. The alliance of Mankind and Elves would have to survive this on their own.
The hammering of the catapults never ceased, throwing rock after rock at the city, occasionally firing live Goblins and captured humans. The people were soon getting used to the sounds of moaning, screaming and the constant ‘thump’ of flesh and rock slamming against the walls. Another charge would arrive soon, testing the gates and trying to force ladders onto the walls. For the last few days they have been slowly making more and more progress. The elders spoke of mere days now, five at the most, until the walls would crumble and the last bastion of Elven civilization would be extinguished. Yet, in all this despair and sadness, the Elven people would hold fast and show the world and all the ages that would follow; The Elves had held their ground and would fight alongside of men as long as their lungs held air and their veins held blood. The elven youth noticed his people going up the ramparts, holding the walls and protecting their people once more. The Humans were hard at work on their own trebuchets, large hulking behemoths of wood and iron. A well trained elf was worth two human archers, both in accuracy and endurance, yet a trebuchet was worth ten of each. The enemy horde was preparing for the charge, feet stamping on the ground and their throats emanating a low rumble. Their language was alien and vile, although everyone could guess what they were hinting at.
Strangely their feet stamping was louder today than any other, more precise as well. The youth slid past two humans and climbed up the stairs, ignoring glares the older Elves gave him. He peered over the ledge and noticed the enemy horde, their numbers in the thousands. The scouts had said they had over fifty trolls with them, and a combined army of orcs and goblins that would be around a hundred and fifty thousand. In reality it was but a sliver of the numbers they actually had in the world, yet it was enough to overwhelm their own numbers twice over should the walls finally collapse. The enemy did not charge this day, instead looking around, confused. Some stopped moving their feet, yet the sounds of stamping feet were only increasing, reaching thunderous levels. The earth began to shake, quake and tremble, small pebbles rolling around. Every second it increased, defying the imagination of man, elf and monster alike. Finally the sounds came to a halt, a new force showing itself at the tip of a large hill.
Twenty five thousand soldiers suddenly stood at the ridge, holding their ground. They stood in a perfect line, five deep and five thousand wide. Their frames were shorter than most humans, yet everyone looked wider, frames covered from head to toe in steel plating. The armour they wore was twice as thick as any amour a human would and could wear, not to mention of better quality and craftsmanship. They eyed the broken city, its charred walls and corpses that were piling up at the walls. The minute they arrived they had brought something new to this place; silence. For the first time since four months of unending siege there was complete and utter silence, save for the occasional mutter and moan of a dying soul. Twenty five thousand souls were perfectly lined up and acting as one. They raised their large shields, ones that were nearly as tall as they were. Swords, axes, hammers and spears were slammed into the metal border of the shield, each perfectly in sync with the other.
-THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump-
-THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump-
-THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump THUMP thump thump thump-
The air was filled with the sounds of heavy metal objects striking another one, never wavering or changing rhythm. Beat after beat, the new army displayed their discipline, slowly moving forwards as one. At first it was but a slow walk, one foot after the other, yet overtime they began to pick up the pace. Some of the goblins began to mutter, shake shoulders or move a bit closer to the walls, as if to shield them. What happened next in those few minutes was nothing short of a bard’s tale. Twenty five thousand voices suddenly roared out. Their voices were deep and grumbling, like a mountain breaking apart and crashing into the ground. The met the horde head on, their line simply pushing through it, even pushing larger orcs aside as if they were nothing. Trolls were dispatched by throwing large two handed axes at them or simply swarmed and stabbed to death. The skirmish had only lasted twenty minutes, yet a clear and bloody path was cut through the enemy line. A large ring of soldiers was forming around a broken gate that led to the city and planted their shields into the ground. They would hold the line like a wall, perhaps even better.
Ten steel clad soldiers were following two others, breaking off from their main army, one of them even wider and taller than the others. He was still very short in human terms, yet he had a few inches on his brethren. They entered the gates, stepping through a small crack that was being defended by a hundred human soldiers. They were too startled to stop them, minds still wondering if they were friend or foe. These… creatures had just done what one hundred and thirty thousand humans could not, within an hour. Sure, they had suffered casualties, yet it was surprisingly low. Any wounded soldier was being helped out of his armour by others and the wound was being burned closed by a hot iron, never once did their wounded started screaming, some of them even doing the branding themselves and laughing at the ones that needed help.
The twelve warriors made their way up the steps, heading straight for the central command post. They never blinked when a hundred trained elven archers had their bows aimed at them, nor the banner of human heavy cavalry behind them, simply moving on. Upon reaching the large fort, one used for discussion and tactics, these twelve steel creatures stopped, ten of them forming half a circle around the other two. They waited calmly for the people inside to come out, most of them confused and quite startled, no doubt having heard the news already by messenger. One of the two warriors stepped forwards, eying the elven and human commanders, queens and kings, weighing each female and male of both races. Finally he spoke, a voice deep and slow.
“We come in your time of need, at the call for help. The promise we were offered was endless wealth, yet we choose with wisdom. We will help you with his plague in your lands, help you defend it. In return we demand a single life from your own.”
He then rushed backwards and joined the other ten warriors, seemingly absorbed in their ranks. The remaining one simply took a step closer and began to undo the mechanism on his helmet, twisting it left and then right to remove it, apparently it wasn’t held together by leather straps. Emerald eyes were peering out from his skull, a hard and seemingly chiselled face. He had a freshly shaven jawline and his hair had also been shaven recently. He did not show emotion, any, just a blank expression. He raised a gauntleted hand, pointing at one of the elven queens with a single digit, as if that was enough of an explanation that she was to be the ‘single life’. How would this battered and nearly broken alliance react to the sudden reappearance of the Dwarven race, not to mention the arrival of a small, yet effective army. The chosen elven queen would no doubt be the most startled of them all.
Rorak Darald, eyed his young master as he took his place with his brethren. He himself was the shield arm of the young dwarven prince, as well as the whispering truth voice and other things. He had been appointed to the lad when the brat was just three weeks old, tasked to shape him into a man. Rorak grinned widely, smile hidden and protected by the helmet that was fastened on his armour. The lad had grown up fine, if not a bit reckless for his own safety. He preferred to lead every charge himself, yet chose care when he had to position others. The only thing that Rorak felt was wrong with the boy was his preference for a sword. Every dwarf knew a good solid hammer was an extension of your manhood.
He had spoken for the young prince, knowing it would shame him if he as a prince had to speak. They had slaughtered over ten thousand orcs and goblins, not to mention three trolls, mere minutes ago. So why were these people so concerned with protocol, strange as it might be. They even had the gall to point weapons at the young prince, as if a proper dwarf could be threatened by surface dwellers. They had every intention of heading straight back into the fight as soon as this was done, yet now it would seem like they were scared of the bows.
Lancarious Orum Jarkar, second prince and currently commander of the first and second legion. The prince was a giant of a dwarf, nearly five feet and two inches, same as his father. A few younger dwarves had teased him over his height back when he was younger, telling him his mother had been a human. They had stopped doing that when he had shattered three jaws and dislocated a few shoulders. The prince placed the helmet back on his face and began to slide she locking mechanism back in place. He glanced from his helmet to the people standing in front of him. The twin black crystal gems in his helmet would shield out most of the light from the sun. How could these people stand that eye watering light. A torch was one thing, yet a flaming ball in the sky was another. When he spun around to join his brethren, his sword arm instantly began to grab the hilt of his sword, caressing it like a lover. No words were spoken by the prince, simply a finger pointing at the life that was required. Let them ponder and plot like rodents while dwarves did what they were good at, showing mountains what strength and endurance was.
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