Exodus

Courtesy of the Dalazidrungak Drekaz- first part by Grumbaki, second part by Gankom, third and fourth by Inlaa

Mingol Varr. As far as settlements went, it was not a large one. Saved from the deprivation of urks by its’ remote location, it was more of a waypoint for ships from Barak Varr than anything else. And it was also the only civilian population center for the dawi within leagues. The burden of rulership hung heavy on Durak’s shoulders as the true duty of kingship fell upon him.

The people of Mingol Varr were in danger because of the Dalazidrungak Drekaz. For generations it had remained safe, but because of him and the expedition he led soldiers and supplies had flooded through the small port. And those soldiers had all gone to Ekrund, where even now they battled against urk, grobi, spider and troll. He had hoped that the port would remain safe, for he thought that his foes would battle in the south, and that Myrmidens would act as a buffer between them and the perfidious Marienburgers. He was wrong, in this, for he had not accounted for the audacity of Kaptain Blacksquig.

No port on any coast in the old world was a stranger to the tales of the legendary urk pirate. He had thought that tales of him joining the WAAAGH were just that, tales. He had thought that by fortifying Ankor Drakk, his people would have a bulwark against enemy attacks. He was wrong. The urk and his crew had rushed through Barak Ongazi and the goblins which cowered within, and even now fought his warriors at Bar Drakk. After fierce fighting, the urk and his krew had been furked out of Ekrund proper, but his warriors had also been furked in. A hasty council of war had been called, and they had narrowed down the urk’s possible targets. He could continue besieging Bar Drakk, and if he proved victorious, the hold proper would be open to him. He could also attack Myrmidens, the fortified human town. He could raid Monte Castello, and deal a crippling blow to the Marienburgers. Or…the urk could hit Mingol Varr. The small outpost was full of beardlings and artisans. Fisherman, farmers, merchants. Their families. And it was all but undefended.

He only had so many soldiers to go around. He wanted the north secure within the next few days. He wanted all of the grobi scum hunted to exctinction. He wanted every gate to fly the colors of Barak Varr, of Karak Hirn, of Karak Izor…of Ekrund. He wanted his Northern Empire created. To pull soldiers away to defend Mingol Varr would mean leaving grobi free to attack his people, to build their defenses. It would mean that the sacrifices of his warriors would be for naught. It would mean taking his iron shod boot off of their necks. It would mean leaving ramparts undefended and choke points empty. It was not something that he could do.

At the same time, he could not abandon his kinsmen to the whims of a mad urk pirate. As such, he made the fateful order. Mingol Varr would be evacuated. Its people and its wealth would be moved into Khaz Vithang, the great underground hall where the populace of Ekrund had lived in ages past. It was an area that was carefully chosen. Ankor Drakk was their seat of power, and it was their most fortified location. But it was also the bulwark that enemies would need to break through to reach Khaz Vithang. Furthermore, he planned to have all of the gates secured, meaning that any attack from those angles would need to overcome the garrisons there first, which would give advance warning. Warning that could be used to safeguard the populace.
He knew that the order would not be popular among some of his subjects. The idea of giving up ground was foreign to many dwarves. But to Durak Ironhelm, he knew in his heart that the true strength of his kingdom lay in his subjects. Gold could be mined. Ports could be built. Statues to the ancestors could be sculpted aknew. But a life, once lost, was gone forever. And it was that which he held in the highest regard.

As he put forth his orders, he thought then of the foes that they faced. There was of course, Kaptain Blacksquig. He had no illusions about what the urk would do to the women, children, and the elderly who could not defend themselves. The very thought made his blood run cold with dread. Not even anger. But fear. It was a change in him that had come about ever since he was named King. It was the feeling of responsibility, and it made him feel old beyond his years. He also thought of Oberst Todt, the Nordlander. The human held a grudge against his people, which in an ironic way, he respected. The man felt that the dawi had wronged him and his kin, and the man sought vengeance. Such a feeling was honorable. Sadly, though, the man himself was anything but. He did not ask for recompense. He did not attack those whom wronged him. Instead, he defiled dwarven shrines, destroyed records of history, and murdered slayers in their sleep. This made his blood boil with anger, but more than that, it filled him with disappointment. It was so like the umgi, to take be so close to following the right path, only to fall off of it. If there were times of peace, he would have liked to have parlayed with the man. To have understood him, and to have seen if it was possible to make an exchange of recompense. To exchange a personal token to the man in exchange for recompense of action in driving out the darkness which threatened all. For Durak was an optimist by heart. It was his strength and weakness, to see light where there was only darkness. To look beyond the grudges of the past and into the possibilities of the future. Because the man was known to be in the company of an elf, Durak blamed the elgi as a corrupting influence. But at the moment, he worried what the man might do if he got hold of the innocents under his charge. He was also very aware of what his subjects expected of him. Blood had been shed, and without the proper opportunity, he was more than willing to slaughter not only Oberst for his crimes, but every one of his men. Even the man’s entire family if need be, though he truly hoped that it would not come to that.

With a great sigh he rose from the throne, which at the moment felt like a prison than a seat of power. Worry was a luxury that he could not afford. Not while the shields of his dawi were being split asunder, and while those who believed in him and his vision died in the darkness beneath the mountains. He had subjects to protect, and a war to win.

==========

The mountain halls of Ankor Drakk echoed with the sounds of boots on hard stone as the messenger pushed his way through the guards. Exhausted, he almost collapsed to the ground, but just barely held himself together. The Thane must be told…

He found the Thane in the makeshift war room, by himself. Once this was the quarters of a watch captain, or perhaps some military officer. The grobi had not treated it well, and it was little more then a ruin. Now it served a purpose again, although only somewhat cleaned up. A single candle burned on a ledge, providing little illumination. Lord Freyr, known as the Fairhair, sat hunched over a broken and battered table. This glorious dwarf thane, with vaults once full of gold back in Karak-Hirn, had been reduced to propping up a table on a rock. With a grim look, he poured over maps of Ekrund. Occasionally tapping certain points and muttering to himself. The messenger paused in the doorway, trying to get his breath back.

“Our enemies think us weak.” The Fairhair said, loudly but almost without emotion. “They think us cowards. Cowards who will not advance to meet them. Cowards who hide behind our walls, and mountain homes.”

He paused, and with exaggerated care made a notation on his map with a battered quill pen. Then he smacked the table with his massive hand, making a sound like a cannon going off.

“Fools! Though we spend our lives in the dark beneath the world, we do not fear the light.” He snarled. “Let them come and break themselves on our shields. Let this Kaptain play his tricks. Our reclamation is at hand, and we will not be stopped. Once the north is secure our armies will roll south and drive them back to the wastes…”

He glanced at the messenger and waves him forward. “Come in now. Pull up a barrel.” He laughs darkly. “What news is so important you’ve been sent right here then eh?”

The messenger took one last breath then gave the news. “The evacuation has begun my lord. Mingol Varr is to be emptied, and its people settled in Khaz Vithang. Lord Snorrison and his honor guard will be the rearguard, staying until black sails are sighted.”

Freyr remains quiet for several long moments, before breathing a long, tired sigh. “So our reclamation must begin be fleeing the safehold that has sheltered us for centuries. Those dwarves where shamed once by living when their kin fell, now they will be shamed a second time for fleeing without even trying to defend.”

“So be it!” He adds fiercely, slamming his palm upon the table for a second time. “If that is the price of reclaiming Ekrund, then so be it! Let the halls of Khaz Vithang sing with craftsmen and workers once again. Let Khaz Vithang LIVE again! We are Dawi! We have lived under siege since the earth itself rent asunder to shatter our empire. If we must die fighting for a place, let it be our ancestral home!”

Freyr stops and casts an embarrassed eye at the messenger. “Excuse me my friend, I’m preaching to the choir as the humans say, aren’t I? All those who march with us came knowing such sacrifices have to be made.”

The Thane stands, stretching to try and relieve any stiffness. “The King has made the right choice I believe. Our people have been dwindling for too long. We can afford to lose an outpost, but we cannot afford to lose the people that live there. We need their skills, theirs crafts and goods. We need their blood and spirit. Once we’ve got Ekrund it will be a simple matter to go back. No pirate, not even an orc pirate, will stay to hold it.”

Rolling the map up, he stows it under his cloak. Then he reaches behind him to take up the axe resting against the wall. Newly forged, this axe hadn’t yet even earned a name. Many nobles of Karak-Hirn had been aghast at the thought of going to war with an untested weapon. Let alone leading such an effort without an ancestral weapon. Some had almost torn their beards out in frustration trying to convince the Fairhair to abandon such a stupid idea. Yet he had been resolute. This was a new age, and a new beginning. It would be won through new tactics, new weapons and new hope. Hefting it easily, Lord Freyr turns to the messenger once again.

“Get some rest youngling, then you can take another message. Inform Brokkr I want the lads ready to march at a moments notice. I’ll meet with the new king and the generals. We’ll figure out where we go from here. We don’t have the troops to escort all the civilians but perhaps we can spare some of our logistics to help them out. Once the gates are secured it’ll take the gods themselves to push us from here.”

Together the messenger and the thane left the empty room. Behind them the candle flickered. Surrounded by stone walls, it flickered but did not go out. To the hopes of the Dawi, the evacuation of Mingol Varr caused a flicker. Those hopes would flicker, but would not go out...

==========

Lorenzo had made his bid to distract the Kaptain. He'd sent the squad, and they hadn't returned, but he knew he had to act before they came back... if they came back. That train of thought made him scowl. He was unlikely to see Alfonso return. Alfonso was one of his best diplomats, too.

But there was no fixing that problem. Lorenzo turned his attention to the matter at hand: if the Kaptain chose to rush into dwarven territory in Mingol Varr, there would be disaster indeed. But it was also an opportunity - for Lorenzo, at least.

Looking up from the maps and books littering his table, Lorenzo saw the shape of a man waiting outside his tent. He knew who it was already. "Captain Qortes, report."

The big man stepped in, taking off his morion and bowing his shaven head. "Captains Gammel and Woods report that the peasants best suited to labor have already been rounded up for a quick march from here to Khaz Vithang. We've got the wagons laden with food supplies, timber, stone, and plenty of gold - more than enough to get your plans for the market underway and start construction on the embassy."

"Good," Lorenzo said with a nod. "And the dwarven architects?"

"We found a couple willing to oversee our efforts, at least after we gave them a fistful of coins each."

"That will do," Lorenzo mused with a contented grin. "Really, one has to wonder why gold isn't prescribed for all worldly problems and illnesses." Lorenzo beckoned his Captain closer - the man obeyed - and gestured down at the map nearest to him: that of Bar Drakk's defenses.

"You will hold them here," he began, "near our defenses, and will have your men fire their crossbows down at the Kaptain's boys if he chooses to assail the walls or attempts to slip past you. But if he is as fierce as our friends say he is, then you are not to give chase unless our dwarven allies do the same. Let him slip past if you must, so long as you bloody his nose a little. You can remind him that we're the ones in control of Bar Drakk, no?"

"Of course," rumbled the Captain. "But... doesn't that expose Mingol Varr?"

"He's a pirate, my friend," retorted the Border Prince. "He's a raider. He'll either strike out at Mingol Varr or he'll go for the booty he may find in the Myrmidens or behind the Marienburgers' lines." Lorenzo paused there, almost ready to admit his little secret to his companion of twelve years, but caught himself before he could. "But we will not risk the lives of our men - especially not the experienced men, yours, that will be remaining here - when we can harry them from afar.

"So, strike at them from the walls, employing all your bolts and arrows judiciously. Myrmidia willing, the greenskins will either be forced to retreat or will launch themselves at our enemies. I'd rather not imagine what they'll do to our allies should they choose to plunge northward..."

Lorenzo stared at the map for a moment longer, then glanced back up at Qortes. "You are dismissed, Captain," he said, before reaching out and giving his friend's shoulder a squeeze. "Good luck."

Qortes returned the motion in kind, then stepped back and saluted. He made his way out of the command tent, and Lorenzo sighed, reaching for the amulet that dangled from his neck. On one face, it showed the symbol of Myrmidia. On the other...

"Protector, don't let the dice roll against me," he muttered as he fingered the hidden symbol of Ranald. "We could all use a little luck right now, so kindly don't be an ass."

The God of tricksters and gamblers never was much into formalities.

==========

The trek was not an easy one, not simply because the hills and mountains presented conditions the peasants weren't used to, but because Lorenzo needed them to move quickly. He rode at the front with a small force of cavalry to protect them, but the horses did not seem so maneuverable in the rugged terrain. The Prince wondered if perhaps this was why the dawi had never taken to riding...

Huh, he thought. I'm starting to think of them as 'dawi.' I hope I don't start calling greenskins 'grobi.'

Nevertheless, the march went as planned. The forced march wore out the peasantry, but within two days they'd arrived before the gates of Khaz Vithang.

It was... awe-inspiring, Lorenzo had to admit. The dawi's architecture was unlike anything he had ever seen: the statues of once mighty lords rose high above him in those underground halls, and even though they had been ruined for so many years, the defenses were imposing. Indeed, the mark of age seemed only to add to their aesthetic. And if he was not wrong, the great hall was once the meeting place of merchants from far beyond Ekrund. Even elves had once walked in these halls, the Prince had been told...

Well, it seemed as good a place as any to do a little business.

Before the first refugees flooded in, Lorenzo had his men setting up supply stations and refurbishing the trade quarter under direction of the dwarven architects he hired. A fair number of the peasants would stay after he left, maintaining proper trade and helping with the distribution of supplies.

Lorenzo ordered two large tents to be set up to serve as shrines to Shallya, the goddess of healing, and Myrmidia, the goddess of war, art, and science. As they were tents, his dawi allies could always have them taken down if they so chose, but Lorenzo inwardly hoped they would allow them to take up a more permanent residence. Shallya's worshipers were skilled in the healing arts, so they would certainly be beneficial to the refugees and the soldiers stationed in the ancient hall, and Lorenzo personally always felt safer knowing he was in good favor with Myrmidia. At least, it was better than not having her favor.

Of course, there were a couple more secretive things he needed done. Lorenzo had one of the few priests of Ranald in his employ - a secretive lot, that bunch, that disguised their profession as best they could - stay behind with instructions to force the shopkeeps he was leaving behind to keep their prices fair for the refugees that would soon arrive. It wouldn't do anyone any favors if some greedy human started some strife by extorting the dawi from Mingol Varr...

And finally, Lorenzo made certain that the Captain he was leaving in charge of the peasants, Captain Woods, was instructed to follow the orders of any dwarf-lord that chose to command him. And Lorenzo reminded him to make sure that he made the peasants useful. They had backs, and they could do hard labor if nothing else, so it was best to put them to work in service to their allies until they were ordered away.

With those arrangements made and the necessary supplies left in Khaz Vithang, Lorenzo began the journey back to Bar Drakk. He would need to make haste again, and hope the Kaptain hadn't chosen to attack in his absence...