Turn 9- part 1

Battle of Mingol Varr
Rakam Ironhammer watched the desperate fighting from his position on Mingol Varr's battlement, and realized that it was hopeless. His Dawi fought proudly and viciously, but they were only one throng, and the hated kaptain Blacksquig had finally learned how to best employ his undead allies. The battle had been going back and forth for days now- the kaptain would send in his orcs, the dwarves would countercharge and send the greenskins back behind the ruined wall of Mingol Varr. Then the orcs sent in their reinforcements, forcing the dwarves back to the inner keep again.

The battle had hung in the balance, but now da kaptain was fighting smart, sending in the undead to take the brunt of the throng's counter-attack, then sending his pirates out after them while the Nehekharans raised their fallen, adding to the assault. And every time the dwarves sallied forth, they found a wall of bone warriors waiting for them, ready to be reknit as soon as battle was done. The dwarven wounded, sadly, did not recuperate so quickly, if at all. What had begun as a defending action against a foe of equal power had turned into a battle of attrition, and the dead did not grow weary.

'Sails!'

The call came entirely unexpectedly, and when he heard it, Rakam froze. What manner of enemy was joining the fray now? Quickly, he sprinted up the stairs to a higher section of battlements, from where the spotter had made his announcement. The red-haired dwarf was pointing out to sea excitedly, holding a contraption of lenses and steel to his eyes.

'Who comes,' Rakam asked, dreading the answer. Perhaps the orcs had found more ships, or maybe Zandri had lent even more ships to the captain- as if two had not been enough.

The younger dwarf looked away from the sea, took a few moments to realize his thane stood before him, then quickly stood to attention. 'Human ships, thane,' he announced. 'They fly white and gold colours.'

Dumbfounded, Rakam stood in silence for a moment. That was one answer he hadn't expected. Then he began to smile.

'Myrmidens,' he finally said. 'Looks like da Gama is none too pleased with the kaptain stealing his people! Rejoice!' His voice was louder now, calling to his dwarves. 'Rejoice, for the umgi have come!'

The response to the thane's heartfelt words was rather lackluster, consisting of sighs, shrugging and the rolling of eyes. Clearly the dwarves of the Drekaz thought little of the humans, for what hope of success did they have where the Dawi had failed?

'Lord,' the red-haired dwarf began, 'the good news is that Myrmidens has sent its entire fleet to aid us. The bad news is... Well, that's only two ships, one of which seems to have no cannons.'

Indeed, as the human vessels neared the warships of Zandri, which were positioned farther from the shore than the Morka Lisa, only one of them bothered to fire its single gun at the hapless Nehekharan ships. It was a small caliber gun, mounted on the ships's bow, hardly even damaging the undead vessel. Still, Rakam smiled when he saw the humans boarding the ragged ships of Zandri.

'I dinnae need them to win,' he said, darkly. 'I just need 'em ta distract those lich priests for a while. Dawi! Attack now! Ekrundak-ha!'

At his command, Rakam's dwarves surged from their defensive positions, hammers at the ready. As before, the undead formed little more than a roadblock to the resolute Dawi, but this time, the bone warriors stayed down. The orcs had lost their undead shield wall.

Caught off guard by this new development, the greenskins could do little but retreat. Around them, skeletal warriors began to crumble as one of the liche priests was felled. They needed to fall back, back to the ship, in order to regroup.

They never made it. Kaptain Blacksquig, directing the battle from behind the Morka Lisa's guns, recognized a rout when he saw one, and he had no intention of risking his neck when there was no chance of victory- after all, he was a pirate. The orcish vessel turned and passed the ships of Zandri, which were still tethered with grappling hooks to the vessels of Myrmidens, and sailed off to the west, escaping the battle.

The orcs on the beach were quickly dispatched by the victorious dwarves. Kaptain Blacksquig's attack had cost the Drekaz dearly, but for now, Mingol Varr was safe.

==========

Battle of Barak Ongazi
Dularg howled as he swung his choppa, disembowling yet another dwarf. The desert sand before the First Gate was stained a dark red with their blood, as was his choppa, his skin and his boyz. This was no longer a matter of two warbosses and their boys attacking a dwarf-held gate- this was a proppa Waaagh! stomping all over that same dwarf-held gate! Hordes upon hordes of the Red Shield orcs, after months of bickering and trudging through the desert, had finally gotten their act together and joined Waaagh! Dularg.

The gates' defenses, held for so long by the stuntie bosses Fairhair and Alpsbane, were finally beginning to show cracks. Madly howling orcs, their faces painted blue with the sludge of the rock-snails, charged the dwarves mounted upon massive boars, shattering the shieldwall of the dwarves and driving them back. Multitudes of gobbo doom divers slammed down in a spray of blood and bits of bone and metal wherever the dwarves fell back to, giving them no opportunity to regroup. Carrion birds in thrall to Zandi's liche priests harrased the enemy's gun crews, preventing them from properly supporting their melee warriors. A trio of massive giants bought from the Giantstompa ogres to the south occupied the enemies' thunderers and quarrelers, further leaving the warriors of the dwarves unsupported.

Finally Dularg and his boys made it to the top of the stairs. The orcs relished in combat, slamming bodily against the shieldwall of the dwarves time and time again, while Skirgit's goblins made use of any momentary lapse in the stuntie's defense. Dozens of boys died, but there were countless hordes to replace them, eagerly scrambling over the bodies of their fallen kin to reach the hated enemy. And meanwhile, the stunties' numbers were dwindling, forcing them further and further back into their hold. This, this was a proppa scrap, one to please Gork and Mork both!

The First Gate stood wide open, the dwarves within slowly retreating before the gleeful aggression of the orcs. Before long, the greenskins could feel the cold shadow of Ekrund, their flesh no longer punished by the burning sun's evil rays.

The First Gate was theirs. The road to Ekrund was open. Dularg Spinesnappa Ironnose stood at the head of his hordes, taking a moment to peer into the darkness before announcing his victory with a single word, cried out loud enough for the gods themselves to hear.

'WAAAGH!'

==========

Battle of Mount Bloodhorn
Written by Grumbaki
Can we trust them? It was a question asked of King Ironhelm time and time again. There were few questions of the grudge, for that had been settled. But the question remained for many dawi of whether or not they could be trusted. For the king, this was a test of his commitment towards peace. Of his vision of the future. There were few resources to spare for the umgi mission, given that they were using every tool they had to defend their home, but there were other ways to help. This included how troops were deployed, when to counter attack, and when to make a distraction. He had also ordered a very ornery runesmith to keep his anvil on standby to boost a spell that would be cast by a human wizard. His troops were also prepared to either fall back to avoid any ill effects, or to surge forward to take advantage of the damage it would do to the enemy.

King Ironhelm didn't understand magic. He hoped that the umgi effort would include sending troops to break the urk, as there was nothing that cemented a bond greater than spilling blood together, but even absent that he was putting his dawi in position to be of greatest use and was trying to think of the spell as a powerful cannon.

Most galling of recent events had been the urk attempts at diplomacy. The creatures had realized that they were trapped. As such they had come to him asking to be allowed to take the slayer road. Their knowledge of it was surprising and alarming. It meant that in the future he would have to secure the passage for it was now too well known. The offer was refused out of hand. For while it was true that it would relieve the pressure on his lines, it would mean that the horde would link up with Blacksquig. This would have formed a new waaagh on the other side of the mountains, and would lead to the inevitable sacking of Monte Castillo and Myrmidens. He couldn't abide such a loss of life on his conscience. The urks also asked to be allowed to leave Ekrund via the First Delve. They even offered to leave Barak Ongazi as well, to focus on the umgi. This was refused, as it was a test of his vision of the future. Such a betrayal might have driven the expedition from Ekrund, but what then of his honor? What then of the trade? It would be interesting, to say the least, to have umgi miners working side by side with the dawi in the first delve. But first that meant driving the urk out together.

He had put his dawi on the front for honor. He now placed their lives on the line to support the umgi plan. This was no longer just his test, but it was now theirs as well. A new age was dawning, and it would be a red dawn. As he looked over his lines and hefted his runic axe, he knew that what they did here would decide to whom the day would belong to.

*****

Written by Gankom
“This stinks of magic to me.” Came the grumble. “Not even properly done runic magic. What if...”
“Hush now.” Freyr said firmly. “The humans have a plan they say, and we shall play our part. We will not fail in this task, is that understood?”
“It’s hardly a traditional use for one of our precious anvils.” The grumble replied.
Freyr sighed, loudly and obviously. “War requires sacrifices Throkum.”

The grumbling continued, but gradually found something else to focus on. Throkum was a rune lord, one of the finest Freyr had ever known, but like many of his kind he was somewhat… stuck in the past. Traditions were everything, often rightly so. Still, Freyr couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps a little bit more progress would have saved the dwarven empire from the decay it currently found itself in. A small sliver of his soul raged at thoughts like this. They were undwarvish the little voice in his mind ranted! He quashed that thought and focused on the task at hand.

The rune lord was carefully setting up an anvil of doom. It was a potent artifact, one of the last of it’s kind, but sadly not what it once was. Truth be told it was brought along mostly for morale, what power it still held was weak and hard to manage. For what the humans had in mind however that probably wouldn’t be important. No, instead the humans would be the ones doing all the channeling and mucking about with magic. Throkum and his various assistance would instead try and weave that magic through the anvil as it was cast. If things went well their efforts should amplify the human magic, and hopefully make it somewhat more stable. If things didn’t go well… well then things might get a bit explody, and the anvil would be just another scrap of the dawi glory days reduced to the rubbish pile.

Freyr tried to ignore the grumbling and surveyed the room. Two score of his finest hammerers would be here guarding the anvil. It was all he could spare. In only a few hours he had to march back to Barak Ongazi with his retinue and continue to hold the wall. The orcs outside had surprised him. They had made an attempt at diplomacy, by the gods it was more then he’d ever seen urk make before. Their request would have meant turning on their human allies in return for their retreat from the walls. King Durak had angrily rejected any such talk. He had returned the message to the orcs, but somewhat obviously heard no more from them. Chances are, that meant there would be another blood bath at Ongazi. Greenskins and their undead allies would throw themselves at dwarf held walls, and some one would be growing a future from the ground that blood watered. Freyr sincerely hoped it would be the dwarves, but only time would tell.

“Right we are then lad!” Came a booming shout from the rune lord behind him. Freyr turned to find Throkum bringing a hammer down on top of the anvil. There was a crack like thunder, a sizzle, and a shower of sparks arced away. “We’re forging with fire now we are!” Throkum boomed again. The thought of working with humans and their magic burned up by the success of getting the anvil working properly. Freyr clapped him on the shoulder and the two of them gave the anvil a proud look.

“Hope like buggery it works.” Throkum added, spoiling the mood somewhat.

*****

Written by Wazoo
Dunny rubbed a finger over the stumps of the two missing fingers on his left hand, he had lost them to a dwarf’s axe a few days ago and they still hurt like hell. The dwarf in question was dead now, killed by a squig run amok in the melee. He reached up and touched the space where his right ear had been. He lost it to an unlucky swing of a human’s broadsword. That human was dead too, Dunny had managed to sink a dagger in the human’s side before a goblin arrow had finished him off. The fighting in and around the mountain had been hard and he had paid the price, missing various appendages and having collected his fair assortment of scars.

But he was a survivor, he had been part of the initial capture of First Delve, the sacking of Mingol Dwe, the defence of First Delve and, most recently, the renewed assault on Mount Bloodhorn and he had survived every battle. He may be a little worse for wear but he had survived. That was why he had been picked as a replacement for Borag da Defless’s “’Onour guard!”. Not because he was a great fighter or a brilliant strategist but because he survived, an attribute that was lacking in many of his predecessors. So now he watched the shaman as he and his advisors planned their next assault on the dwarven positions.

Borag, being a shaman, was never the most stable or predictable of goblins but recently he had become increasingly weird and erratic, even by shaman standards, there was something in his eyes… A new kind of intelligence, almost as if something that was more than just goblin looked out from his eyes now, something anathema to life. Maybe he had actually died that day in the caves? After the fight between Borag and that deranged stuntie there were many rumours that the shaman’s head had gone bang, that he had died on the dwarf’s axe or that he had been uplifted by Gork and Mork. Then suddenly Borag had reappeared, stranger, smarter and calling himself “Da Deffless”. He had confessed to his inner circle that he had staged the whole fight in order to better manipulate the remaining goblins in Waagh! Dularg and to put the fear of the gods in the humans. But what if he had actually died a little down there in that cave? Maybe he hadn’t come back in one piece, maybe had brought something back with him from the deep underground, something dark and evil? Dunnny couldn’t really express his unease, nor pinpoint its origin but he kne in his bones that something was wrong.

Now the shaman was busy dictating his new cunning plan to the warbosses: “Roight, Skrigit. Yooz gunna take da snots an’ a few ov da gobbo stickas to da right an’ get da Stunties lookin’ dat way. Den Gumlads will attack from da left wiv da stabbers an’ da squigs. At da same time I’ll send da blue-blot gobbos up da centre soz da stunties can waste der arrers on dem and Nobler, when yooz see da signal yooz gonna charge in wiv da spiders an’ da rest of da boyz, yeah?”

“Umm… Sure Boss, but…” said Nibler, “Wots da signal?”
“You’ll know it when you see it you simpering cretin!” Snapped Borag in a decidedly un-goblin like voice, his eyes glowing an unnatural blue colour. The assorted goblins exchanged startled looks and shifted uneasily. “Iz mean, dun ask stooped questions ya git” the shaman continued after a moment and his eyes had returned to their normal colour. Then for good measure he cuffed the nervous goblin over the head. “Get to it!”

Dunny watched anxiously as the bosses hurried away to their various tasks. Borag, seemingly unaware of Dunny’s scrutiny, was playing with a bracelet around his left hand, spinning it around and around and around. The bracelet was old, very old and definitely not of goblin or dwarven construction. He couldn’t be sure but it seemed like the shaman was whispering to it, almost as if he was arguing with it. Suddenly Borag stopped short, stood up straighter and smiled. He let his left hand fall down by his side.
“Yeah, of corz yer right. Iz sorry. I shudn’t argue wiv ya. I knowz dat yooz ony trying tae ‘elp me an’ Iz know dat yooz need dem bodies, so letz get dem fer ya!”

Dunny swallowed as he watched the shaman stride confidently away, it wasn’t the talking to himself that bothered Dunny, shamen were weird, nothing new there. No, when the shaman let go of the bracelet he had seen something, it may have been only a trick of the light but he could have sworn that there was something wrong with the shaman’s left arm. It seemed to no longer be flesh and blood, it looked like it was just bone, held together by some kind of black magic.

Dunny’s survival instincts were tingling. Telling him it was time to get out of here...

*****

Mount Bloodhorn was besieged. King Durak Ironhelm, lord of Ekrund, had managed to clear out the goblins hidden throughout his city, but in doing so had allowed the Deffless Shaman's minions to secure the first of the hold's three gates, while the second hung in the balance. With the third gate in disrepair, defeat here could spell doom for mount Bloodhorn. The goblins would be able to roam the city freely, their numbers too great for the dwarves to overcome before they brought ruin on the city.

Durak did not intend to let that happen. With thane Luthor Steelhorn at his side, the massed dwarven warriors stood ready to defend the gates from the goblin invaders. Yet despite the resolve, king Durak knew the Deffless Shaman was a crafty one, and that his bag of tricks no doubt still held a few nasty surprises. The hidden goblins had revealed him to be more cunning than most of the grobi, and the ease with which he had gained control of the mindless Blueblot infectees was alarming indeed.

Once more, the dwarves witnessed the arrival of the goblins, starting with a distant flicker of light in the darkness, and slowly growing into a cacophony of high-pitched screams and flailing torches. The defenders of Ekrund raised their shields. This time, Borag would have to do without the hidden goblins- this time, it would be an honourable fight- a quality the goblins lacked and the dwarves had in abundance.

But as the goblins neared, the dwarves could see that Borag had once again played one of his vile tricks. Cries of outrage and anguish erupted from the dwarven line when they saw a number of dwarves marching among the goblins. These dwarves showed grievous wounds- lethal wounds, which would have felled even the stoutest of dwarves. No doubt these dwarves belonged to the throng which had made their final, desperate stand at the first gate, to buy time for the king to clear the city of goblins. Why, then, did they now march alongside the hated grobi? Were they infected with the Blueblot spore? Or had the Deffless shaman taken to employing dark magics?

Luthor Steelhorn spoke up first, his voice ringing throughout the hall. 'Dawi, I do not know by what means the vile greenskins have enslaved our kin. But putting them out of their misery would be a kindness to them, and killing every single grobi in that hall would be a fine start to repaying this affront! Do not falter, for Ekrund depends on you! For Ekrund!'

A thousand voices echoed their thane in perfect unison, momentarily drowning out the screeching goblins. 'For Ekrund!'

King Durak gave the command to charge. There would be no orderly shieldwall, no measured tactics, no defensive actions supported by precise artillery fire. This battle would determine the fate of Ekrund, and either usher in the Age of Reclamation, or spell its doom. Only the righteous, hate-fueled fury of Grimnir himself would do.

One way or another, this day would see the fate of Ekrund sealed.

*****

Written by Wazoo
Daigar swore under his breath as he ducked an axe swung at his head. He took a step forward and smashed his shield into the goblin who seemed so intent on separating him from his head, sending the goblin sprawling onto his back. Daigar didn’t get the chance to finish the job as another goblin took his place, swinging jabbin his spear at Daigar. Daigar welcomed him with a hammer to the face, but before the dying goblin even hit the ground he had been replaced by yet another empty-eyed fungus-infected goblin. The goblins weren’t a threat individually, they were slow and lacked even the barest self-preservation instinct but their sheer numbers made up for their lack of skill and Daigar couldn’t afford to let his concertation slip even the slightest.

Finally, He manged to clear away most of the goblins immediately in front of him and used this brief respite to glance around at the battle raging all along the front. Things were chaotic, he could see those horrible balls of teeth bouncing into the tightly packed formations on his right, but the dwarven heavy armour was keeping them from doing too much damage. On his left, there were swarms of the smaller kind of greenskins, they were more of a problem as they scrabbled all over the dwarves finding the chinks in their armour. However, a few bursts from the Irondrakes took care of them. In the centre the line was holding fast against the blue-blot goblins, but the fight was not without his toll, here and there he could see armoured forms lying motionless on the bloodied ground. As the next wave of goblins rushed at the dwarven positions he swore himself to avenge every slain dwarf tenfold. With a snarl and a warcry he launched himself at the green horde.

Panting he stood over the bodies of the last of this particular batch of goblins, there would be more, there were always more. True to form they had fought to the end, dying silently, uncaringly trampling over the bodies of their fallen comrades. Whatever dark magic had caused these fungus infected goblins to fight like this Daigar cursed it a thousand times. Had they been normal goblins they would have been easily broken by the dwarf’s charge, as it was they had inflicted heavy causalities before being finally dealt with. He rested for a moment as orders were given, the dead and wounded were moved back behind the line as the longbeards walked up and down the line, plugging gaps, adjusting the position of warriors and giving encouragement where necessary. They were ready, the line would hold no matter what the goblins threw at them!

Suddenly there was a commotion behind the lines, Daigar turned, fearing the worst, perhaps more of those hidden goblins. What he saw froze the blood in his veins. Brother fought brother, clansman fought clansman. The orderly rows of the honourably fallen dwarves had been given dark purpose and animation by some foul magic and had risen and were smothering their wounded brethren. Others still shambled forth and hacked at their kin with ancestral weapons. Some of the dwarves were pleading with their undead brethren, begging them to return to their senses and honerable deaths. Others fled the terrifying sight and a few fought back. It was utter chaos. What treachery was this? What black magic could do this? Confused, scared and with his head reeling from the unholy sight Daigar didn’t know what to do. The sight had robbed him of both his confidence and wits. That was when he heard the manic laughter of a goblin shaman, the laughter that signified the rising of the dead, the laughter that signified a fate worse than death for any who fell. Laughter that was joined by the laughter of hordes of greenskins as they descended on the disorganised dwarves.

*****

Written by Spiney
As Van Gelding's army approached Mt Bloodhorn he suppressed a mirthful smile, the last time he had led his troops here had been a smash and grab to deprive the greenskins of the mountain's wealth, now he was returning to make their end. The wizard considered how fortunes had shifted in this brief war, unable to trust the treacherous greenskins with their constant pirating and threats to the Efforts supply lines he had been forced to come to terms with the Dwarfs of the Dalazidrungak Drekaz. Just a few short months ago such an arrangement would have been unthinkable as both forces girded themselves for war, but the greenskins were an enemy of both and had proven themselves as unpredictable and untrustworthy as their race was famed for.

Van Gelding looked across at the Luminark, a ridiculous-looking contraption, but one which his associates from the light college had insisted was vital to their part in the spell they had concocted. As his army neared Bloodhorn's South Gate he could already hear the sound of battle as the mushroom-drugged goblin hordes threw themselves against the Dwarves defences.

The Strompoort Guard, most elite infantry of the West Ind Company's expeditionary forces arrayed themselves near the end of the tunnel within sight of the Dwarven gate, trapping the goblins and preventing any possibility of escape, supported by the handgunners and halberdiers of the expeditionary fleet.

The hierophants became their exhaustive preparations as Kaspar supervised the setting of the artillery. It was unusual practice to bring a mortar company to ground battle, but this was no ordinary battle. The handgunners brought their rapid, disciplined fire to bear on the greenskins, but though many fell their efforts seemed to make no dent in their numbers nor break their spirit.

As the pathetic goblins reformed their ranks to charge the Marienburg forces nearing the gate, Van Gelding made his move. As the first rank of goblins reached the Strompoort Guard lines the mortars fired, not with their usual pay-load of shrapnel-filled shot, but with shells containing a corrosive blue liquid that vaporised on contact with the air. As the shells shattered above the heads of the packed waves of Blueblot goblins, the gass release began to affect the goblin advance.

The magically infused chemical was the strongest hallucinogenic that Kaspar had been able to devise within the time constraint, as the goblin advance stumbled his magical sense picked up the goblin shaman's own spell, strengthening his control over the hordes mind. That was the Light Wizards' cue.

Suddenly the Luminark erupted with a blaze of light, dispersed through its peculiar arrangement of mirrors and lenses, bathing the entire broad tunnel in a shimmering golden haze. The blue hallucinogenic mist acted as a catalyst for the wind of Hysh as it expanded across the chamber. Van Gelding began to intone the words we had most recently committed to memory, shaping the raw power of Hysh and slamming it down like a hammer on the will of the greenskin horde.

As the spell reached its crescendo the runic Anvil at the other end of the tunnel erupted with light, runes all across its surface blazing in hues of orange and red. The Dawi runesmiths had successfully established the magical conduit, now it was time to do what they had come here to do. Van Gelding reached out with his mind and grasped the collective consciousness of the greenskin horde, drawing on the tightly focused magical energies within the conduit he exerted a terrible force of will on the pathetic goblins.

The results were nothing short of spectacular, already stretched to their limit by their own shaman's controlling spell, the Blueblot infectees' goblinoid brains simply could not cope with the forces that Kaspar had unleashed. The goblins front rank stumbled and fell mere feet from engaging the Strompoort Guard, many of them were dead before their bodies hit the ground, heads exploding with a wet-sounding 'pop' as the conflicting mental controls failed to resolve, others lost all sense of sanity and purpose and fled blindly, blood pouring from their eyes and ears.

The wizard sensed that what remained of the Blueblot horde was now operating out of instinct and fear alone. What remained of them was utterly broken, uncontrollable by either himself or their own shaman. Trumpets sounded the advance and the forces of the West Ind Company expeditionary fleet, under the flag of the Dragonback Expansion effort pushed forward, routing the undisciplined rabble towards the gates of Ekrund, where they would find the axes of the Dalazidrungak Drekaz waiting for them.

*****

Caught between the humans and the dwarves, and with control over his Blueblots and undead minions slipping, the Deffless shaman Borag was forced to admit defeat. While the unnatural gem he had found among Gobzag's belongings had warped his mind, even now whispering suggestions of staying to fight, there remained enough of the greenskin's own thoughts to what any goblin would in these circumstances; flee. Gathering a number of his most trusted greenskins around him, including Sneakin' Nabba, the Deffless shaman and his companions stepped into the Green, away from the tunnel between First Delve and Mount Bloodhorn, reappearing several miles to the east at Mingol Grom.

The battle for Mount Bloodhorn was decided then. Leaderless and without the support of the mindless undead and Blueblot infectees, the remaining goblins were crushed between the throngs of king Ironhelm and thane Steelhorn on one side, and Kaspar van Gelding's mercenaries and magic on the other. Unable to defend themselves on two fronts, a surge of panic swept through the goblin horde, and those who could not escape through the narrow cracks in the tunnel's walls were simply crushed underfoot.

When the human and dwarf armies met, both gave the order to halt their advance. For a while members of both races looked at each other, neither side entirely willing to lower their guard. No too long ago the Effort and the Drekaz had been sworn enemies, and with no common enemy between them, both were wary of their erstwhile enemies taking up arms again.

Finally Kaspar van Gelding stepped forward, crossing the gap between men and dwarves, palms held up in placation. Stopping halfway between the two armies, he called out to the dwarves.

'Let this battle cement our accord, king Ironhelm. The goblins have been felled, and your realm is safe. Let us retreat to our respective domains, and work on securing them.'

When the wizard stopped talking, Durak stepped forward from the ranks of the dwarves. 'Wise words, umgi. Great is the damage these grobi have caused over the last four thousand years. There is much left to repair.' Kasper didn't know whether the dwarf's last words spoke of the damages caused by the goblins, or of the relations between dwarf and man, but for now he was content to leave this hall with the dwarf' blessing.


==========

Epilogue: a home remade
For the dwarves, the battle for the Dragonback mountains was nothing short of a victory. To many of them, leading their throngs forth from the old holds seemed just a few days ago- to others, a lifetime. Many friends had fallen in retaking the hold, but in the end, the dwarves could claim the greater part of the ancient hold. Only the south did not not belong to them, but was tended to in their name by the humans of the Dragonback Expansion Effort.

Yet despite their victory, much work remained. The efforts of lord Fairhair had convinced the dwarves of other holds to make a new home in Ekrund, yet the lion's share of Dawi in the reclaimed hold's halls were still warriors, not citizens. Ekrund still lacked craftsmen, guilds, artisans, brewers and farmers. These would come, in time, but for now the reclaimed hold was more of a fortified stronghold than the bustling, vibrant home the dwarves intended it to be.

To achieve this dream, the young hold would be able to count on the aid of many others. The deal struck between king Durak and the king of Zhufbar assured that Ekrund's economy would grow, guaranteeing that a great part of Ekrund's produce would be sold at a good price. The eccentric dwarves of Zhufbar would also provide a great deal of assistance in modernizing Ekrund, repairing what was broken and improving what four thousand years of experience could improve. Nonetheless, Ekrund was the contractor of these craftsmen from Zhufbar, and it was king Ironhelm and his court who shaped the image of their home.

The temple of Valaya, situated in Khaz Vithang, did more than provide succour to those wounded in battle. The court's decision to name Valaya as the hold's patron proved to the dwarves of the old holds that Ekrund provided a home for them now. This included a sizeable number of dwarven women, ensuring that the bloodlines of Ekrund's new families would last.Many dwarves looking for an opportunity to improve their position in life, without the restricting weight of the age-old balance of power between families, were persuaded to move to Ekrund.

This ambition had fueled those who had followed king Ordorin, when he first travelled to the Dragonback mountains to build his hold there. Now, however, the master of Ekrund was no longer ridiculed by the kings and lords of the other holds, even if Karak Eight Peaks attempted to pressure Ekrund into repaying an ancient debt held by its first king, which few paid mind to. No, this time high king Thorgrim Grudgebearer, lord of all dwarves, decreed that king Ironhelm's rule was just and well, and should be respected by the other holds. While not all holds were quick to put the high king's decree in practice, it lended a certain amount of legitimacy to Durak's rule, and secured his claim to Ekrund's throne. This claim was in no small part strengthened by the recovery of Ekrund's crown by lord Fairhair. The steel, jewel-encrusted badge of office first worn by king Grimbalki further cemented king Ironhelm's position in the eyes of the other dwarven kings.

Perhaps the most profitable of alliances, however, were made closer to home. Prince Mario da Gama of Myrmidens, as well as prince Lorenzo Aquila and his princedom, both signed various contracts with the reborn dwarven hold, promising wealth and prosperity for all involved. Even greater a boon was the alliance between Ekrund and the men of the Dragonback Expanion Effort. What had begun as bitter enmity was reformed on the field of battle, into something much more profitable.

With these alliances secured, Ekrund entered a period of regrowth. It was not an easy time, for much needed to be restored, and few resources were available. But the dwarves were convinced that stubborn devotion to their cause would bring about their dream of a reborn Ekrund- and in the end, it did.

The first step on a long road had been taken. The Age of Reclamation had begun.


==========

Epilogue: Changing of ways
The Dragonback Expansion Effort set out to do one thing; to claim Ekrund for Marienburg, with no intention of surrendering any part of its domain to the dwarves. In this they chose not to succeed, and the backlash in Marienburg was to be expected. Backers who had invested large sums of money for the Effort to succeed withdrew their support, unhappy about the Effort not meeting its promised goals.

What the Effort achieved instead was, perhaps, as great an achievement. The agreement they forged with the dwarves allowed them to "rent" Gronti Mingol and the First Delve for the next six hundred years, allowing them access to the greatest deposits of coal and various ores underneath the Dragonback mountains, along with a seaside port from which they could trade their goods.

Their city's dedication to Handrich, god of trade, above all other gods was met with surprise throughout the world. Religious institutions were less than happy with the decision for Gronti Mingol to venerate Handrich over whatever god they worshipped. The rich merchants of the world, however, certainly appreciated a port where the purchase and sale of their goods would not be affected by a powerful clergy, who all too often meddled in more secular affairs whenever there was gold to be earned. Instead, the priests of Handrich ensured that all trade deals were carried out fairly, granting the port a reputation of honest trade.

Not that such a reputation was entirely deserved, however. The merchants of Lashiek and Cophers were always prominently present in the markets of Gronti Mingol, and among them were many slavers and corsairs who had supported the Effort. The slavers of Lashiek demanded that slave trade be made legal, while the Arabyan corsairs brought in many ill-gotten goods on a quickly established black market. These practices did little to disturb the peace, and indeed meant additional income for the city. For some, however, it was a black mark on Gronti Mingol's otherwise spotless reputation.

In all, the Dragonback Expansion Effort's goals may have changed during the course of Ekrund's reclamation, but its leaders are no better off for it. The only difference is that, instead of having backers in Marienburg, the Effort has allies much closer to home. One of these allies, prince Mario da Gama of Myrmidens, had ensured a mutually beneficial contract between his princedom, the dwarves and Gronti Mingol, where he provided the workers to rebuild the city, the dwarves provided the ships to ferry those workers between the cities, and the Effort paid both in gold and coal. It was a fine agreement, readily signed by all three parties, and solidified the alliance between them.

For years to come, Gronti Mingol would remain a profitable enterprise...

==========

Epilogue: Splinters of war
Waaagh! Dularg came to Ekrund in search of battle, and that they got. After a fairly measured start to their offensive, the orcs and goblins of the Waaagh! got stuck in, mounting a two-pronged attack against the dwarves at Mount Bloodhorn and Barak Ongazi, while the notorious kaptain Blacksquig pushed through the mountains early and reached the Black Gulf beyond. For months, they terrorized both humans and dwarves, even after these erstwhile enemies had joined forces, which speaks volumes of the horde's ferociousness.

In the end, however, the Waaagh! was defeated- at least, by civilized standards. For the greenskins, the scrap was a big success. After all, they got to krump a whole lot of stunties and humies, and only began to lose after both their enemies stopped fighting each other- most unsporting, the orcs felt, so they could claim the moral highground there.

The true hammerblow to the Waaagh! came when Dularg led his orcs deeper into the mountains, towards Khaz Vithang. With the greenskins at Mount Bloodhorn dispersed, the dwarves of Ekrund were able to bring their full throng to bear against the orcs. Alongside them stood the human wizard Kaspar van Gelding, directing his mercenaries against the orcish hordes. At first the orcs were giddy with anticipation at the prospect of fighting such a horde, but when a contingent of Arabyan slavers forced their way into the center of the greenskin army, they delivered a deathblow to the hordes. Dularg Spinesnappa Ironnose, warlord of the Waaagh!, was captured by the unscrupulous slavers and carried off to whatever fate awaited him- no doubt the managers of pit fights in Estalia or Tilea would pay a handsome sum for a former warboss.

The remaining orcs and goblins quickly fell to infighting. Skirgit Crowbait, the pale goblin and only warboss to remain in the area, could do little but rally his own boys, and signal a retreat. He led his goblins back to Mingol Grom, where he found Borag and Nabba waiting after their failed assault on mount Bloodhorn.

The three greenskins quickly fell to infighting, however. Without the presence of the savage Dularg or a good figurehead like the late Grimlit, none of the three were willing to submit to another. The fighting did not last long, however- already exhausted, Nabba and Skirgit were no match for the Deffless shaman, who commanded not only his own (admittedly depleted) goblin hordes, but also an array of necromantic spells and minions. The two other greenskins quickly realized that in their current state, they were no match for Borag, and so they left eastward, back into the badlands from which they had come.

Borag himself, however, did not hold on to power for very long. Disgusted with his dark magics, which were deemed wholly ungreen, the orcs and goblins who still remained under his command soon left, following Skirgit or Nabba into the badlands. With no followers left but the unquiet dead, none can say what happened to the Deffless shaman.

And so Waaagh! Dularg ended. All that remains to be told of them is the fate of kaptain Blacksquig, but that is a tale for another time...

==========

Mad one's fate

Written by Wazoo
“Oi, Gorlab, come ‘ere! Iz got a job fer ya. Yooz know dem rat-boyz wotz bin sneakin’ around da mountain, right? Well Iz needz ya ta go ta dem an’ give dem diz message. Wot do ya mean yo dun wanna? I dun care if der scary Iz tellin’ ya dat yooz got ta go! No, yooz can’t bring more boyz, ya dun wanna make dem fink dat yer der ta krump dem do ya? Jus’ go by yerself. Oh allright, bring Gritlum if ya ‘ave ta.

Anyway, da message: tell dem dat Iz got a job fer da sneaky gitz. Iz need dem ta take sumfing to da stuntie wot killed Gobzag. Itz a get well present! Now get on wiv it!”

*****

Written by Gankom

The dwarf lord stormed into Khaz Vithang, scattering civilians and ignoring his retinue anxiously trying to keep up. There was a surprising number of civilians around, mostly the relocated population of Mingol Varr with some immigrants from further afield. It wasn’t exactly bustling, but it seems like many were working through the night. (So to speak anyway. In the city under the mountain cycles like day and night didn’t matter the same way.)

“Where is he?!” The Dawi lord roared. He carried no weapon, but the look on his face made no one doubt they’d regret getting in his way. Ahead of him was the young and freshly crafted temple of Valaya. A handful of soldiers were clustered around the doorway. Survivors from the latest assault on Mount Bloodhorn. The lord grabbed one by the front of his chain mail and pulled him forward. “Where is he?” he growled.

The soldier gulped nervously. He had fought off orcs and trolls in close combat, but nothing matched the fury of Freyr Fairhair. “Wh..who my lord?” he stuttered. This caused Freyr to pause. He released the soldier and stepped back.

“My apologies lad. I should have made myself clear. I received word that the dwarf known as Magnir was discovered at Mount Bloodhorn. The message said he was in bad shape, and moved here.” Freyr said calmly and respectively. He was suppose to be a lord, by Grungni’s beard, not some raw beardling. Soldiers should see their lord in control, not ranting and raving like a drunken daneling.

“The lunatic sir? The priestesses took him m’lord.” The solder replied, relieved to no longer be facing the fury of Freyr.

“Indeed?” Fairhair’s face hardened at the mention of lunatic. “Well at least he’s in good hands now. Although let me make one thing clear lad. Magnir, that ‘lunatic’ as you so casually called him, is one of the finest dwarves I’ve yet meet. Not even he’d know it of course. Without him we’d still be outside the north gate’s sucking our thumbs like infants. He helped us take this kingdom when he had no reason to trust us. This place wrecked his mind like a goblin wrecks a workshop. He is Magnir Grobidum, and he is a bloody hero.”

Without a backward glance Freyr left the soldiers standing there and swept into the temple. He wanted to make sure this hero would live to see Ekrund reborn.

**

This room was small, spartan and mostly bare stone. Freyr sat down on an empty barrel and tried to keep his mind off the many, many problems happening right now. The orcs were trying to take Mount Bloodhorn, and pushing up towards Ongazi. That bastard pirate had turned towards Mingol Varr and was terrorizing the coast. Brask Alspbane had fallen, a glorious death but a death non the less, and now his daughter was leading her army on a rampage through orc controlled territory. There were plenty more mundane problems as well. Getting the settlers enough food and making sure they had enough security was a high priority. Setting up the living space and rebuilding fortifications a second one. There were even a few old grudges starting to resurface here and there. Many of the dwarves in these halls originally hailed from elsewhere, and they’d brought ancient grudges with them when they came. On the way here he’d had to judge two craftsdwarves fighting over the same spot. It was little more then a ruin! Yet the two of them swore up and down that it had once been owned by a great great ancestor. Pride and family honor was at stake, two things that mattered more then gold or life to a dwarf.

So in order to maintain his sanity Freyr obsessively studied this little, empty room. There was a little wooden cot that looked like it had never been slept in. A small writing desk that was battered and scarred from the battles of writing, and two empty ale barrels. Upon one sat Freyr, while the other was currently empty. The walls were mostly flat unfinished stone, but one wall was freshly carved. Small intricacies really. A few runes of luck or health, some stylized sigils, all bordered by a prayer. Well, not really a prayer. That made it sound like it was asking something of the ancestors. This was more like a promise. A promise to look after those around and invest in their spirit, just as they invested in their kingdom. It was such a simple thing, but it raised Freyrs spirits.

“Greetings my lord. It is an honor to have you visit us.” Said a small voice from the doorway. “I understand how busy you must be.”

Freyr turned to regard the newcomer. She was obviously a priestess of Valaya, although he doubted a human would know the signs. She wore no particular vestment, nor carried any symbols of her order, but she gave off a kind of calming energy. He was surprised by how young she looked. Still, there was a kind of calm confidence radiating off her that he recognized. He saw it all the time in his fellow generals. This was someone who truly knew what they were doing.
“My apologies for disturbing you priestess.” He said, rising and offering a polite nod of his head. He stayed standing until the priestess sat herself on the other barrel. “Your work here is just as important. I had to see… what I mean to say is, I received word that the dwarf known as Magnir was brought here.” He paused and looked embarrassed for a minute before continuing. “Magnir is known to me. Despite his… problems, he was a great aid to our efforts here. I feel we owe him a great deal. I had to come see if he would survive.”
The priestess could only offer a sad smile. “There are some things not even a thane can order.” Was the soft reply. “We have done what we can for him, but his mind is so… fractured. He’s lost in his own skull. Perhaps with time he’ll find his own way out, but we worry that he may not want to. Sometimes it is just so simple to let go, and not come back.”

Freyr considered that for a moment, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the barrel. “No” he muttered finally. “His story doesn’t end like that. Can I see him?”
“Of course. Perhaps he could use a friend in a time like this. Perhaps it would even help.”

And so it was that Freyr found himself standing beside Magnir’s bed. It was a strange joke in it’s own way. Freyr had shared many messages with Magnir, and the strange dwarf had fought beside the dwarf armies many times, but this was the first that Freyr had actually seen him in person. It was a sobering sight. Every now and then the poor dwarf would twitch, although whether he was running from something or chasing after it the Thane couldn’t tell. He wanted to stay longer. To have a few moments sitting beside his friend. Yet he couldn’t. The war was still raging and there was so much to do. He only had a few moments of peace before it was back into the maelstrom.

So they were moments to be treasured, and that’s exactly what Freyr did. For awhile he filled the silence with stories. Talking to himself just as much as he did to the unheeding Magnir. Tales of the brave warriors fighting to reclaim Ekrund. Tales of glory atop crumbling walls against oricsh hordes. In time stories of fighting only made Freyr sad, so he turned to stories of building. He described the temple they sat in, as well as the human temple springing up nearby. Founded by the piety of Lorenzo, and blessed by King Durak. Then he spoke of the quiet power that radiated from the throne room in Mount Bloodhorn. Even under the dust and debris of centuries it could be felt. Yet even those stories in time waned, until Freyr found himself talking of his home in Karak-Hirn. Of his twin sons that he occasionally feared he would never see again. Of a wife and daughter who had toiled for nights in secrecy, weaving his banner as a surprise for him. Of the simple joys of hearth and home, and his sincere hope that one day Magnir would know them to.

Eventually it was time to leave. Time to say one last thing.

“I know your in there Magnir.” Freyr said quietly to the slumbering form. “Or Grobidum, or Mag-rat, or who ever else is in there. You need to find your way out. I don’t know which one of your aspects will do it, but it all comes down to you my friend. It’s your choice. Only you can choose your fate. Not me, not any king, and certainly not any bloody goblins. They told you that your nothing, that all your good for is killing. I think their wrong, but in the end it’s up to you. It’s always your choice that counts for everything. So choose to come back. Choose to come back and make a life, a new life. Free from whatever horror you left behind. Then we can have ourselves a nice quiet drink when all this is done. Regardless of what choice you make, first rounds on me.”

Then with one last look it was time for Freyr to leave.

**

When he stepped back out into the street he found a group of very worried looking soldiers.

“What’s happening now?” he sighed.

“My lord, we’ve received word from the sentries. The urk know about Grobidum. They know he’s here.” One of them, a warden from his uniform, replied. “The King thinks they may make some attempt to retrieve him.”

“Like hell.” Was the Fairhaired reply. “We’ll kill any of the scunners before they pull that off.”

He turned and considered the building. “Have the Black-hafts redeployed here. They’re at three quarter strength, probably sick of sentry duty. Guard the temple at all costs. We don’t have to protect him forever. We only have to buy him some time.”

Several of the soldiers glanced at each other. There had been a few rumours going around already. Both about this Grobidum, madder then a slayer with even worse hygiene, as well as about Lord Freyr. None would ever say it to his face, but some believed this whole reclamation was pushing him a bit far. His men respected him, and would follow him into the chaos wastes if he asked, but he had always been a bit eccentric. “Uh, buy him some time to do what sir?”
Freyr Fairhair could only offer a shrug. “Time enough to make his choice, one way or the other.”

*****

Written by awarnock
Khaz Vithang was quiet as Methi woke. She and the other young ranger that Ukalgrar had carried to Ankor Drakk as Brask Alpsbane, the Red Thane of Kharak Drakk, had held off the horde hunting them shared the same cell in the temple where they recovered. Their physical wounds and injuries had healed some weeks ago, but the wounds left by Brask’s death were taking longer. She and most of the other survivors of the group that had baited the urk and grobi out of Mount Bloodhorn had been left with the priestesses of Valaya of the clan in the temple to heal while the rest of the clan marched to exact bloody vengeance on Waagh Dularg.

Khaz Vithang was quiet, and Methi had more than her fill of quiet and peace. She wanted to go fight and burn off some of her frustrations by slaughtering a few dozen grobi or urks. If she couldn’t have that, then perhaps some time in a rowdy tavern where she could get into a friendly brawl. She’d even settle for a boring patrol along the walls at this point!

She sighed as she wished she could go, but knew that Sister Guthrun, high priestess of Valaya of Clan Alpsbane, would never allow it. Sister Guthrun was, after all, an oddity in the boisterous clan, a staid, stiff disciplinarian that would have been less out of place among the most dour of the dawi clans. She did have a certain creativity when it came to punishments, though, and Methi had no desire to be on the receiving end of one.

Her cellmate woke and stretched as she yawned. The young dwarven lass, a mischievous archer named Caffe, seemed to have two moods, asleep and happy-go-lucky. The weeks where they’d comforted each other over the loss of their beloved uncle had shown that there was more to the dawi ranger, but like Methi, she was fast going stir-crazy.

“Mornin’,” Caffe chirped cheerfully, “or afternoon, kinda hard to tell with all the mountain in the way.”

Methi snickered at the joke before walking over to the basin to wash up.

“Aye, so whatever time of day it is, I think it’s time we get ourselves ready for what’s coming,” Methi replied, trying not to snicker again at Caffe’s look of disgust.

“Blegh! You know well what’s coming. I think Sister Guthrun’s gone power mad since she got here. Wouldn’t surprise me if she tried talking Luca into implementing some sort of prohibition on hard liquor or something crazy like that,” Caffe grumbled as Methi washed her face and hands.

“She’d never go for it,” Methi reasoned, “half the clan would riot and the rest would put the good sister somewhere she wouldn’t do herself a mischief. Besides have you ever seen Luca–”

“That’s Thane Luca to you,” an unamused Sister Guthrun sternly interrupted. Both of the Blackstone rangers immediately clammed up and rushed to present themselves for the morning room inspection. Why it was necessary for there to be morning and evening inspections and why they had to be present for both was something that had stumped the two rangers since they learned of it. As they waited, the hour tolled, the chiming revealing that it was the first bell of the morning.

Methi felt her brow knit in confusion. She’d worried she and Caffe had overslept when Sister Guthrun had come in, but from what the bells told, it was the sister that was early, two bells early. What was going on?

“Is something the matter, Methi,” the sister demanded before Methi could school her face into non-expression. Caffe tensed beside her and the ranger knew she and her cousin were in trouble.

**

Wet, cold, and thoroughly miserable were too apt to describe how Caffe and Methi looked and felt an hour later. The light robes they wore clung to them and revealed entirely too much for either of their tastes as they shuffled back to their cell, hoping that they’d managed to dry off enough to not leave a trail of water behind. Neither of them was very hopeful in that respect, however.

“R-r-rotten old-d-d w-w-w-witch,” Caffe grumbled through her chattering teeth, “T-t-ten c-c-counts of tw-twenty t-t-to g-g-get b-b-b-back and ch-change!”

“L-l-least sh-sh-she d-d-didn’t st-start unt-t-til w-w-we l-left,” Methi countered, “m-m-m-might b-b-be able t-t-t-to g-g-get d-d-decent.” She offered Caffe a weak smile, or tried to. The grimace that showed her teeth didn’t fool either of them as they slipped into the cell and began to change as swiftly as their ice-water numbed limbs could move. About the time they had begun putting on their pants is when Sister Guthrun threw them out and sent them off to their chores.

**

“You’re joking,” Khadek blurted as they ate lunch in the dining hall.

“Wish we were,” Methi replied with a look of exasperation on her face, “she chased us all the way to the armory while we had to carry most of our clothes in our arms.”

“At least we’d gotten dry and put on some small clothes and tunics first,” Caffe growled as she tore into her loaf bread.

“Talking about Sister Guthrun,” asked a young priestess of Grimnir who seemingly came from thin air to appear behind the two rangers. Methi had the misfortune to be drinking at the time and sprayed Khadek with mead while Caffe nearly choked on a mouthful of rye. The newcomer only smiled as Khadek sighed and began to clean himself up while Methi and Caffe coughed and spluttered.

“It’s alright. Most of us don’t like here either, Hekki’s the name, Clan Ironhelm,” the priestess introduced herself while holding out a hand to Khadek.

“Khadek of Clan Alpsbane,” the dawi mage replied as he clasped her forearm in the traditional greeting before adding, “The two currently choking to death are Caffe and Methi of Clan Alpsbane.”

“Well, today’s your lucky day then, you’re with me, and we don’t have a thing to do,” Hekki informed the trio as she took a seat and looked to Methi, whom Caffe was now slapping on the back.

“Sorry,” Methi apologized weakly a moment later after her coughing had finally let up.

“So, if we don’t have anything to do,” Caffe asked, ”what are we going to do?”

“Go explor– Whoa!” Caffe had begun to answer, but the two cousins, it seemed were of a like mind and were already dragging Hekki off to gather some of their gear.

“I think I’m going to like you two,” the priestess stated with a grin.

Khadek meanwhile shook his head and finished the three meals before heading to his cell to gather his things as well.

**

The four dawi sneaked along a long abandoned alleyway in the still ruined section of Khaz Vithang, though they weren’t really expecting to run into anything. It was more about the practice and the fun of it, even breaking down into impromptu games of hide and seek. They were about to discuss their next course of action when they heard voices.

Grobi voices.

“I sayz we rush in there and killz him,” one of them hissed.

“No, no, no! Wez needz to captu–capitu- catch ‘em alive! De Defless Shaman wantz ‘im,” retorted another.

“Wot if we sneaks in dere ‘n’ sneaks out wit ‘im,” asked a third.

Methi signaled to the others to wait while she went closer to see what the area was like. She didn’t have to move far before seeing that the greenskin scum had holed up in a small house where one of the walls had collapsed. They could easily surround them, and Methi had to try had not to let out an evil chuckle at the thought of how easy this could be. There were only four dawi, true, but four dawi against eight grobi wasn’t even a light warmup.

Methi relayed her findings to the others and proposed her plan. A few alterations and the four of them nodded and moved to slip the noose around the unsuspecting goblins, who were beginning to have a very heated discussion about how to proceed.

“If youse wants to get killed gettin’ this Mag-runt git, then youse iz welcome to it! I’s gonna get him and get out wit me skin! Youse see!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Methi saw Hekki hesitate a moment before continuing to move into position. Something about the way she paused seemed to be in surprise, but by what?

That was question for later, now was for killing. Methi waited for Khadek to begin and readied her bow. A bright light flared amongst the grobi, blinding them and providing stark silhouettes to to aim at. Handy thing to have at times, that magic stuff, Methi thought as her bow hummed. She and Caffe had downed six of them before the last two stumbled out and were hacked apart by Hekki.

“Well, that was easy,” Khadek crowed as he walked up and popped his knuckles.

“I’d hope so, there’s only eight of ‘em,” Caffe teased.

“Eight and busy arguing in dawi-held land,” Methi added before turning to Hekki, who looked worried. “Is something wrong, Hekki,” the ranger asked.

“Aye, they were looking for someone they called Mag-runt,” she informed the others, “that’s the name they gave to a dawi they kept and tortured from all I’ve heard. His name is Magnir Grobidum, from me guess, and he’s been lying in temple almost as long as you three have been there.” She looked up at the other three, now staring at her in shock at that news.

“I think the grobi mean to take him back.”

*****

Written by Wazoo
Qrikich Tuskstriker flicked his tail nervously back and forth as he sat up in the rafters above the dwarven infirmary until he caught himself. It wouldn’t do to get himself caught due to something as stupid as a nervous tick. Dressed all in black and with an impressive amount of concealed weaponry he was a typical Eshin gutter runner, and as such knew the value of stealth. He had snuck over the dwarven walls, which was not easy but not too hard either, the dwarves were on the lookout for greenskins who wouldn’t recognise stealth if it jumped up and bit them on the snout. He had traversed the city looking for the temple, which was easy, dwarves rarely remember to look up, and scampered up the temples walls until he found an open window through which to enter.

Getting through the temple unseen to the room where the wounded dwarf was recovering had proven more difficult but with ingenuity, a bit of luck and a bunch of green-things to serve as distraction, the skaven was now situated above the resting dwarf. Now, as with much stealthwork, patience was required. Below him were a pair of dwarven medics discussing what to do with the scarred dwarf and Qrikich couldn’t risk moving until they left, something they didn’t seem inclined to do anytime soon. His tail started flicking back and forth as he impatiently barred his teeth. Finally! They were leaving. As soon as the door had shut behind them the skaven lowered himself to the floor, silently sneaking closer to the unconscious dwarf. He reached inside his cloak and withdrew, not a weapon, but a small vial containing a dark rancid-looking liquid. He carefully uncorked it and remembering the Shaman’s admonition not to get any on himself, he poured it slowly and carefully between the sleeping dwarf’s lips.

Content in his work he stole back up into the rafters. He had no idea what the potion would do and didn’t care, he had been paid to deliver it, nothing else. Now all he had to do was to get out unseen.

**

Magnir the Mad coughed weakly. His wound was healing as it should but there was something keeping him from regaining consciousness, the healers had said this was probably due to injuries his mind had sustained but no one really knew. While he appeared outwardly unconscious his mind was racing inside, images of blood, death and pain ran through his head in quick succession.

“Who am I? Magnir Grobidum of clan Bitterbrew? Yes! No! Maybe? I don’t… I don’t know, remember? I think… I think maybe I was? Who am I? Mag-Runt da Stuntie? Yes! No! Maybe? Am I dwarf? Maybe? Not any more… Am I orc? No! Well… Maybe? Mag-Runt was a greenskin, wasn’t he? I don’t know… I can’t remember… My head hurts…

Am I Mad Magnir? Yes! Mad Magnir.

I remember now! The knives, oh gods, the knives! So much pain! So much pain! But I killed the knives, didn’t I! Yes, killed them all, even the big knife; Gobzag. The knives are dead, Mad Magnir isn’t.

Who am I?

**

Magnir Grobidum opened his eyes and, focusing on the room around him, slowly sat up. He heard a voice in the back of his head whispering to him, telling him to kill all the dwarves, to join the greenskins in sacking Ekrund. He shook his head as if to clear it and whispered “I am Magnir Grobidum and I am a dwarf of clan Bitterbrew!” As he spoke, it was as if a fog lifted from his mind, he could feel the potion’s hold on him lifting.

He knew that he was under the influence of foul magic, he knew who had tried to curse him. Borag. The goblin shaman was going to pay, he had crossed the wrong dwarf. Magnir reached for his axe and went out in search for the shaman who had wronged him.