This will be the last ride to Oeragor, he sang, remembering how much labour it had been to create and how many plans he had once had for it. It had been years since he had even seen it. Let us try to enjoy it.
The gates buckled, struck from the outside by the first kick of the ram.
Kelemar, waiting with his knights in the inner courtyard, steeled himself.
‘Stand fast!’ he cried, watching the wood tremble and splinter.
Above him on either side the walls rang with the clang and crack of combat. Ladders were already appearing on the ramparts, each one thrown up by iron-clad dawi gauntlets. Rocks sailed high over the parapets, crashing into the towers beyond and sending rubble cascading down to the streets.
The ram thudded into the gates again, bending the bracing-
beams inwards with a dull boom.
Kelemar tensed, ready for movement. His best infantry stood around him, all ready for the charge. They would have to meet the dawi at speed, trusting to the charge to repel them. Once the dwarfs were inside the battle was lost.
On either flank of the courtyard stood two rows of archers, bows already bent. In the centre stood the swordsmen. All held position, hearts beating hard, waiting for the inevitable crack of timber.
The third impact broke the braces, sending tremors running along the stone lintel and shivering the doors. Dust spilled out of the cracks in ghostly spirals. The roar of aggression from the far side grew in volume – a hoarse, guttural chant of detestation.
‘On my command,’ warned Kelemar, seeing the nervous twitches of those around him.
The battering ram crashed into the gates a fourth time, smashing through the centre and slamming the ruined doors back on their tortured hinges. Broken spars tumbled clear, rolling across the stone flags like felled tree trunks.
‘Let fly!’ cried Kelemar.
The archers sent a volley out at waist height. The arrows spun through the debris, finding their marks with wet thunks. Some dwarfs made it through, stumbling into the open over the broken timbers; many more were hurled back, throats and chests impaled.
‘For Ulthuan!’ roared Kelemar, charging at the breach.
His troops echoed the shout, sweeping alongside him in a close wave of steel. Kelemar made the ruined doors and swung his blade into the reeling face of a dwarf warrior, already hampered by an arrow sticking from his ribs. The sword bit deep, angled between helm and gorget, spraying blood out in a thick whip-line of crimson.
More dwarfs clambered through the ruins bearing axes, mauls, hammers. They pushed the yard-long splinters aside, backed up by the brazen blare of war-horns.
Kelemar barrelled into one of them, kicking him backwards before plunging his blade point-forwards into his stomach. The dwarf’s armour deflected the blade, sending it pranging away, and Kelemar nearly stumbled. He caught a cruel-edged maul swinging low at his legs and just managed to twist clear. One of his own knights then cracked a blow across the maul-bearer’s face-plate, throwing him on his back where he was finished off by a third.
The melee sprawled onward across the ruined gates, a desperate pack of grappling, thrusting and stabbing. The elves gained the initiative, and their charge carried them under the shadow of the gatehouse. Helped by the steady torrent of arrows from the walls, they pushed the dwarf vanguard back out into the sunlight.
Kelemar drove onward, nearly decapitating a dwarf with a vicious backhand strike. Swords whirled on either side of him, spun and thrust with disciplined speed. The counter-attack pressed out further. More dwarfs piled into the breach, charging out of the dust like iron ghosts.
They seemed to fear nothing. They didn’t move as fast as his own fighters and their reach was far less, but every blow was struck with a heavy, spiteful intent. Kelemar saw his troops begin to take damage – bones smashed, armour dented, swords shattered.
‘Hold here!’ he bellowed, hoping they could drive the dawi back far enough for the engineers to erect some kind of barricade across the shattered doorway. He pivoted expertly, using his bodyweight to propel his blade across the chest of another dwarf, biting clean through the chainmail and into flesh beneath.
It was only then that his gaze alighted on the dwarf beyond. This one was taller than the others; broader, too. His armour was all-encompassing, lined with gold and covered in blood and dust. He strode into battle with a dour, heavy tread, a huge axe gripped two-handed. He didn’t roar his contempt like the others; he just waded silently through the throng around him, striking out with chill deliberation.
Kelemar rushed to engage him, seeing he was the linchpin and knowing he needed to buy more time. He closed in, throwing a wild swipe across the dwarf’s right pauldron.
The dwarf met the strike with his axe and the two weapons rang together, resounding like bells as the metal bit. Kelemar’s arms recoiled; it was like hitting an anvil.
The dwarf counter-swung, aiming for Kelemar’s midriff. Kelemar got his sword in the way – just. He staggered backwards, aware out of the corner of his eye that his troops were beginning to take a similar beating.
The counter-charge was faltering. Kelemar pressed forward, whirling his blade around to where it could be slid into the dwarf’s gorget. The manoeuvre was done well, as quickly as he had ever done it.
It was too slow, though, and too weak. The dwarf thrust his body into the blow, hurling his axe-head savagely upwards. Kelemar’s blade was ripped from his grasp by the viciousness of the dwarf’s strike.
Bereft of options, Kelemar grabbed a dagger from his belt, aiming for the dwarf helm’s narrow eye-slit.
