“Doran?” Galanör cajoled. “What are you thinking?”
He was thinking war strategies, schemes designed to ensure death on a grand scale. He hated that his mind could so easily fall back on that way of thinking, though he had to wonder if it had served him during his years slaying the realm’s worst beasts.
“I’m tryin’ to do what no other has done before,” he began, sounding somewhat harassed. “We’ve got elves, dwarves, an’ Centaurs at our disposal. How do we best use our different skills to the advantage against an enemy with superior reach?”
Galanör looked to be really considering that question. “We could—”
“I wasn’t really askin’, lad,” the War Mason interjected. “Kelabor. Can yer kin gallop faster than the average horse?”
The Centaur audibly expelled a breath of air from his nostrils, indicating his offence at such a question.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Doran concluded. He turned back to the open fields and the vast enemy that awaited them. A fiendish grin spread across his face. “I ’ave an idea.”
It took some time to organise the three different races, informing them all of what was about to happen next and what their part would be in it. For most of that time, Kelabor and his Centaurs were flooding the front lines, and blocking out the distant Reavers, as they positioned themselves into Doran’s suggested formation.
Since he could no longer see his enemy, the son of Dorain kept a weather eye on the sky. If Alijah and Malliath arrived they would have no choice but to attack immediately. They would end up throwing away many lives, but stalling him from entering that pit and destroying magic was all that mattered. It made Doran shudder to think of Alijah being the only person in the realm with both magic and a dragon.
Astride his Warhog, Doran trotted up and down his line, assessing his warriors. Most looked ready for battle, eager to settle old scores with the enemy that had destroyed their homes and robbed them of loved ones. They would have that opportunity soon enough.
Though he could see that some were not happy with the definition of soon, given their part in the battle, Doran cared little. They were warriors, his warriors. They would follow the orders he had given and stick to the plan that would keep most of them alive.
Eventually, to the sound of more horns, the Centaurs began to advance as one, closing the gap between them and the Reavers. They moved up slowly, taking the time to spread out. When their advance was sufficient, the elves steadily followed behind, their numbers spread out to match the Reavers in front and the dwarves behind.
With the rhythm of so many hooves growing distant, Doran took the moment to address his army. A nod to Thaligg instructed him to blow a particular horn, one which directed every dwarf’s attention to their War Mason.
“For five thousand years the clans have stood apart!” he bellowed in his native tongue. “For five thousand years we have stained Dhenaheim with each other’s blood. Look to the dwarf beside you now! Battleborns, Brightbeards, Heavybellys, Goldhorns, Hammerkegs. Today they are just words! I do not care about words! I do not care about lines on a map! And I do not care about crowns! There is only one thing that means anything today!” Doran shifted his broad shoulders in his saddle and gestured to the dig site. “Dwarves! My blood is just as red as any of yours and I will spill every drop of it for the dwarves in that hole! Today we fight as one people! If there are any of you who can’t stomach that notion, now is the time to walk away.”
The son of Dorain paused, waiting to see if there were, indeed, any among them who couldn’t stand to fight alongside different clan members. Not a single dwarf moved.
Doran nodded approvingly. “Then prepare for battle, brothers, for I expect Grarfath to tremble at your roar!” he shouted, eliciting a thunderous growl from the army. “I expect Death itself to dread your fury!” The dwarves began beating their shields and armour. “I expect Verda to never forget the day the children of the mountain unleashed their wrath!” The cacophonous response was deafening, leaving Doran to simply raise Andaljor into the air.
The War Mason guided Pig around to follow the advancing elves and Centaurs. Russell was there, absent his horse now, with his new battle hammer in his hands.
“I didn’t catch a word of that!” he shouted over the dwarven war cries.
“It was very inspirin’!” Doran informed. “Ye should feel inspired!”
Russell nodded once. “Inspired,” he agreed, turning to the enemy.
Thaligg and Thraal blew their horns and every captain along the line did the same. The fiercest dwarven army in history broke into a charge, led by Doran himself. Russell sprinted alongside him, having no need of a mount over a short distance.
Now, the War Mason just had to hope the timing of his plan was perfect.
Further north, the Centaurs were ensuring just such a thing. Galloping towards the enemy, their numbers scattered across the plains, they were inviting the aim of the merciless catapults. Their projectiles were easily seen as they set sail across the sky like burning comets. Just one had the power to kill scores of Centaurs.
“Now,” Doran muttered under his breath.
Far from the sound of his voice, Kelabor blew into his horn, signalling his people. Now, they were really running. They left the gallop of a horse behind and revealed their true speed. This was the undoing of the catapults, their first salvo destined to overshoot and strike naught but grassland. Indeed, the open plains between the Centaurs and the staggered elves were bombarded by flaming projectiles that exploded on impact. Not a
