Deliverance

Stefan’s vision blurred for a moment as a cocktail of blood and sweat flooded into his eyes. He brushed it from his eyes as easily as he had brushed the traitor from his path. “Press the assault!” he bellowed. Glancing sideways, he could see that the field was strewn with the corpses of men and elves alike. Many still stood and fought, Reiklanders against elf and traitorous kin. At the edge of his vision Stefan caught sight of movement. Throwing himself back desperately, Stefan narrowly avoided a vicious blow. Desperately trying to mount a counter-offensive, Stefan grunted as he heaved his axe up one-handed. The axe found its mark, though the force behind it was insufficient to do more then scrape across the armour. Stefan pivoted to face his foe, bright elven steel lead his eye down the blade to the advancing elf. With a grunt Stefan stepped forward, his axe brought to bear perhaps for the last time. One step lead to another, the weapons swinging as the pair closed, each weapon ready to taste the flesh of the other.

****************

Earlier

Darkness slowly invaded, a gloom settling beneath the forest canopy chasing out the soft dying rays of the sun. A loud yell from within the tent shattered the tranquility, even if for a moment, causing the sentries to flinch at their posts, not daring to look away. Within the tent stood a group of mighty men around a table, resplendent in furs and leathers they looked down upon the crude map grimly.

It had been several generations now since the Elves had arrived, but it was only in recent times that the situation had become as dire as it was currently. At first, there were only stories and rumor, small groups even whole villages disappearing, now. As it was only the tribes of the south were free, if such could really be called freedom
. The tribes of the north were under the sway of the foreigners, traitors to their own kind, united under a puppet king, Artur. In times gone past rebellions had been attempted, but in all cases they were horribly crushed. Even still there were those that continued to resist.

Stefan rubbed his temples, “you waste time squabbling over the most trivial of matters when our very existence and way of life continues to be under threat.”

Otto of Marienburg slammed his fist down on the map “This is madness, we cannot continue like this. We must once more rise up and throw off these shackles!”

“Easy to say for one close to the Bretonni and their 'protection', Otto,” grated Mathi. “We've all lost friends and family. It's up to us; we have to move fast if we're going to even disrupt the bastards.”

With that, the assembled Lords turned their gaze towards the northern most area of their tattered map. Their eyes fell upon the Fauschlag, the seat of power of the corrupt men of the north. “Here, the throne of Artur of the Teutogens, this should be our ultimate objective”

“Not all Teutons side with the puppet king,” growled Hartwig, Teuton-Lord of the south.

Mathi dismissively waved in acknowledgment “the Fauschlag is symbolic for both the elves and the men of the north. Though we are not yet ready to strike so deep into their territory. We must look closer to home first.”

Stefan pointed to a small stone on the map, “perhaps this would be a suitable target. We have recently discovered this camp. It appears to be a staging ground for their raids in the area; we believe we could liberate many of our brothers.”

The assembled looked at each other nodding in agreement.

“It is decided then,” announced Mathi.


****************

Stefan caught the elf's blade on the top of his axe and used his superior bulk to follow through, knocking the elf flat to the ground. Roaring, Stefan seized the axe-shaft in both hands and buried the head in the elf's ribcage.

Stefan surveyed the battle; it was not faring well. Many men, both traitor and Reiklander lay dead in the field alongside elvish corpses, many more still fought but. The initial fires were now raging out of control, consuming palisade and building alike with its insatiable hunger.

Racing forward, darting around the melee swirling around him, Stefan realised he had little time to enact his plan. Charging through the door of a nearby building, leading with his shoulder, the door splintered beneath Stefan’s bulk. The prisoners cheered as Stefan broke their chains with mighty swings of his axe. Surging forth from the building, they charged into the battle. Some had improvised weapons, chains, a piece of wood others did not even have that. Stefan grinned as the line of prisoners struck the elven line, crumpling it beneath their fury, and then slipped to another building. He had many more to free before the night would be over


****************

Earlier

As Stefan led his group of warriors down the street of their town, he could hear the sounds of fighting. Two dirty-faced boys were rolling in the street, kicking and punching. His face grim, Stefan strode over to them. Busy fighting, they never noticed until a great hand descended on the back of their necks and pulled them apart roughly. Their protests fell on deaf ears.
“Valten, Jagen, why are you fighting?”
“To see who was going to come with you!” announced Jagen.
“To see who was going to sneak along with you.” corrected Valten, which prompted another half-hearted swipe from his adoptive brother. Stefan chuckled slightly, hiding his amusement behind the face of a stern father.
“There’s an easy way to resolve this boys. Neither of you are going. Now inside with the both of you, your mother is waiting.” Putting the two boys down they trudged off home grumbling and bickering with each other. Turning on his heel, assured that they were heading home, Stefan rejoined the expedition as it marched off.

Bound in chains the men trudged solemnly towards the camp, led by tall proud figures resplendent in elven armour. Stefan kept his gaze locked on the mud and feet of the man in front of him. A wagon creaked along behind the column, fully laden the wheels dug deeply into the earth. The elven slave compound crept into view on the crest of the horizon, a most terrible sight to behold, for those destined to enter it would be even worse. It was clearly not of elven construction, it lacked the beauty and style would one might expect. It was more than likely constructed by the traitor-men of the north. Crude spires of lumber jut out of the earth like rotten teeth forming the outer-wall.

Coming to a halt a few paces from the palisade their escorts were challenged by the gate sentries. Doing his best to avert his gaze, Stefan couldn’t help but notice a small plume of smoke rising on the opposite side of the compound, and the accompanying shouts of panic and calls for assistance. Ignoring, or oblivious to the fire on the other side of the compound, elven guards made their away around the column inspecting the ‘latest catch’. Hearing whispers of concern and panic, taking a moment to glance around, a lot of men were talking amongst themselves with concerned looks on their faces, small trickles of sweat swimming down their cheeks,

”This isn’t going to work!”
“They’re not buying it!”

Stefan couldn’t help but hope that the guards didn’t notice that the physique of the 'elven' guards accompanying the caravan was far too stocky for the Fair Folk. Towards the rear of the group one of the elves paused, looking at the wagon quizzically. The men did their very best not to lose their composure, but their bodies were betraying them. Sweat ran freely down them as their nerve began to break.

“They’re not going for it!”

"They're not going to believe us," Stefan realized, horrified. "They'll check the wagon... and then we'll die..."

The commander paused eying the group. A fly buzzed overhead, the sound of its wings deafening. Then the gate commander nodded, and slowly the great doors began to swing open before them.
A collective sigh of relief, a silent one at that, was breathed as they were waved in. Stefan almost allowed himself to smile…almost. His relief quickly turned to horror. In the corner of his vision an elven guard was looking inside their wagon, his eyes widening. The elf turned, about to raise the alarm. A swift blow silenced him before he could act, but the damage.

With a grunt of exertion, Stefan broke his brittle chains, as did those around him. The laden wagon was removed of its burden, a score of weapons. The men of the Reik surged forth to sow death to the cruel wardens of this internment camp, and return life to those imprisoned by its walls.


****************

The stench of death and smoke filled Stefan’s nostrils, together they formed a pungent odor the likes of which he had never tasted, nor wished to ever again. The fire laughed with its fiery melody, consuming all it touched. Cries of the wounded, maimed and dying floated on the wind, interposing itself amidst the din of battle.
Death-cries and battle shouts rang in Stefan’s ears, a veritable cacophony of death dragging his mind back to the grim reality of what was unfolding around him, what he had started, must now be finished..

Stefan’s vision swam with a sleeve he wiped his eyes clear. Around and afar skirmishes were fought. Immediately around him he saw chiefs and elders roaring orders, inspiring by example or fear, rallying their men. Men desperately clung to life the only way they could, fighting for it. Prisoners recklessly, usually hopelessly, charged to their death.

Like a knife cutting through the veil of battle, on the very edge of his consciousness Stefan could hear the melodic voice of an elf. Not a panicked or abrupt outburst; but a calm, confident voice tempered by decades of authority. Stefan desperately searched for the source, spying a mass of elves on the opposite side of the compound. The Elven commander was rallying his troops for a last desperate attempt to survive or at least, make the invaders pay a terrible cost to overrun their position.

A grim feeling settled in the base of Stefan’s stomach, he knew that the battle wasn’t over. It would be won or lost with the elves and their commander, not these insignificant skirmishes raging around the last pockets of resistance.

As small pockets of fighting raged around Stefan, he watched helplessly as groups of men engaged the elves, only to be ruthlessly brought down by drilled bow fire or spear thrusts. Roaring for his men, Stefan gestured towards the elven commander, and a wedge of Teuton warriors formed about him. Blood splattered his face as his axe rose and fell, the wedge driving through the elven lines until Stefan stood opposite the cruel-faced elf.

The elf raised his blade so the hilt was kissing his lips in a salute, then swept the weapon back overhead into a dulling stance while Stefan swung his axe. Sunlight and firelight reflected off steel in a frenzied movement, and Stefan's axe felt resistance as it shattered bone, the elven skull crumpling under the impact while the elvish blade skittered away into the gore underfoot


****************

The ash drifting from the funeral pyre was already starting to settle as Stefan finally sat down with a grunt. He could feel the blood and sweat encrusted over him like a second skin. "How many dead?" he asked.

"Forty-three dead, many more wounded," replied Hartwig

Stefan sighed heavily “Freedom has its price…” trailing off for a moment his gaze wandered to the aftermath of their attack. Men lay wounded, calling out for aid; others heaved the corpses of friend and foe alike.

Stefan blinked. "Begging your pardon, m'lords." both Hartwig and Stefan turned to meet the voice.

“What is it?”

“Amongst those we rescued there were some…others. They’ve asked to see our leader,” explained the tribesman.

“If it was anyone Stefan, it would be you.”

Stefan groaned slightly, it wasn’t worth arguing the point. “Take me to them.”

Hartwig and Stefan made their way through the ruins of the internment camp, charred buildings and broken bodies all that remained of it now. A foul concoction of mud and blood splattered about them as rain began, bloated droplets splattering into the ground in a vain attempt to cleanse the slaughter. Through the veil of rain, Stefan could see men ahead, along with shorter shapes; the bearded mountain folk, surely. Three of them stood proudly, as if their coarse clothes were silken thread rather than prisoners' rags.

"Ye bein' the leader for yer people?" asked one of the Dwarfs.

Sighing slightly, “I am.”

"We should be thankin' ye fer what ye did. The durned elgi captured us an' had us in thar cells fer t' best part o' a month a' least."

"You don't need to thank me. My foe's foe is my friend."

"How did mountain folk such as yourselves come to be in their chains?" probed Hartwig.

The dwarf stopped and turned to speak to the dwarf next to him. They spoke a while, their words sounding like the scraping of rocks against rocks, the very sound that mountains might make when they spoke.

"We were travellin' atween holds an' found the tunnels blocked by a cave-in. Came above groun', and them elgi was waitin' fer us, all ambush-like.”

“Why would these Elves go to so much effort to capture some mountain folk? They usually prefer…softer targets”

The Dwarf paused for a moment and stared at Hartwig. He jerked one thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards the middle dwarf. "...Ye do ken he's the High King, aye?"

Stefan and Hartwig stared in silence for a moment in disbelief. Rumours had been passed down amongst the men of the Reik for generations regarding the great empire in the mountains. Even if the stories were only half true they had earned themselves a truly great ally.

Realisation dawned, and the two men dropped unceremoniously to their knees before the Dwarfen king. Now Stefan looked closer, even the tattered rags the dwarfs wore could not disguise the air of dignity and the refined, if stern, demeanor that befitted a true king

The High King gestured briefly with one calloused hand for the two men to rise. In a rough voice, uttering the same gravely tongue, he began to speak, his dark eyes fixed upon Stefan's.

The dwarfen translator cocked his head to the side slightly, as if appraising and evaluating what the High King had said “By th' beards of our forefathers, we be brothers in blood. Our blades shall be one an' the same, and our lives shall be the same. Our empires shall stan' together 'til the mountains themselves be sand.”

Stefan stood a moment as shocked silence swirled around him, before realising he had to reply to the dwarf king's words. "The Men of the Reik will always stand by the kindred of the mountain," he swore, and extended his own hand to the dwarf king. The grime and gore of battle upon it forgotten as it was taken firmly in the kings own thick-fingered grip.

The King's attention was drawn past the pair, Stefan and Hartwig turned to see a yellow-bearded dwarf, leading a small group of Teutons bearing silver chests of elven design. "Yer Majesty," the newcomer greeted him, "we ha' found our belongin's what was taken by th' Elgi."


The chests were deposited before the dwarfen king. Stefan and Hartwig stepped back as the dwarf's aged hands ran for a moment over the gold leaf of the chest’s clasps, before fumbling with them, flipping them open. For a moment, his head was obscured by the top of the chest, and then he straightened, holding reverently before him an ornate helmet, open-faced and worked cunningly to crest into the visage of a roaring dragon. Slowly he raised it, and then set it upon his head

For a moment the old dwarf's eyes were distant, caught in the gleam of a faded memory. Then he bent down again, reaching into the chest for a second time, retrieving an ornate war hammer of Dwarfen design. Pausing for a moment Kurgan presented the hammer to Stefan, flat across his extended hands. His stony tones rang with a thoughtful tone as he began to speak, and the aide's words were careful and measured.

“This be Ghal Maraz, hammer o' the kings. Wield it, as a symbol o' our pact."

Stefan reached out and took the hammer from the calloused hands of the King, cradling it with the care one might use with a fragile relic. He stared at the golden head, as it gleamed in the dying light of the fires about them and the rays of the setting sun...