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Return home, my King.
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The morning was bright and clear. The late summer sun cast it’s crimson light at daybreak, rising full and bright. It would be a great day, one that would be recalled by drunken longbeards in taverns for centuries to come. The night before, the High King had settled the Elf Grudge once and for all, with the razor sharp edge of the Axe of Grimnir.

Morgrimm’s orders passed swiftly through the massive encampment. The might of Karaz Angkor was to be dispersed, and the grudgekilling to cease. One way or the other, before midday had passed Morgrimm Elgidum himself would be force marching back to the Ungdrin Ankor, sworn to arrive in Mt Gunbad in three weeks time. With him would go fully half of the camp, though not all so speedily, to lift the sieges the Greenskins had lain against the holds in the Worlds Edge Mountains. The rest were being dispatched across the breadth of Karaz Angkor, to reinforce garrisons left behind and and begin repairing the damage of three hundred years of war.

Hardly any dwarf had slept as the preparations to break camp were made. Anvils rang throughout the night, but for the first time in living memory, their song was not of the forging of weapons, but of shoeing the ponies, and repairing wheel rims and iron boots. Meat was hastily smoked, barrels were sealed, and kegs were enthusiastically emptied. Better to carry the blessed ale in you belly, than burden the carts with the bulk of the kegs. What better night to toast you friends, living and fallen, than to mark the payment of the Great Grudge.

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More than any other we look to you for our defense. Fulfill your duty and return home immediately.
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Through it all the busiest Dawi in the camp were the High King and his Grudgekeeper, Hazkal Elgidreng. It is no small task to march the High King with his vast army, and camp followers, even twenty miles. Here he was sworn to make a two month journey in three weeks, and he had less than a day to prepare He also had to ensure that all the needs of his vast empire were addressed or properly delegated to his new Lords and Thanes of the various regions.

Perhaps the only dwarves to even attempt to sleep were those of the Slayer Cult. Most had greeted the news with indifference, or restrained contempt. Each had their own grudges to settle, and their oaths could only be fulfilled in their deaths. Now without clan or family, they were almost unanimously determined to stay in the Grey Mountains and continue to cull the cursed Elgi and any human that stood with them. A few, like the great Daemon Slayers Baltri Redbeard and Snorri Stonefist were content to follow the King, and seek their death at the hands of giants and trolls that were known to follow the Grobi. Others accepted the truth that a death from elven longbows would be far from glorious and utterly pointless besides. But by in large the Slayer Cult was staying and preparing to commence a campaign of bloody terror, to earn themselves a place in the Halls of the Ancestors.

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The destroyers are upon us. Our beloved homeland is being razed and burnt. They hack us down with savage zeal. The defenses cannot hold back the horde of the enemy. You must return at once with all haste and strike down the invaders with all the vengeance of your people. I await you, my King, my defender, and hope you arrive in time.
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Morgrimm grumbled all night about the Slayer Cult. He knew they had serious oaths to fulfill and had even set aside some kegs and other rations to be reserved for their stay. But still, he longed to have their aid in driving back the certain multitude of Trolls that doubtless accompany so many Orc tribes.

The thought of Trolls turned his mind back to his unusual breakfast. Snulli Ironfist was one of the Thanes that led Throngal Grund early in the war, prior to being so severely wounded in the tunnels of Karak Kadrin. A support pillar was knocked down on top of him by vile Elgi magics. Though he dove clear, one of his legs had been shattered by the massive blocks that fell. It had healed, but not well. Snulli had ever walked with a severe limp afterwards. Though the command had passed to Grogan Helgenhammer after that battle, Ironfist was still a venerated warrior and his advice was always worth considering. This morning Snulli had come with a strange gift. The High King and his vanguard company had the unique experience of eating extra rare, spiced Troll heart. Slowly cooked over coals, the Troll heart had never been touched by the tongue of a flame. Thus prepared, Snulli had said, the Troll heart would aid in giving sustained strength in the legs.

Perhaps it was just the jitters of waiting, but now in the late morning, all the work that needed his attention was done. He had his oath to leave at midday, but he wanted to wait and see if Bron Baraz would leave the Elgi city and sound the horn he had given him. If he heard the horn three times, it was a sign that the Elgi were found to be sincere in their offer of peace, and he could concentrate his mind fully on the menace of the Greenskins that lay at the end of his road. Now all was prepared and the King felt eternal seconds pass waiting for any sign of the approach of Thane Baraz. His mind was racing and his legs felt like they were going to start racing too.

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“My King, you arrive at last. Much has been lost. I know your army ranged far to the west, but I implore you to bring your holy vengeance to the invaders. They burn and destroy with wanton cruelty

Anger filled his body. So mighty was his hatred, that his veins bulged forth beneath his flesh and his grip tightened on his staff. His body burned with wrath, kindled by thousands of years of pride, and an unquenchable thirst for vengeance upon the invading savages. The feeling soon abated, but the experience was overwhelming and exhausting

“But where is the rest of you army” he had noticed his King returning with only his vanguard company. “I see only your honored kin arriving with you?”

Speed. Such magnificent speed. A vision overcame him of running through open plains, across mountains and careening through glades. Speed that only a proper elven steed could match. The vision changed and he saw the mark Riders of the Hunt, with their spears and characteristic helms. As tall as an elf is in the saddle, the vision was such that he was above the heads of the Riders, looking down on them. Two great hounds also kept pace with the racing company. They were running across the open plain, and he knew it well. It was just south of the Meadow Glade. The view shifted to look behind the galloping warriors and then it stretchsed out across the landscape, as if pulling the horizon closer. Then he noticed the forms of other elves, both mounted and on foot, as well as Dryads and Tree Kin. The main body of the Hunt was perhaps a day’s journey behind their master.

The vision faded and the face of Orion floated over him, full of wrath and frustration. The Treesinger, Q’entril Sulpav, again became overpowered by the thoughts and feelings of his lord. This feeling could only be compared to being interrupted while chanting a long litany, but it was so much more potent and mixed with the prevailing thought of, ‘WHY?’ Then came an image of the hated Druchii usurpers and their black sailed Hawk ships landing on the shores of Ethel Arvin again, and an accompanying sense of wonder and curiosity.

“No Great Hunter. The followers of Malekith have not returned.” Q’entil said as soon as the wave of power of Loren had passed. He had not expected the mind touch to be so engulfing, or to drain the very air from his lungs. Speaking with the King of the Forest this way was necessary but it also connected his mind to the full awareness of Athel Loren. It was a dangerous ploy, and the Treesinger had prepared, but not enough. Not for this much power. He continued to answer, “We are facing potential annihilation from the Dwarves.”

The backlash from Orion’s mind was more than he could stand. The Asrai mage was flung from his contact with the Oak of Ages, screaming in a voice that was not his own

“What!!!??”

After picking himself up, Q’entril re-erected the protective wall of his ego and touched the Ancient Oak again. A myriad of images flashed in front of his eyes. Visions of slow, pedantic dwarven warriors. Feelings of complacency and a sense of loss. Regret of no challenge. Longing for test of skill. Old faded memories that could not be recalled visually, but he could smell the salt of the sea air. The feeling of a horse between his legs. The cadence of its gallop. The taste of sprayed blood in his open mouth. The clear voice of an Asrai laughing, the laughter sounding as if it came from within. Then the old incomplete memory left and the Glamourweave elf saw an assembled host of a Highborn, his Eternal Guard and entire Kin Band, accompanied by dozens of Forest Spirits. They stood at watch at the borders of the forest. The assembled force slipped from his view and the demanding face of the Hunter King appeared again and dominating thought entered his mind ‘Why failed?’

“We have fought well,” protested Sulpav. “The Guardians have harried and tested the dwarves at every turn, but their numbers are as many as the leaves in your woods. It would appear that every dwarf that exists has assembled on our borders and meant to exterminate everything that is not of their race.”

Hunger struck him with more pain than possible for a dozen score of warriors to feel. It was the hunger of an entire army. The debilitating sensation left and a vision came of numerous raids of the Asrai. Some raids were ones that the Treesinger remembered being part of personally. Some were strikes against the wagon trains of the traitors of Ulthuan, while more were against the slow armored carts of the Dwarves, but all were attacks on supply caravans. Thunderous attacks that faded away once the wagons were aflame. Then came a sense of damning guilt. Condemnation that there were no newer memories of such attacks against the Dwarves.

“Of course we would have raided their caravans.” The reply was meek and submissive. “We know an army cannot march on an empty stomach, but they have no such supply lines, at least none that we can find. Some of the Dryads and Waywatchers speak of roads that pass through great tunnels the dwarves keep, and underground we cannot pillage their wagons.”


Frustration. Dissapointment. A distrust of servants’ aptitude. Accusation of betrayal. Q’entril recognized that this last emotion was aimed personally at him. A new vision broke of him coaxing the trees to lift their roots and block the approach of naked orange haired dwarves, and then these dwarves falling in droves to the accurate arrows of Asrai scouts as they moved through the seamless cover of the trees.

“We did not fail you, great Lord. That is why I summoned you, our defender.” The Treesinger’s voice grew very somber. “We cannot fight from the trees when the trees do not stand.”

Confusion. Thoughts strained on remembering some event that would not come to mind. Faded images of battle. Flashes of fire. Muffled screams of the dying. Memories that refused to be completely recalled. Frustration.

“Can you not see it, my King?”

‘Soon’ was the impression. The elf felt as though he were caught in a briar and reaching for his staff that was just beyond his grasp, but some how his hand came closer with every breath.

“You are still to far from the border?” Affirmation, followed once again by the incomplete vision of fire and death.

The elf remained in this trance for several long minutes, his mind following the thoughts of the Great Hunter, Orion. As his Lord approached the borders of the forest, closer with every step, the vision became more and more focused. It also began to switch to more numerous views, the memories of the experiences of dozens of Forest Spirits. Scenes of battle from afar. Images of dwarves being ripped apart by the talons of the Dryads. The sight of Treeman, watching Asrai charge from cover to deal their death and then fade away again. Satisfaction.

But then the memories were overcome with later battles. Battles where Q’entril himself had barely escaped. The icon of the great Dwarf Highborn. Fire being spread amoung the trees. Kegs of oil launched by siege engines. Screams of dying trees and the Forest spirits. Glade riders cut down by withering hail of crossbow bolts. Asrai fighting bravely without cover. And everywhere the sound of axes hewing down living trees.

Rage. Supreme maddening rage. Q’entril Sulpav was grinding his teeth and didn’t even know it. The sight of the entire Vale of the Northern Sentinels leveled and burnt, even the saplings. Complete and total rage.

Durthu. The thought was sudden and commanding. The mind sight changed to see massive tree limbs crushing dwarves with seamless efficiency. Durthu standing alone. Sadness and vengeance for his massacred army. The oppressive weight of chains all over his body. Chains that dug deep into the bark. Had Q’entril been accompanied, his attendants would have seen welts and cuts in the shape of chain links appear all over his body. Then the vision of a large axe. An axe covered with arcane runes. Understanding of the strange runic designs came. Fire. Power. Crippling pain coursed through his body as the large axe struck him in the face. Searing heat of the flame. Again the pain of death, as the large axe struck him again.

A horn. The vibration of galloping horses. The pain racked sight turned west and saw a charging army of the old city elves and their human allies. The relief that came with the blessed rain, magically summoned. Fire gone. Pain enduring. Pain unbearable. Blackout.

The face of Orion appeared again and the pressing demand of a single word echoed in the Asrai’s mind, ‘Where?’

“He is here my lord, at the Oak. As you saw, he fought with divine valor, until he alone remained, but was overcome by such endless numbers. The Asur, my cousins arrived in time and he yet lives.”

Searching. Searching. Nothing. Lies. Durthu dead.

“No. He does live. He is in torpor. I planted him here at the Oak and from it’s roots he yet drinks life from the moist earth. Tending him with all the lore of the Glamourweave, I believe we have averted his death, though I cannot mend his scars from the runic axes.”

Vengeance. Suffering. Desire for pain and havoc. The image of the head of the Dwarf Highborn, with his bright blood red beard mounted on the Spear of Loren.

“No Orion, you must come here first, or Durthu is lost,” protested the Treesinger Adanhu supports him. The oak feeds him. But I cannot revive his spirit. Only you can do that mighty King. You showed me your Hunt and it is a day behind you. Come here and aid your brother first. Then let your mighty wrath be gathered, so that it might hunt the head of the Dwarf King.”

Frustration. Displeasure. Anger of conflict within. Acknowledgement of wisdom. Duty. Consent. Then the great Orion broke the mind link and Q’entril Sulpav, the first elf to join his mind to the greatness that is the spirit of Athel Loren, fell to the ground utterly spent.
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The horn rang out, loud and clear. Within the camp, dwarven hearts filled with new hope and strength as they heard its pure, melodious voice. The war was finally over. For Morgrimm Elgidum, it could not have come sooner. He waited for the horn blast to be repeated, the completion of the signal of Bron Baraz. Twice more the note was sounded, reverberating through the hillsides. With his next breath, Morgrimm took his first step east, to the entrance of the Undgrim in Karak Norn. His honor guard quickly fell in to step behind him, and Hazkal hastily wrote “Thus the High King secured peace in the West and kept his Oath to leave forthwith for our homes.”

Then Morgrimm was unsettled as he embarked on his march. The sound of a battle horn echoed once more upon the wind. Something was not right. Why would Bron sound the horn again? Could it be that the elves duped Baraz and slew him after the signal was given and now they held his horn?

The Grudgekeeper answered his thoughts, “That is no dwarven horn. The pitch is wrong. Besides, it comes from the forest.”

He was right, Morgrimm realized. This was no dwarven horn. Its voice brimmed with menace and anger.

“I have heard that horn before,” Demonslayer Snorri Stonefist whispered, “It is a herald of terror and death. Last time, I followed its sound, and found a field where scores of our brothers lay bloodied and broken. Many dwarves were so badly mauled, that they were almost unrecognizable. There were many tracks of a hoofprint I could not identify, as well as evidence of a small cadre of horses that had ridden through, but the carnage was always worse among the great hoof prints that were deep in the soil. The creature that left such tracks must have weighed five hundred stones, at least! How I wish I’d caught up with it. Whatever causes that horn to sound is a vicious and powerful monster that can rend finest steel as if it were paper. That would have been a truly might doom!”

“Perhaps your wish will come true today then,” added the more aged Slayer Baltri Redbeard, between his puffing breaths. The march of the King was fast indeed. “Grimnir willing, you and I may both die with our axes stained by its foul chaos tainted blood, and thus earn our places again among our ancestors”

“Such wishes should be more carefully guarded,” chided Hazkal Elgidreng. “They have a nasty habit of being granted. Look to the trees and behold the doom that is proclaimed!”

Even the King turned his head to the right and let out a small gasp, his adding to the others of his Longbeards around him. Stepping forth from the trees was a vision of horror and power, a terrible daemon of the forest. At first he seemed to be a massive beastman, standing some four or five meters tall, not counting the horns. He had cloven hooves for feet like a beastman too, but soon Morgrimm picked out key differences. The daemon was bare-chested, with not of the dark rust colored fur of the children of Chaos. No, he had clear skin with a pale green tint, almost like some cursed elf. Also the creature had antlers instead of the normal horns of a Gor. In his hand he carried a spear that was easily twice a large as any of the giant quarrels the Engineers fired from their Bolt Throwers. It looked like the mast of some small ship. A massive bow was slung across his back, and in his other hand he held a great horn.

It pointed to the main dwarf camp and a great Eagle flew out from the treetops to the main encampment. But there was greater activity amongst the trees. Silhouetted by some strange shifting lights, were the shapes of many elven warriors. Well at least some were clearly elves. Others were in the shape of elves but their limbs looked distorted and elongated. But the lights were moving and soon passed the waiting elven host. They were orbs of light of every imaginable color, and some were apparitions of smoke, shadow, and mist forms. All of these light forms bobbed on the air like butterflies. As the floating lights emerged from the forest, the King saw that the distorted silhouettes were not elves at all, but slender young trees with faces, their trunks split in to movable legs.

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“Krayshtir, with your wings and eyes, go to the stunted camp and find for our Lord where the Dwarf King stands.” Q’entril had recovered from the ordeal of the mind touch three days ago. Now that Orion was so close he did not need the power of the Oak to extend the reach of his spell. The Treesinger had reforged the connection this day, and he extended it to absorb the vision of the Great Eagle being sent forth. “Orion has shown me what he looks like. You search for a singular dwarf, one with a great red beard, the color of blood. His red face is more vibrant than any other so he should be easy for your eyes to find. Perchance you may find his throne of rock following him around, carried by his lackeys.”

Soaring high on the wind, the Great Eagle cast his piercing gaze all over the camp. Dozens of Dwarves picked up crossbows and fired at him, but he was too high to be reached by them. He circled the whole camp three times and could not find the blood red bearded king.

The TreeSinger was taken aback by the two simultaneous impressions. From the eagle Krayshtir, he felt confusion and bewilderment for the noble animal could not find any such red beard in the camp. From Orion, he felt a more powerful sense of frustration, as he too saw the raptor’s sight and no prey found.

”He must be here my King, your own vision you gave me showed him to me. The Forest spirits have seen his icon and his throne of stone.”

Impatience. Irritation. Hunger for blood.

“A moment more, Lord. The Eagle can descend for a better search. You cannot prevail against the entire host of the enemy. Perhaps with all the Kinbands of Loren, but the cost would be too high. Most assuredly, you cannot slay them all with only your Hunt.”

The eagle Krayshtir dove down towards the camp, cutting and weaving around the firing banks of Dwarves assembled with their crossbows. After dodging the keen shots of the Druchii, this was fairly easy for him. But even skimming over the tops of the tents, he could not find the red beard he was charged to locate.
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Snulli Ironfist watched the hovering light shapes emerging from the forest. A lone eagle was soaring overhead, but those lights were haunting to him. Most of the camp was not battle ready, having stripped off their heaviest armor to speed their departure. How much time did he have to make the warriors ready to defend whatever hell this sorcery would unleash?

“What magical hogwash is this?” he asked Rune Striker Grondul Dornison, the student of the late Dumac Thunderbrow.

“I know not.” Grondul was always one of few words, but he relented under Snulli’s gaze. “I can sense they are magical in nature, but they do not wield magic like the Elgi mages do.”

“So they will not try to blast us with the winds of Chaos?” asked Lord Ironfist.

“Their power is of some other form, though I cannot feel how it will manifest.”

“No matter,” said Snulli dismissively. “With the combined might of the Quarrelers, Engineers Guild, and your fellow Lords and their Anvils, we will drive back such a pitiful force.”

“I am no Rune Lord,” retorted Dornison. “I have some years of study to attain that mastery yet. I am still but a Rune Striker, and though I have more skill than a Smith, I dare not touch Lord Thunderbrow’s Anvil yet. But it can be put to use up on the hilltop by other Lords. And before he passed on, Dumac acquired new gifts from our Ancestor, Mordred.” As he said this, the Rune Forger caressed the runic carvings in the granite staff he held.

“But do be wary of hasty pride,” cautioned Grondul “While we have the firepower enough to deal with the elves in the trees, we know not what affect these lights will have”

The large Daemon lifted his horn up and sounded out a long blast on it. As he did so the elves and other things in the trees surged forward. More unnerving was what happened with the floating light and shadow forms. As one they sunk into the debris of the felled forest. Power arched from stumps to logs. Slowly the logs and branches that had been hewn down in the days before began to rise up again. Several logs would assemble themselves into something mockingly familiar to a bipedal form. They rose themselves up to their full height, and stood some three to four meters tall each. More cut branches and logs served as makeshift arms ending in cruelly sharp claws. Faces contorted themselves in the very surface of the new log creatures. Ashes flaked off of them as they howled out their rage and anger over the decimation the dwarves had wrought.

Snulli was immediately concerned. Charging towards the encampment was a small skirmishing force of a couple thousand elves and added to them was some things that walked like elves, but looked like slender sapling tress. They were fearsome yes, and seemed to be made of one entire wooden tree form, where as the giant Timber Beasts were visibly a set of separate broken and burnt trunks and branches. All told, the force emerging from the wood could not be more than three thousand strong, hardly a worry, except for the presence of the great Daemon himself. But now, there were shielded by the presence of the Timber Beasts. Worse, the number of Timber Beasts was greater than the number of charging elves. In less than half minute the fighting strength of the enemy had more than quadrupled.

Lord Snulli Ironfist offered a quick prayer to Valaya in his heart, but saved his breath to shout orders for the Warriors to make ready. But he knew it would take precious minutes that he did not have to assemble them. Everyone was in preparation for departure. He would need to stall the onslaught. As he drew in breath to shout for the Ironbreakers to form a shield wall, he turned around and was never able to get the command out. He was almost instantly overrun by a sea of orange mohawks.

The roar of the Timber Beasts was matched by a thundering war cry of eight thousand slayers.

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Diving and dodging, Krayshtir searched among the tents of the dwarves for the recipient of Orion’s wrath. But the eagle could not find any blood red beard anywhere. Q’entril consoled the beast and ordered him maintain watch at a safer height.

“My lord. We cannot find him. Perhaps the dwarf king you hunt hides in one of the tents?”

Contempt. Disdain of a coward. The bold thought of challenging the dwarf king filled the elf’s breast. He was confused at the thought and then understood. Orion meant to compel the Dwarf King to show himself by pressing on with the attack. Then when the commotion summoned forth the king, Orion and his hunt would pounce like a lynx in readiness. Truly, Orion was the master of the hunt.

The wisps had already been dispersing themselves out among the corpses of the murdered trees, preparing for the ordained signal. The King of Athel Loren would restrain himself no longer and he raised the Horn of the Hunt up to his lips.

As Orion blew the Horn, the wisps grasped hold of the tortured, mangled, and charred remains of forest. Today, they would truly be Tree Kin, avenging their beloved brothers. Over three thousand of them charge towards the heart of the enemy, and they would guard his Hunt from the quarrels of the stunted folk. Behind them charged the loyal Hunt. Wild and Glade Riders galloping like the wind. Only the hand full of Alters that hunted with him this year could match their speed. The Dryads, War Dancers, and Guardians all pressed forward with enraged zeal. Mightiest of all were the three Treeman that had also come to aid him. They had simply moved to the edge of the forest the night before and taken up positions as if they were normal trees. Now they erupted into action, bellowing at the bringers of fire and death. The Wild Hunt was over twenty-four hundred strong, though more than half of that was the Dryads that had come, due to their anger over the slaughtered trees, but now with the added strength and durability of the Tree Kin, Orion had the power make a river of blood flow from the cowardly dwarves that hid behind cumbersome metallic armor and shields. They had not the speed or skill to compete against his war host.

The Lord of the Hunt began to stride forward working himself up to his full speed. The mind link was less potent with every step, but the Treesinger Sulpav could feel Orion reveling in the anticipation of his first kill and the knowledge that his prey would not stay hidden for long. Satisfaction, complete staisfaction. Elation and excitement and the thrill of the Hunt. Q’entril almost sprang forth from the trees himself to rush forward with the rest of the Guardians

All was well, thought the Treesinger. At least until he saw a massive tide of orange charging towards the shock line of Tree Kin.
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The High King could hardly believe his eyes. The strange sorcery of the forest was baffling before, but now there was an instant army of these Timber Beasts, created straight from the lumber that had been cleared and burnt. Now the smaller force of the elves and slender forest daemons were also on the move, and 3 of the trees had just spontaneously picked up their roots and were striding towards his army behind him. How many more would follow suit?

Clearly this Green Daemon that sounded the attack was the famed leader of this renegade wood elf hunting band. But this was the band that he roved with? It was immense.

“To arms my guard,” he shouted his command.

“No, my King, we cannot,” corrected his Grudgekeeper.

“Damn you, don’t tell me no, Hazkal.” Morgrimm was indeed cross. “Turn about!”

“Hold to the road, brothers!” Hazkal Elgidreng looked his King dead in the eye. “I do not presume to command you. You yourself have ordered us not to turn round.”

“But . . “

“It is my duty to counsel the King that he fulfills every oath.” continued Hazkal. “ ‘Thus the High King swore his oath to not take a step west until he had arrived in Mt Gunbad in three weeks time,'” he quoted, before turning to face Morgrimm. “And a Kings oath . . . “

“ . . . is hard as stone, yes my friend.” The King conceded with a heavy heart. “But those are my people, in peril there. Is it not my duty to defend them?” He challenged the Grudge keeper’s lore, longing for a way to serve both Oaths.

“Your people behind us are hardened warriors, lead by seasoned Lords and Thanes.” answered Elgidreng. “They will vanquish this enemy. Mighty though it is, it cannot match their total strength. Ahead are also your people who have garrisons stretched thin protecting our women and children, from a much more numerous foe.”

“Tis true, but I feel compelled to do something when so close at hand there will be Dwarven lives lost.”

“Aye, lives will be lost,” interjected Baltri Redbeard.

“If we are lucky,” added Snorri Stonefist, “there will be many lost, and us included. Here is a task fit for Slayers, and a doom worthy to restore our honor.”

“We swore an oath to protect the King,” shouted Baltri. “We will fulfill that Oath doubly today. Let us protect you from this Daemon, and save your shame from not aiding your fellow Dawi.”

The King nodded his agreement, though all could see he still felt uneasy about it.

“Then may Grungni speed your boots,” offered Snorri as he, Baltri and three score more slayers broke out of the formation, heading to the tree monsters with wild enthusiasm in their eyes.

“And may Grimnir grant you all the glorious end you seek,” replied the Grudgekeeper.

“Aye, may Grungni grant us all such a noble heart as these,” added Morgrimm.

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Lord Ironfist fought to keep his feet as the Slayers came rushing past him. In a flash he remembered the faces of two of his battle brothers from the Throngal Grund. Owing to their Oaths, he called them by their new Slayer names.

“Ssupras! Owsiak! Hold a moment!” he shouted out to them, not knowing if he was heard. It would seem he was.

“Don’t delay us now! Let a couple of old Dwarves go and die well.” was Owsiak’s annoyed response.

“Die well, but give me time! The lads are not ready for battle. Just delay them enough to allow us to organize and prepare a counter assault, that is all I ask,” came the Battle Lord’s plea.

“Nay, Stone Leg,” Ssupras teased his old friend about the injury. “Make ready the enduring mountain, but leave the Slayer Cult to what we do best. When we are all laid low and ascending to the Halls of the Ancestors, then do what you think best with whatever remains of the enemy. But if the Warriors are not as ready as us, then leave us to our fate.”

“As you wish,” acknowledge Snulli. “Give Grogan a slap on the back from me when you see him in the Halls.”

Turning to the Rune Striker, “Grondul, can you signal the Lords to strike these foul beasts down with the Anvils?”

“Nay, for I already hear their chanting and it is right.” He said with closed eyes. “They invoke not Wrath and Ruin, but Oath and Honor.”

“What? Why not? What are they doing?”

“They rightly aid the King.”

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Q’entril felt Orion’s joy as he charged in with his warriors when his magesight detected the release of magic. He saw the power radiating out from the hilltop over looking the field and rushing out to the east. His gaze followed the trail left in the Aethyr and found a small band the orange bearded dwarves rushing down on the Asrai army’s flank. In the distance, a single formation of dwarves was moving in the other direction, towards the nearby mountain hold of the Dwarves. As the magic hit them, their pace immediately surged. Another wave followed the first , and then another, until the Dwarves were covering ground as fast as cavalry. At this magical pace, they would cover ten miles in twice as many minutes.

“Krayshtir, what is that block of dwarves to the east?”

The eagle broke his circling of the camp and dove at the dwarves on the road. It did not seem like much, just a group of battle tested elder dwarves. Not a single red beard in their lot. But they did carry the stone chair with them.

Orion stopped in his tracks. He shared the magical sight of the Treesinger still. Confused. Insecurity. Hesitation. Doubt. Two paths through the forest, one to the north and the other to the east, but neither seeming the correct way to go. Empty throne. An image of Orion without his spear. Disbelief. Befuddlement. Desire for the hunt. Desire to know where the prey hides. The face of the Red beard Dwarf. Wonder. The thought of death. The red beard dwarf lying dead on a bier. Wonder. Resoning. The forest paths again, but the path to the north disappears. Confidence. Purpose. Pain!!!

A boulder had knocked into the Hunter directly into his left shoulder. He was bodily pressed into the dirt. The Dwarven war machines were beginning their deadly volleys. Accurate as the shot may have been, Orion was favored of Loren and the hit caused no damage. Q’entril praised the forest for that. Perhaps the stone had been cast by fate for as Orion fell a giant arrow pierced the air where his head had been only instants before.

The King of Loren was on one knee regaining his footing when another stone plummeted towards him. Lartasin, the willow Treeman was running past him at the right momrnt and deftly caught the falling boulder in his supple, viny branches. Spinning on the spot, Lartasin redirected the momentum of the rock, transformed momentarily into a version of a giant sling, and flung the stone back at the war machines that so cowardly would rain death from afar. It found it’s mark among the battery of siege engines, smashing down one of the stone throwers.

The hail of missiles was daunting. The Glamourweave kinsman watched Faldul, the hickory Treeman, take a direct hit from one of those boulders and lose one of his arms. Another had come crashing down into the Tree Kin, instantly pulverizing three of them into so many splinters. More were landing with deadly results among the Dryads and Glade Guardians. Lacking an effective way to shoot over the tall Tree Kin, towards the elven warriors behind, the dwarf crossbows were desperately trying to shoot down the tough Tree Kin. Most of the quarrels found their mark, but the effect was largely to lend the Tree Kin and appearance of porcupines, with the quarrels just sticking into their bark. But nonetheless some fell under such withering fire. But more had succumbed to the giant crossbows in the siege batteries. The massive bolts plowed right through the Tree Kin and slew some of the riders behind them. The wards of Loren still blessed some of them. Q’entril saw one of the Tree Kin take a direct shot, but the bolt failed to pierce him. This spared Tree Kin simply ripped the bolt out of his midsection, broke of the arrow head and then absorbed the shaft, granting himself a third arm.

Yes, thought Q’entril, let them try their best. We will adapt, as the forest always does and rise triumphant This was the trademark of the dwarves, to shoot with massive firepower, and then try and absorb the charge of their enemy. The cowards always wait for the fight to come to them. Their shooting was proving of small consequence, and soon their best advantage would be useless, as the Hunt closed the distance. Then Orion would surely see that their blood flow.

The King of Loren regained his feet and resumed his charge. Again the mind link showed the treesinger the thoughts of his Lord. Boasting. Confidence of skill. Trust of his bow. A memory of an Asrai archery contest where they routinely made very difficult shots with ease. The Glade Guard were ordered to put their arrows on the siege battery. They could not destroy the machines, but the loading crews would be hard press to continue their work. Another boulder was falling like a meteor onto the Tree Kin. In a single smooth motion Orion drew the Hawks Talon from his back pulled the bow string and loosed its potency into the air. The powerful arrow he loosed was perfectly aimed, even as he continued his charge. It struck the falling stone in mid flight shattering it over the heads of the charging orange beards.

Pride. Satisfaction. Pleasure. The sight of bloodied and crushed orange haired dwarves. Close. Prey that can challenge. Rejoicing. Anticipation for enjoyable slaughter. Laughing, the great king Orion fired a second arrow at the stone hurler contraptions. The shot dislodged the throwing arm of the contraption. Throwing his bow aside, He twirled his spear above his head and charged into the fray with reckless abandon.

Q’entril himself was roaring his battle cry and lept down from his perch in the aspen tree. All thought of the throne in the small party on the eastern road forgotten. His only thoughts were those of his Lord and King, Orion. Thoughts of hunting killing and the glory of battle.
*******************

Snulli Ironfist watched with satisfaction as the initial volley of the Engineers proved nearly perfectly effective. The Timber Beasts were being reduced to kindling by the Bolt Throwers and a Grudge thrower had found its mark directly on the Green Daemon. The ranks of Quarrelers were surely doing their best, but the Timber Beasts were generally too resilient to be harmed by crossbows, and too thick in numbers to permit a bolt to pass through to the more vulnerable elves in the rear. By their sheer height, using a crossbow to shoot over them was nearly impossible.

Snulli had ascended the hillside a bit and saw how the blessings of the Ancestors had so speedily aided the King away on his journey. It seemed that the few Slayers that had accompanied him were now making a rear defense or counter charge into the eastern flank of the Elgi force.

But on the whole, the massed fire of the dwarves had not thinned the enemy as he had hoped. There were only a few seconds remaining before the two battle lines would meet.

“Will the Rune Lords not aid us?” Snulli demanded of Grondul.

“The Anvils are not trinkets to use lightly.” corrected Dornison. “But rest assured, the anger of our Ancestor, Azram, will be felt by our enemies.” With that he took both hands and drove the granite Rune Staff deep into the soil. He chanted a short prayer to the Heart of the Mountain and then struck the staff with the heel of his axe.

One of the runes on it flashed to life. The vibration of the hit magnified in the staff and discharged itself into the earth. With the sound of deep thunder, Snulli watched the energy flow out to the enemy at an unbelievable speed, the earth expanding as if a large gopher was making his burrow. The wave of force streaked out under the charging slayers and then the earth under three of the Timber Beasts exploded up into them. Grondul smiled as he repeated the prayer and made ready to strike the next rune, which seemed to Snulli exactly like the first one. Ironfist noticed with equal satisfaction that the Timber Beasts so struck did not rise from receiving the wrath of Azram.

“I see now why you call it the Makaz Duraz,” said Snulli with a smile. “It truly is a mighty weapon of stone.”

“Actually it is not the Makaz Duraz but one of several.” replied the Rune Striker, after sending the next burst of power from the staff. “Thunderbrow made a few and oversaw my work on this one. The Anvils are far more potent, as this is just a traveling version of the Wrath and Ruin. But even asleep in the mountains, Azram sends out his vengeance to our foes.”

Snulli saw that the ground was exploding under the Timber Beasts in multiple points all along their center. Not every one of affected Beasts fell, but the result was reassuring. A final volley of crossbow bolts passed through the hole in their line and struck down dozens of mounted elves.

Snulli saw that Grondul was about to strike again. “Wait! The Slayers are upon them, you can’t risk it.”

“True, but I thought we’d give that troublesome willow something to think about.”

Moments later the walking willow tree was knocked off it’s legs. Clearly it was wounded from the force of the blast.

“You see the power travels through the earth, so it can’t endanger our kin.” explained Dorinson. “Hmmn, I have used all my staff’s runes. It will take much work to recharge them.”

As he said this, Snulli watched as the last series of blasts coming from the other Rune Smiths reach out under the soil to their prey. One erupted under some dryads, another in the midst of the massed elven archers. The final one was headed to the huge walking pine.

****************
The battle line was rent open by some strange dwarven earthy enchantments. The crossbows exploited the gap, striking at the honored Wild Riders. Lartasin was knocked from his feet by these earth eruptions and half of the Glade guard archers were routing due the carnage another blast had caused. Q’entril saw another furrow of this stunty sorcery carving its way towards Bartosh, the pine Treeman. He halted his overly impetuous charge and shouted a quick warning to him. Bartosh quickly stopped his run, planting his feet and sending out his root into the soil beneath him, wrapping the earth in a net of tendrils. The spell of the dwarves reached him and released its fury, but could not erupt through the mass of tightly held dirt. The explosion forced its way up around him. A circle of earth blasted out in a ring, but the mighty Treeman , although obviously pained, was unharmed.

Orion selected his first victim of the day. The mad dwarf was racing towards him with axe raised over his head, as if he actually believed it was capable of hurting Loren’s King. The Hunter joyfully pierced the dwarf in the middle of its orange beard, straight through the breast bone. As he passed over the gurgling dwarf he simply grasped the weapon with his other hand just behind the spearhead and pulled the shaft of the spear all the way through, never slowing his gait for a moment. His next kill was a dwarf who had been thrown off of a nearby Tree Kin. The instant he landed, Orion flattened his skull with one mighty hoof, utterly crushing it, and the stunty’s brains oozed out from the cleft of the hoof. Another was hacking at a fallen Tree Kin. As the crazed thing raised his axe, the Forest King swung his spear tip, severing the dwarf’s hands at the wrist. Spinning around he brought the deadly spear round like massive scythe to flatten all the dwarves around him with a single swing. Some defiant little menace managed to catch the spear point with a blow of his axe. His spear halted for a precious moment, two dwarves seized the opportunity and grabbed on to the haft of the spear, hopping to immobilize it or at least hamper his ability to use it. Pitiful fools. Orion lifted the spear with one hand to prove his might and brought it crashing down on top of a stump, impaling both dwarves in a mangled mess. He continued to unleash his unearthly anger, slaying two dwarves with every breath he took. They fought bravely but all their skill and power were totally out classed by the King of the Forest.
**************

The Slayer Cult slammed into the Timber Beasts with eager anticipation. In some areas, the orange mohawks set about chopping wood with unquenchable fury. Their axes were turned aside in some cases by strange warding magics, but their impetuousness carried them forth until the logs lay still on the ground again. At other spots along the line, the wooden apparitions reaped a harvest of death and blood that would make the stoutest heart wretch his breakfast. Slayers were beaten to death with their own arms or legs that had been plucked from their sockets, even as they continued hacking at their enemy. Another tree daemon grabbed two Dwarves by had been chopping it by their ankles and used them as bludgeons to kill more Slayers. When it was done with their corpses, it smashed their mangled forms together and dropped the two slayers that were now so badly disfigured and dismembered that they were not distinguishable as having once been separate dwarves.

In the center of the line, where the Timber Beasts had been blasted down, the slayers eagerly climbed over the piles of logs and met the charge of the mounted elves. Here and there they were skewered on the spears of the chargers, but also many more used their height atop the mounds of blasted Timber Beasts to leap straight at the riders. Dwarf steel was buried into soft elf chests. Elf spear were deftly guided into the hate filled eyes of dwarves. Horses that had been ham strung whinnied their dying cries, as axe rang against swords. It was hard to know which side held the upper hand, but the warriors on both sides fell by the hundreds. Soon the blood and entrails on the ground was so thick that even the horses could not always find sure footing.

One of the slayers proved enterprising. With all his might he lifted one of the logs that had moments before been his foe and began to swing it like a massive cudgel, knocking down both rider and horse. Back and forth he punished any elf that dared to approach, except for a particularly agile elf that also wore his hair in a Mohawk. The elf was covered in tattoos, and fought with dual swords. Spinning and flipping through the air, he evaded the mighty swings of the Slayer. In an acrobatic jump he landed behind the dwarf and brought both blades against each other, cleanly severing the arm of the Dawi. Having landed in a crouch, the deft elf stood up stabbing one sword through small of the slayers back and out his stomach, and the other through his neck, and lifted him bodily in triumph over his head. The slayer raged on, bringing one meaty fist into the back of the elgi’s head. The tattooed elf slumped lowering his kill to his shoulders. The dying slayer used all of his hatred in a final gambit. With his remaining hand he wound his own beard around the neck of the elgi and pulled with all his ebbing might. In moments both breathed their last, one choked and the other drowning in his own blood.

The sheer weight of numbers, and in some cases the literal weight of bodies, was soon felling the Timber Beasts. Fully half of the slayers had been slain by their mighty claws, their tough and muscled dwarven bodies ripped apart, or bashed and broken into distended corpses. Heads had been plucked directly off of their shoulders. This was not just war, but butchery of the highest form. But the Timber Beasts could not withstand the wrath of the Slayer Cult any more than sandstone can withstand a pick and shovel. Almost entirely, the raised logs were split, splintered and dashed into so much kindling.

Truly the Slayers were magnificent in their victories, and they also died in fantastic and revolting ways. In both instances, the Dwarves were overjoyed with the result.

Here they found a foe that was both mighty and fearsome. These elves and tree things were possessed by some vendetta of vengeance just like them. Best of all, these warriors of the forest seemed just as determined to not quit the field as they. It was clear that neither side would give the slightest ground.

The path of death tread by the Green Daemon and the three walking trees was so ravenous that it could not be missed by anyone. The Green Daemon ran amuck through the dwarves, never slowing, deftly stepping through the thickest fighting without harming his elf servants. His spear stuck so quickly as to nearly be lost to sight. And his might was so strong that once, a dwarf tried to block the spear point with the flat of his axe, only to find it pierced through, and his heart punctured all the same. This monstrous creature even had the insolence to pick up dwarves by their beards and swing them over his head until the force ripped the skin from their face. The foul Daemon had the audacity to store these beards in his quiver, as if they were mementos.

The walking trees were a problem of a different sort. They came directly, stomping on half a dozen dwarves at a time. Nearby, Slayers found themselves grasped and flayed by roots that sprang up from the earth, sometimes being pulled to the ground and thorny roots piercing into their ears, eyes, and other orifices. With his one remaining arm, the hickory brought down his hand to grant blessed death to four more brothers who all swung at the hand that smote them. As it raised its arm once more, the four slayers were a mound of red pulp and their axes embedded into it’s hand.

Thorin Jednooki and Sigurd were unphased by these wooden titans. As cousins they were well accustomed to felling trees, as their family was known for supplying the finest beer kegs. They knew very well how to bring trees down, and a moving tree should prove no different. With a knowing look exchanged between them, they nodded to each other and set to work. Darting between the hickory’s legs, Sigurd charged and cleft his axe deep to the leg, the blow so hard he could not pull his axe free. The hickory thing roared in anger and tried to grab him but he dove free. Thorin rushed in next, striking just below his cousin, also burying his axe to its neck. Angered the tree turned and tried to stomp on him with its other leg, but it was just what the pair wanted. With their precision blows it’s injured leg could not support it’s weight. With a mighty crack the leg-trunk buckled and down it went. The nearby Slayers swarmed over it and quickly quartered it.

Thorin tossed his cousin’s axe back to him and pointed at the big pine that was yet unharmed. “Do you remember how to speed top a pine?”

“Aye, that is just the ticket.”

They both grabbed a spare axe from among the dead as they ran over to the nearby pine monster that was killing close to two score of Dwarves a minute. Dodging bow fire and hacking through slender elf sized wood daemons, they made their way to the rear of the pine.

“Last one up is squig dung,” challenged Sigurd. They proceeded to climb straight up the back of the great pine. Using their axes in each hand, with honed skill they rose up hand over hand. Their axes getting bite in the tough bark they hauled themselves up to strike and again with the other hand. Such was their proficiency that they ascended as quickly as one might climb a stairway. Reaching what could only be described that the pine’s shoulders, they began to chop away at its neck or head, or something, quickly cleaving gaps into both sides of the tree. Whatever part they attacked, it was effective as the pine definitely took notice. It spun around to dislodge them, but the clever Slayers simply bit their axes deep and held on. When it scratched and clawed at them they responded with the spare axes in hacking off its fingers. Finally, when they had nearly chopped through to each other, the pine in frustration slammed both hands directly against the sides of its head. Thus ended the woodsmen slayers Sigurd and Thorin Jednooki, crushed on the sides of the head of this pine monster. But even in death they were victorious, as the simple minded, or shortsighted tree hit itself in its weakened head, finishing their work for them, breaking the cut they had started. A moment later the pine simply collapsed where it stood.

***************
Q’entril could not quite believe the ferocity of these dwarves. Orion himself had slain hundreds. Barely one dwarf in ten still stood, yet still they persisted. They attacked with reckless disregard for defense. Perhaps they were mad, or perhaps these had been touched by the wyld in some way. Whatever the reason, they were definitely a worthy foe. Orion’s feelings of pleasure and enjoyment were intoxicating in his mind. The Hunt Lord was culling the last of the orange beards on the western slope, as the Treesinger surveyed the field. Two of the Treemen had fallen and on the eastern end of the field the willow, Lartasin, was just lit aflame by some impressive dwarf with an axe that glowed of magic. The Wild Hunt had been reduced to a few hundred now, but the dwarves were likewise sparse in number.

It was now at it’s end, a battle of the elite. Wardancers and Alters weaved and struck out at the determined Slayers. Some of the Wild Riders fought on still, their mounts having been cut from underneath them; they continued the hunt on foot. One such Rider had just run down a dwarf and speared him through the belly. Yet the stubborn dwarf simply pulled himself further onto the shaft of the spear and beheaded his killer before falling himself to the ground.

Elsewhere there was a Dryad locked in a contest with another dwarf, her hands on the haft of her opponents axe. In one flash of motion, she released her grip and plunged a fist into the belly of her adversary, only to open her claws inside him and withdrawn her hand along with the stunty's filthy innards. As she walked away to seek her next victim, she was ensnared by the dwarves intestines, as he roped her with them, and painfully pulled her back before cleaving her in two.
****************

Thus it was all over the field. The remaining hardened warriors on both sides slew each other with equally gruesome effectiveness. The only one that killed at will with out any impeding him was the Hunt Lord of Loren.

Soon he stood alone for Athel Loren, and only four Slayers remained to challenge him. Baltri Redbeard, Snorri Stonefist, Owsiak and Ssupras were all seasoned members of the Brotherhood of Grimnir, each having earned the title of Dragon or Daemon Slayer. So much blood dripped off of them that it was impossible to tell if they were nursing any wounds themselves. Each gripped an axe that pulsed with runic energy.

Orion had underestimated his quarry that day, but he would not continue to do so. These four remaining would not make prey of him, and he knew the glow of those axes was something to beware. He feinted at one and then another, testing to see which was mostly likely to commit an error. They didn’t even flinch. They were worthy of his attentions.

Owsiak took the initiative, putting to good use the Runes of Swiftness and Fury. Racing in, he swung deftly at the daemon who parried three blows and then, using his spear, he vaulted over the Slayer’s head. Redbeard moved in next, scoring a nasty cut on the monster’s thigh, which only proved to enrage the beast further, and in return received the butt of the spear in his face. As Baltri spat teeth from his mouth, he watched the Daemon attack Snorri to his right, while Ssupras moved in from it’s left. Snorii defended brilliantly, and took one minor wound in this right leg from the serrated edge of the spear. As Ssupras moved in he aimed high at the distracted Daemon, hoping to bury the axe in the small of it’s back.

Orion had anticipated this. He simply released his left hand from the spear and reached back and surprised the dwarf by grabbing the axe in midswing. and promptly lifting the dwarf up, pulling him down to be impaled upon his prodigious antlers.

Ssupras died well, though he failed to land the Rune of Smiting, he died clawing out one of the Daemon’s eyes. The foe half blinded now, Redbeard charged in again, determined to make the monster feel the bite of the Runes of Might and Fire. The Monster counter attacked while stamping his good leg in the blood soaked earth, spraying a carnal mud in the face of the approaching Owsiak. Baltri traded blow for blow and then saw an opening where he might remove the monsters leg right at the knee.

Orion was enjoying himself. It had been long since he had prey that could challenge him. This large dwarf swung at his wounded leg with a dismembering blow, so the Hunter leaned over and used all his strength to plan his spear haft in the ground and blocked the blow, though only just barely. Had not he held it with both hands against the strike, he may not have prevented it. With unnatural speed, he straightened up and flicked the butt of the spear staff between the legs of the impudent dwarf sending him flying up in the air.

Baltri had never expected to be flipped in the air like some flat cake. The hellish daemon had planned it well, and he saw that its plan was that he land on the raised point of it’s spear. “Well I still have my axe,” thought Baltri, and he prepared his final strike as he fell on the spear. For an instant his body hung helpless 5 meters in the air and then struck his final blow, bringing his axe down against the Daemon’s wrist. The blow was clean and took the monster by surprise. Green ichor gushed on Baltri from the wrist stump as he fell once again and died.

Owsiak had cleared his face and moved in with the blessing of the Rune of Swiftness and struck while the Daemon’s face was skyward, spitting Baltri. He landed his blow in the beast’s abdomen, and passed through its legs. But he did not escape. With it’s good leg the Daemon kicked out to the rear. The hoof broke his back and sent the slayer flying fifty meters until he was impaled on the jagged remains of a Timber Beast.

Orion was enraged beyond almost all reasonable thought. The pain angered him to a degree unimaginable by mortals. With his one remaining hand he picked up the spear and stepping on the skewered corpse of the cursed dwarf, pealed it from his weapon. Seeing the cursed axe that had taken his hand, Orion brought his spear down on the flat of the axe head. With a blinding flash the magic of the two weapons contested and then a loud crack was heard. Satisfied, now that the axe was broken in two, the Hunter looked for his final challanger. The last stunty was limping as well but had climbed a nearby tall tree stump a few dozen meters away. Very well, he wants me to come to him, then death will come. With a roar of pure rage, the Lord of the Hunt charged the last dwarf.

Snorri knew this was his doom and welcomed it. He only prayed the blessings of the Grudge Rune be granted today. He jumped forward and brought the axe down into the daemon’s left breast, even as he was run through with that massive spear. Both of their blood’s spilled freely from their dual deathblows.

There it ended. Just before midday, scarcely two hours after it the horn had been sounded the battle of the Slayers and Wild Hunt ended with both armies entirely spent.

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

(Continued in Part 2)