Valaya Protects
By Orcslicer

A dusty cough echoed across the dimly lit council chamber, a harsh noise like rocks grinding against each other. The sound brought the dozen members of the warcouncil to a respectful silence as they retook their crafted stone seats and looked to the figure at the head of the table. High King Kurgan Ironbeard rapped his knuckles thoughtfully against the surface, sweeping his gaze across the assembly of figures. On his immediate left sat Grogan Helgenhammer, War-mourner and General of the Enduring Realm. To his side sat Thanes Hullin Hwellin and Alrik Dragonaxe, both grave faced and attentive. Opposite the King were five Dwarfs so ancient that their faces were barely visible beneath beards so long they flowed like rivers of pearl. Next to them, Furgil Hirndour and Noldir Greymane. The remaining two Thanes finished their whispered conversation and turned dutifully to face the High King.
The final seat was empty, its would-be occupant pacing the room tirelessly. Alrik snorted disdainfully at the visitor’s disrespectful behaviour, but resolved to remain silent. The Asrai were a strange folk, and their ambassador was, after all, their guest.

“Is there no other way?” asked Kurgan, directing his question at no-one in particular.
“Nagash can not be allowed to reconstruct the staff himself. The consequences would be dire for the entire alliance,” responded Garn Thunderbrow, the oldest of the Runelords facing the High King. The remainder all gave affirmations of the statement, nodding tiredly or murmuring in agreement.
“Thanes, what say you?”
Hullin was first to reply. “If we go ahead with this plan, we stand to lose our empire.”
“If we do not, we could stand to lose the Old World to the forces of darkness. Nagash knows of the staff – he will come looking for it regardless of our actions,” countered Noldir.
“We have two options; cower in our holds while Nagash grows in strength with his experiments into the black arts, or make a sacrifice that’ll render Nagash paralyzed if we succeed,” spoke Furgil, his voice resolute in contrast to the uncertainty in his eyes.
“You make it sound like we have no choice at all…” replied Kurgan, a slight smile playing on his lips for the first time in hours.
“What choice do we have my liege? We can not afford to stand idle. This is a sacrifice we must make, for the greater good of the alliance.”
Kurgan sighed heavily and stared at the small, gold statue of Grungni in front of him. The scene was like a painting, the council all motionless as they waited for the King’s decision. A moment that would define the fate of the Dwarven Empire.

After what seemed an eternity, Kurgan Ironbeard grasped the small statue. Holding it out to Furgil, he spoke with the resolve of a Dwarf that had made up his mind.
“For Grungni, and the glory of the Burning Star.”

*******

A writhing storm of sand battered the dwarven artillery as they stood atop the shifting dunes. It was as though the deserts of Nehekhara knew the Dwarfs were intruders and the land itself was rejecting them like some sort of parasite. Despite the sweltering conditions, the cannons had done their job. A final barrage smashed into an already weakened fault line. With an ominous groan the colossal sandstone walls of Khemri tumbled to the ground and scattered across the sands.

Dwarf and Elven forces poured into the city, overwhelming the armies of the desert in a matter of minutes. They drove the defenders deeper into the city, leaving them with no avenue escape with which to warn their allies; it was vital to the alliance that no reinforcements arrived to interfere with their plan before it reached fruition.

Inside the city, Furgil dropped his helmet to the ground and threw the contents of a canteen across his face. Sweat and blood filtered through his beard and fell to the ground, where it quickly evaporated in the heat before a pool could form. Looking around for some shade, he moved to the dark side of the Black Pyramid.
The proximity to the building made him feel queasy; Runelord Garn Thunderbrow had explained to him about the building being a sink for Dhar magic. Though he did not have the sight of the Elven Seers, he could still sense the malevolence and corruption that infused the building.
“It disturbs you too?” spoke a quiet voice behind him. Turning slowly, the Dwarf smiled. Aeliaria, Kindred Leader of the Wood Elves stood behind him, her face wrinkled in disgust. Unusually fair even for an Elf, she tossed her hair over her loose silk robes and met the Dwarf’s steady gaze. He could see why she was referred to as “The Princess”.
“What disturbs me is how ye’ survive this intolerable heat without breaking a sweat. I’m down two notches on me belt already!” growled Furgil, shaking off the question gruffly.
Aeliaria merely smiled in response, motioning the Dwarf to follow.
“Come Thane, the Seers have found the layline to the pyramid.”

The pair walked to the other side of the pyramid, meeting a cluster of Asrai standing at what appeared to be an identical wall of black rock.
“Here,” one of the Seers said to the Dwarf, tracing a symbol over the black rock.
“I’ll take your word for it.” responded Furgil, seeing no difference in that particular point from any other on the sloping wall.
Several moments passed in silence.
“So… this stone circle. You can find it?” prompted the Dwarf somewhat awkwardly. He had not dealt with Elves for a long time, and forgotten how aloof they were. Perhaps that was why he felt somewhat closer to Aeliaria than the other Wood Elves, her mannerisms were often far more down to earth and direct.
“Yes,” answered another of the Seers, as they continued to examine the black stone.

From a pouch at his side, Furgil withdrew an item wrapped in cloth. Removing it from its protective bindings he was almost dazzled by the brightness of the solid gold effigy. It was statue of an aged Dwarf in flowing robes holding a staff. Grungni himself. The Runelord’s had explained the process that was to be conducted by the Seers to him, but he remembered little of it. Only that gold attracted a specific wind of magic, which would be amplified greatly by the presence of a stone circle. What it would do to magic trapped in the rune on the statue, Furgil did not know. Only that it was worth risking the lives of the Dal-Undim and the Wild Hunt on this assault deep into Nehekhara.

Handing the statue warily to the Seers, Furgil spoke:
“Do what you must.”

*********

A howling wind buffeted the peaks of the Worlds Edge Mountains, a low and mournful sound to the ears of Thane Noldir Greymane. He stood atop Karagril, the highest of Karak-Eight-Peak’s bastion mountains. Below him, the entire known world stretched in all directions. Had it been day, Noldir would be able to see as far as the great forests of Reikland in the north, down to the arid deserts of the south. That night however, Noldir ignored the wonders laid out before him. Instead, mesmerized by the orange glow of thousands of torch lights, he watched as the hosts of Nehekhara neared the city.
He had stood on this great balcony many times before, ever since his father had brought him there as a child. The hold had been his home all his life, and he had never thought that he would live to see it fall. The numbers of the besiegers were vast beyond imagination, and he knew in his heart that the city walls would fall despite their best defenses.

“Have faith, old friend,” spoke a warm voice from behind Noldir.
Noldir whipped round in surprise and anger.
“How did you get up here? I locked the doorway! My orders were not to be distur…” he began, somewhat startled. His voice trailed off as he looked at the Dwarf standing behind him. His beard was great and white; his eyes were like pools of ice. Noldir glimpsed great age and wisdom in the depths of those eyes that the Dwarf’s muscular frame did not reveal.
“Do I know you?” Noldir asked uncertainly.
The Dwarf chuckled quietly, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Now, that really is a question that would befuddle a beardling. Look deep inside yourself Thane, and you will find you’ve always known me.”
With dawning realization, the Thane dropped humbly to one knee.
“My lord Grombrindal, you have returned.”
“Stand up Noldir, and less of the titles. I am not your lord or master. I’m just an old Dwarf here to lend my axe to the cause.” The White Dwarf offered a rough hand to the kneeling Dwarf. “And for the record, I never left.”
Noldir nodded, and with a deep breath pulled himself to his feet with renewed determination. The walls of Karak Eight Peaks would fall, but the spirit and strength of the Dwarfs would not. By the will of his people, Noldir would hold the vaults beneath the hold against the forces of darkness to his dying breath.

*********

“Steady lads!” yelled Noldir down the line of Dwarf rangers. They stood shoulder to shoulder, crossbows raised towards the opening at the far end of the dark underground chamber. Six long months had passed since Grombrindal had first appeared. The constant warfare had worn down the Khazrik-Undim, but not their spirit or resolve.
The first of the Nehekaran forces began to pile into the subterranean catacomb, a full hundred longspears dressed simple white robes, followed by a smaller contingent of the royal guard dressed in crimson, armour decorated with intricate swirls of gold.
Noldir groaned silently. His own only numbered two dozen. He only hoped that their experience and skill would be his great equalizer.
“Wait for my command!” he shouted, somewhat redundantly. Months of war had turned even the youngest of beardlings into veterans, and they waited unflinchingly for the Thane’s command to fire.

Noldir counted down the paces as the enemy charged closer, waiting for them to get into optimum range. Every shot had to count, as there would be no chance to reload.
About to raise his arm to signal to fire, Noldir stopped. With warning, an unremitting hail of bow fire began to rain from the darkness either side of the Nehekharan raiding force. The strange war cries of the southlanders quickly changed to shouts of panic and pain, as scores fell under the rain of missiles. Within a minute, the enemy either lay dead, mortally wounded or fleeing for their lives.

Noldir took a hearty swig from his hip flask, watching the darkness with a cautious eye. From it, began to emerge scores of Elves dressed in flowing green and a Dwarf he knew well.
“Furgil, you sly dog! You’ve returned!” Noldir bellowed across the hall, dropping his crossbow and running towards his old friend. He embraced Furgil in a great bear hug.
“It’s great to see you Noldir!” replied Furgil, grinning broadly as he motioned to his companions. “Meet Aeliaria and her kindred of Wood Elves.”
“Mistress, I speak with all sincerity when I say that I’ve never been happier to see an Elf in all my days!” laughed Noldir, extending a hand to the elven leader.
“But come, now is not the time for joviality. You’ve arrived not a moment too soon; Nagash is throwing everything at our defenses in a final attempt to overwhelm them.”
“Has anything fallen?” asked Furgil, suddenly serious again.
“We lost Khaz-Galaz and all the surrounding vaults a few weeks back. Nagash will have stumbled on some pretty trinkets like the iron circlet I’ll wager, but nothing compared to the treasures in the vaults we still hold.”
Furgil nodded in agreement.
“How many of you left?”
“Four hundred maybe, it’s hard to keep track. More die every day.”
Noldir sighed deeply, letting his eyes wander over the elves in the hall before resting on Furgil once more.
“I take it your mission was successful?” enquired Noldir.
In answer, Furgil reached for the pouch by his side and pulled out a bundle wrapped in a velvet cloth. Pulling it delicately aside he held it out to Noldir, who gasped in awe. The statue of Grungni was the same that he had seen the King give to Furgil, yet somehow… different. The gold glowed more fervently, the rune shimmered and swirled like nothing Noldir had ever seen.

“CONSTRUCTS!”
The cry from one of his rangers brought the Thane from his semi-trance.
“How many?”
“Groz.” Came the reply in Khazalid. Lots. Noldir swore violently.
“Our time runs short. Take the passage behind me, follow it left, right, then left again. The passwords are the same as before. Get the statue to Runelord Thunderbrow.” Noldir whispered quickly to Furgil before walking back to pick over his crossbow. Seeing Furgil hesitating, Noldir shouted back to him.
“The Ushabti are Nagash’s twisted sorcery at their strongest. Fearsome fighters. Go Furgil, and for Grungni’s sake get the staff reforged. I’ll buy you time.”
Furgil nodded, and signaled for the Dwarfs and Elves to follow him.

******

Garn Thunderbrow squinted; his curious face creasing into a network of deep fissures like the stalagmite above him.
“Amazing,” he murmured as he examined the rune of Grimnir on the statue.
After what seemed an eternity, he looked up. Mildly surprised to find the many of the original warcouncil all watching in stony silence.
“Furgil, I do believe we owe you and the Elves a debt of gratitude.”
A rolling explosion echoed somewhere far above them, dislodging flakes of dust and stone from the vaulted ceiling that rained down on the Dwarfs and Elves.

Nagash was desperately trying to breach the upper sanctum, assaulting the runic gateway with the full extent of his corrupt magic.

Garn turned to the council of runesmiths and motioned to them from his position by the simple stone altar.
“Bring forth the staff pieces.”
Three of the Runelords stepped forward, each carrying an object covered with a silk cloth trimmed with burnished gold. Climbing the eight steps to the top of the ziggurat where the altar was built they laid the items on the altar, and respectfully stepped back to give Garn room to work. Each was over half a millennia in age, but this was nothing compared to the rumours of Garn Thunderbrow’s true age.

One by one, he lovingly removed the cloth from each staff part. The first revealed a headpiece of flawless craftsmanship, a sculpt of the dwarven goddess herself crowned with a winged helm. The second, a beautifully cut diamond in the shape of a white dove, the symbol of healing. The final part was a slender rod made of silver, completely smooth save for a single rune etched into the surface.
The runelord with an air of finality placed the statue among the objects, watching as they began to glow and glitter as if in excitement. The Runelord closed his eyes and murmured a short prayer to the ancestors. When he had steadied himself, he placed a hand on the staff.
“Valaya Karin,” he spoke willfully, invoking the rune’s magic. Valaya Protects.

The altar disappeared in a blinding flash of light, the shockwave throwing all the observers to the floor as the very bones of the mountains shuddered.
In that same instant, the Old World shook. Throughout the Karaz Angkor the mighty armies of Nagash began to crumble. The fearful Ushabti constructs and walking dead crumbled to the ground, their vacant, macabre grins seemed to sigh as they embraced the deaths Nagash had denied.
The Lord of Undeath himself gave a single ethereal scream as his body was torn from his muscular host and forced into the withered husk that had once been his own, his dark magic choked and useless.

In that instant, the tide was turned. The staff of Valaya herself, banisher of magic, healer of the wounded and mother of the enduring realm had been reforged. By nightfall, the once great armies of Nehekhara had fled the great city in disarray. Above them, a burning star lit up the night sky, brighter than ever before.