Rise of the Horde - Chapter 573 - 573

The Iron Hills rose from the northern horizon like the bones of the earth laid bare. Jagged peaks of gray stone crowned with snow stretched as far as the eye could see, their slopes scarred by centuries of mining. Great plumes of smoke rose from countless forges hidden within the mountains, staining the sky with a permanent haze of ash and industry. Even from miles away, the distant clanging of hammers on anvils could be heard, a rhythm as eternal as the mountains themselves.

Lord Darl Harrow, senior envoy of the Snowe family, pulled his cloak tighter against the cold wind as his horse picked its way along the ancient road leading to Khaz-Dorum, the greatest of the dwarven fortress-cities. Behind him rode four other messengers, each bearing the banners and seals of House Snowe, along with a small escort of twenty mounted soldiers.

It had been a hard journey. A week through mountain passes and treacherous terrain. Three horses lost to rockslides. One soldier buried after falling ill from the cold. But they had finally arrived, and Darl allowed himself a moment of relief.

The dwarves were difficult trading partners, certainly. Stubborn, proud, and utterly inflexible in their bargaining. But they were also reliable. For three generations, the Ironbeard Clan had supplied Threia with their finest weapons… the thundermakers that could shatter stone walls, the boomsticks that could drop an armored knight at a hundred paces. The alliance had been profitable for both sides.

Surely, Darl thought, they would be willing to accelerate delivery of the siege weapons General Snowe so desperately needed in the east.

He was wrong.

The gates of Khaz-Dorum loomed before them like the entrance to another world. Massive doors of iron-bound oak, each standing forty feet high and wide enough for three wagons to pass abreast, were set into the mountainside itself. Above the gates, carved into the living stone, were runes of power and protection that had been ancient when Threia was still a collection of scattered villages. Watchtowers flanked the entrance, their battlements bristling with the distinctive barrels of dwarven thundermakers.

As the Threian party approached, a horn sounded from above. Deep and resonant, it echoed across the valley like the voice of the mountain itself.

Darl raised his hand, signaling his party to halt. He dismounted, taking the ceremonial staff of envoy that marked his status as official representative of a noble house. Beside him, one of the younger messengers unfurled the Snowe family banner, letting it catch the wind.

“Hail the guardians of Khaz-Dorum!” Darl called out in the formal manner prescribed by decades of diplomatic tradition. “I am Lord Darl Harrow, envoy of House Snowe of the Kingdom of Threia! I come bearing messages of great importance and seek audience with the Thane of the Ironbeard Clan!”

Silence answered him.

Then, from the battlements above, a figure appeared. Even from this distance, Darl could make out the distinctive silhouette of a dwarf… broad-shouldered, heavily armored, a magnificent beard braided with iron rings that gleamed in the pale sunlight.

“Manlings!” the dwarf bellowed, his voice carrying with surprising volume. “Ye’ve got some stones comin’ here! Turn yer horses around and get ye gone before I show ye what happens to unwelcome guests!”

Darl blinked, certain he had misheard. “I… I beg your pardon? I am an official envoy bearing…”

“I know what ye are!” the dwarf interrupted. “And I know what ye want! Thundermakers, boomsticks, powder and shot to kill yer enemies! Well ye can forget it! The Ironbeard Clan wants nothin’ more to do with the likes of Threia!”

A murmur of confusion ran through the Threian party. Darl felt his carefully prepared diplomatic opening evaporating. He tried again, keeping his voice steady and respectful.

“Master dwarf, there must be some misunderstanding. House Snowe has maintained honorable trade relations with your people for three generations. We have paid fairly, kept our agreements, and shown proper respect to your craftsmen. Whatever offense we may have unknowingly given…”

“Unknowingly?” the dwarf roared, and now Darl could see his face was flushed with genuine anger. “UNKNOWINGLY? Ye made dealings with the long-ears! Ye took their silver and their promises! Ye stood beside pointed-eared, tree-hugging, flower-sniffing cowards who wouldn’t know honest stone and steel if it fell on their dainty heads!”

Understanding crashed over Darl like a wave of ice water. The elves. This was about the elves.

Six months ago, the Threian crown had finally succeeded in establishing formal trade relations with the elves of Kasha’norah Forest, the elven group to the east. It had been a diplomatic triumph, opening access to elven goods, magical knowledge, and potential military alliance. The court had celebrated for a week.

Apparently, the dwarves had not celebrated.

“Master dwarf,” Darl said carefully, “the arrangement with the elves of Kasha’norah Forest was purely commercial. It in no way diminishes our relationship with…”

“PURELY COMMERCIAL?” Another dwarf appeared on the battlements, this one even more heavily bearded, his armor adorned with master craftsman’s symbols. “Ye think we care about yer coin when ye’ve spat on centuries of tradition? When ye’ve chosen those prancing, prissy, pointy-eared fools over the folk who armed yer grandfathers?”

A third dwarf joined them, and Darl’s heart sank as he recognized the insignia of a Thane’s guard.

“Listen well, manling!” the first dwarf continued. “The dawi have long memories, aye! We remember when yer kingdom was nothin’ but mud huts and pig farms! We remember when we taught ye the secrets of black powder! We remember every barrel, every boomstick, every ounce of shot we sold ye!”

“And we remember the grudges!” the second dwarf added, his voice like grinding stone. “The elgi… the long-ears… they’ve wronged the dawi for three thousand years! They stole our secrets! They broke their oaths! They cost us blood and gold beyond counting! And now ye… ye manlings who we treated as honest trading partners… ye take THEIR side?”

“We haven’t taken anyone’s side!” Darl protested, his diplomatic composure beginning to crack. “The Kingdom of Threia simply expanded its trade relationships! This has nothing to do with any ancient conflicts between…”

“ANCIENT?” The roar came from all three dwarves simultaneously, and several more appeared on the battlements. “There’s no such thing as an ancient grudge, ye beard-bare whelp! A grudge is a grudge! Written in the Book of Grudges it is, and it’ll stay there until it’s settled proper!”

The first dwarf leaned over the battlements, his braided beard swinging. “The Thane of Ironbeard Clan declared it himself! Any kingdom what deals with the elgi is no friend of Khaz-Dorum! All contracts are void! All trade is ended! All deals are null! Ye want weapons? Go ask yer pointy-eared friends to shoot ye some magic sparkles!”

Darl felt desperation rising. Without dwarven weapons, General Snowe’s position in the north was untenable. The thundermakers were the only artillery capable of matching whatever the orcs might field. The boomsticks were irreplaceable.

“Please,” he said, hating the pleading tone in his voice. “We have gold. Double the usual rate. Triple if necessary. Our forces in the east face a massive orcish horde. Without your weapons…”

“Then ye should’ve thought of that before cozyin’ up to the tree-worshippers!” the second dwarf barked. “Ye made yer choice, manling! Ye chose elgi silver over dawi steel! Now ye live with it!”

“But our soldiers will die!” one of the younger Threian messengers burst out. “Hundreds… thousands will die without proper equipment!”

The third dwarf, who had been silent until now, spoke with a voice like a mountain grinding itself to pieces.

“Then they die,” he said simply. “Better that than the dawi betray every oath and principle we hold sacred. We don’t arm the allies of our enemies. We don’t trade with oath-breakers. And we sure as stone don’t give weapons to folk who can’t decide whose side they’re on.”

Darl tried one more time, his voice rising. “I demand to speak with the Thane directly! This is a matter of…”

“Ye demand NOTHING!” the first dwarf roared. “Ye stand before the gates of Khaz-Dorum with no invitation, no welcome, and no business! The Thane’s already spoken his piece! Now ye’ve got to the count of one hundred to get yer manling arses beyond bowshot of these walls, or by Grungni’s beard, we’ll give ye a demonstration of what our thundermakers can do!”

As if to emphasize the point, there was a grinding sound of metal on stone. Along the battlements, the barrels of massive cannons… thundermakers far larger than anything the Threians had ever purchased… began to swing toward the party below. Each barrel was easily ten feet long, their bores wide enough to swallow a man’s head. Behind them, dwarven crews moved with practiced efficiency, loading powder and shot.

“One hundred!” the dwarf bellowed, beginning to count. “Ninety-nine! Ninety-eight!”

“This is madness!” Darl shouted back. “We are official envoys! We carry diplomatic protection!”

“Ninety-four! Ninety-three! Diplomatic protection don’t mean shite when ye’re trespassing on dawi land!” More cannons appeared, their barrels angling downward. “Eighty-eight! Eighty-seven!”

“My lord,” one of the soldiers said urgently, his hand on Darl’s shoulder. “We should go. They’re serious.”

“Seventy-nine! Seventy-eight! That’s right, start thinkin’ smart!” The dwarves on the wall had been joined by at least two dozen more, all armed, all clearly eager for an excuse to fire.

Darl looked up at the massive gates, at the weapons trained on his party, at the absolutely implacable expressions on the dwarven faces. He had been a diplomat for twenty years. He knew when a negotiation was possible and when it was dead in the water.

This was dead.

“Sixty-one! Sixty! If I get to fifty, we open fire!”

“Mount up,” Darl said quietly, defeat heavy in his voice. “We’re leaving.”

“Finally showing some sense!” the dwarf called down. “Forty-nine! Forty-eight! Better hurry, manlings! My finger’s gettin’ itchy!”

The Threian party scrambled onto their horses, no longer caring about dignity or ceremony. As they turned their mounts and began to retreat down the mountain road, the counting continued, now joined by other dwarven voices in a mocking chorus.

“Thirty-two! Thirty-one! That’s it, run along! Go cry to yer elven friends!”

“Tell yer king he should’ve thought twice before betrayin’ his oldest allies!”

“And don’t ye DARE come back! Not today, not tomorrow, not till ye’ve broken with those leaf-loving long-ears! That’s goin’ in the Book of Grudges, it is! The day Threia chose pointy ears over honest dawi craft!”

A boom echoed across the valley, making the horses shy and the humans flinch. But it was only a warning shot, the massive cannonball sailing over their heads to crash into a hillside a quarter mile away. The impact gouged a crater the size of a wagon.

“Next one won’t miss!” came the gleeful shout from the walls.

The Threian party didn’t need further encouragement. They urged their horses into a gallop, putting distance between themselves and the fortress gates as fast as the treacherous mountain road would allow.

Behind them, dwarven laughter echoed off the mountains, harsh and unforgiving.

*****

Three hours later, when they were well beyond sight of Khaz-Dorum, Darl finally called a halt. The horses were lathered and exhausted, and the humans were little better. They made camp in a shallow ravine, sheltered from the worst of the wind.

As the soldiers tended the horses and set up a watch, the messengers gathered around Darl. Their faces were pale, their expressions ranging from shock to anger to fear.

“What do we tell the lord?” one of them asked. “How do we explain this?”

Darl stared into the small fire they’d built, his mind racing. General Snowe was counting on those weapons. The entire orcish campaign had been planned around having dwarven artillery to counter whatever the orcs might field. Without it…

“We tell him the truth,” he said finally. “The dwarves have severed all trade relations with Threia because of our alliance with the elves. All existing contracts are void. They will not sell us weapons at any price.”

“The lord will be furious,” another messenger said. “He’ll blame us.”

“Let him,” Darl replied bitterly. “It’s not our fault the crown decided to make deals with the elves without considering the consequences. The dwarves and elves have hated each other for millennia. Did no one in the capital think that forming an alliance with one might cost us the other?”

Silence fell over the group as the implications sank in.

“There’s more,” the youngest messenger said quietly. “While we were riding here, I heard rumors in the towns. The royal envoys… the ones sent two weeks before us with offers of increased trade… they were also turned away. Same reason. Same threats.”

Darl’s head snapped up. “The royal envoys? Why wasn’t I told?”

“I only heard whispers. I wasn’t certain it was true until… well, until today.”

“So even the king’s own representatives were rejected,” Darl said slowly. “This isn’t just about House Snowe. The dwarves have cut off the entire kingdom.”

“What about the weapons already in our possession?” one of the soldiers asked. “The thundermakers and boomsticks we already purchased?”

“We have what we have,” Darl replied. “But with no access to dwarven powder, no replacement parts, no new ammunition… those weapons will become useless within months. Perhaps weeks if there’s heavy fighting.”

He stood, pacing the small camp. “The dwarves weren’t just our weapons suppliers. They were our technological edge. Their thundermakers could break any fortification. Their boomsticks could cut down cavalry charges. Without them…”

“We’re back to swords and bows,” another messenger finished grimly. “Like every other kingdom.”

“Worse,” Darl said. “Because our enemies will know we’ve lost that edge. Word will spread. The orcs will learn. Other kingdoms will take note. Threia’s military superiority was built on dwarven weapons. Now that foundation is gone.”

One of the messengers pulled out a journal and began writing. “I’ll prepare the report for General Snowe. He needs to know immediately.”

“Make sure he understands the finality of it,” Darl instructed. “This isn’t a negotiating position. It’s not a temporary dispute. The dwarves see our alliance with the elves as a fundamental betrayal. They’ve written it in their Book of Grudges, whatever that is. From what I understand of dwarven culture, that means this grudge will last centuries unless properly settled.”

“And how does one settle a dwarven grudge?”

Darl thought back to the fury in the dwarves’ voices, the genuine rage at what they saw as betrayal.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I suspect it would require either breaking our alliance with the elves entirely, or… something of equivalent value to the dwarves. Reparations. Public apology. Who knows. And I very much doubt the crown is prepared to do any of that.”

The group fell silent again, each man lost in his own thoughts.

Finally, one of the older soldiers spoke up. “My lord, permission to speak freely?”

“Granted.”

“I served under General Snowe for fifteen years. Fought in the Borderlands Campaign, the Coastal Wars, the Rebellion of the Western Lords. Every major engagement, we had dwarven weapons. They were… they were our advantage. Our edge.” He stared at the fire, his weathered face troubled. “Without them, the general’s position in the north… sir, it’s bad, isn’t it?”

Darl wanted to lie. Wanted to offer reassurance. But these men deserved the truth.

“Yes,” he said simply. “It’s very bad. The general requested those weapons for a reason. He’s facing a massive orcish force with limited supplies and no reinforcements. The thundermakers were supposed to be his siege-breaking solution. The boomsticks were supposed to give his infantry the firepower to hold against superior numbers.”

“And now?”

“Now he fights with what he has. And he hopes it’s enough.”

The wind picked up, whistling through the ravine. In the distance, barely visible through the gathering darkness, the lights of Khaz-Dorum glowed like stars fallen to earth. The forges burned day and night, producing weapons and armor that would never again be sold to Threia.

“We leave at first light,” Darl announced. “The house needs to know as soon as possible. Every day of delay could cost lives.”

The messengers nodded and dispersed to their bedrolls. But Darl remained by the fire long into the night, staring at the flames and wondering how he would explain to General Snowe that their most reliable allies had just become their bitterest former friends.

And wondering how many soldiers would die because of it.

*****

High above, on the battlements of Khaz-Dorum, the dwarves watched the distant campfire with satisfaction.

“Ye think they got the message?” one asked, taking a long pull from a stone mug of ale.

“Oh, they got it alright,” another replied, his beard bristling with satisfaction. “Saw the look on that lead manling’s face. Like he’d been hit with a hammer.”

“Good,” a third dwarf growled. “Let ’em suffer. Let ’em learn what it means to betray the dawi. Three generations we traded with ’em, fair and square. Gave ’em the best weapons in the world. And they throw it away for what? Elven promises? Bah!”

“The elgi will betray ’em too,” the first dwarf said confidently. “Always do. Long-ears can’t help themselves. Make promises pretty as poetry, then vanish like morning mist when things get hard. The manlings’ll learn. Eventually. But not if the manlings betray ’em first.”

“By then it’ll be too late,” another added. “Their armies will be dead in the east. Their kingdom weakened. And we’ll still be here, in our mountains, strong as the stone itself.”

They raised their mugs in a toast.

“To grudges properly kept!”

“To oaths properly honored!”

“And to the manlings learning the hard way what happens when ye choose elgi over dawi!”

Their laughter echoed across the mountainside, hard and unforgiving as the stone beneath their feet.

And far to the east, in camps scattered across hostile territory, Threian soldiers prepared for battles they would now fight without the weapons they had been counting on.

The web of consequences was tightening.

And no one in power seemed to realize it yet.