Despair. Anger. Familiarity. A whole spectrum of emotion washed over those Dwarves like a rogue wave. Some were gawking, some were screaming, but most were silent. Silent in their grief and reluctance. All the while, those Gravewalkers shuffled forward, not one flash of humanity visible in their cloudy, swollen stares.
“Those faces… I recognise them!” One Dwarf blinked, unable to face the horror unfolding in front of him, “I’ve met these people! I’ve laughed with them! Cried with them! Shared drinks with them!”
“It can’t be…” Another fell to his knees, the lightning thrower in his grasp clattering to the ground, “Those can’t be the eyes of the woman I fell in love with… w-where is he? Where is my child!? He must have been spared from this madness!”
“What the fuck are you milk-supping cowards doing!?” The Dwarf commanding their attack screamed over his shoulder, “These walking corpses are no longer people! This is exactly what those necromancers are looking for! The rest of you - fire those lightning throwers at will! Burn those husks to a crisp!”
But his words fell upon deaf ears. Up to that moment, those soldiers had been butchering the remains of humans and monsters, desensitising themselves to the violence, shoving horror to the back of their minds. Thralls were nothing but mindless creatures in their eyes. But now, they were forced to contend with an attack on their very souls, given the cruel duty of executing their kind, their families, and their dearest friends.
“What’s the point…? What’s the fucking point!?” A soldier slammed his fist against the ground. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, “What am I fighting for, if not my family!? My comrades!? Without them, I have nothing! And you expect us to desecrate the remains of our own wives!? Our children!? If it was your family shambling towards us, would you still be commanding us to fire!?”
“You insubordinate coward!” The commander yelled, “What’s done is done! You fight in the name of Alberich, even if it means putting your own kin out of their misery!”
“Hm…” Drayya exhaled through her nose and crossed her arms, “How pathetic. They’re so caught up in their own emotions that they don’t realise how much ground we’re gaining.”
Regardless of the Dwarves’ protests, the Gravewalkers continued their march. The gap between both parties shortened with every passing second. The game board had been flipped so suddenly that even Drayya was surprised by her plan’s efficacy.
A vein throbbed on the commander’s forehead as he took stock of the situation, “...Then get a move on! If you’re too pathetic to raise your hand against a thrall, then don’t just sit there waitin’ for death! Go on - get your arses out of here!”
In the face of shattered morale, there was only one solution that could possibly save face - a tactical withdrawal. Before the Gravewalkers could work their way to the end of the corridor, the Dwarves were already well on their way to evacuating the premises, some of whom lacked the hope to muster anything more than a defeated trot.
“Oi! Take the lightning throwers with you, for the love of all that’s good!” With two of the pronged devices under each arm, the commander gritted his teeth as he backed away from the oncoming horde “...Shit! No time!”
With defeat plastered across his rugged features, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Drayya commanded the thralls to return before they ended up chasing the Dwarves across the mountain. “Someone grab one of those lightning bows!” She shouted, “Get yourselves back to the residential district! We’ll be moving on in the next ten minutes!”
A Deathguard graciously ran over to retrieve one of the devices and hauled it back up to the beehive chamber. Drayya took the weapon in both hands and marvelled at its craftsmanship, twiddling the colourful wires and squeezing the trigger on the underside with her index finger.
“It doesn’t have any ammunition…” She muttered, “Is it powered by magic?”
Roland wandered over and raised an eyebrow, “What in the Briar’s name is that supposed to be?”
He ducked away when Drayya pointed the twin prongs in his direction, “Don’t point it at me!”
“Hm…” She turned her head towards a nearby thrall, commanding it to stand in front of her. The Gravewalker’s slack-jawed obedience made it a simple enough matter to line up the weapon’s crude sight on its head. Roland and the others stepped back to avoid being fried. As soon as Drayya pulled the trigger, she was blinded by a flash of light. In the next second, the thrall was a spasming wreck, convulsing with enough force to throw it to the ground.
“I barely had to aim it…” Drayya’s voice was tinged with curiosity, “The range doesn’t seem fantastic, but it’s enough to keep anything made of flesh and bone at bay. We’ll have to assume that most of the Dwarves we’ll be going up against will have at least a few of these things at the ready. Lieze will want to hear about this.”
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“We only scared those soldiers off.” Roland warned, “If we linger here, I doubt that strategy is going to work half as well the second time around.”
“-But you have to admit that it was a pretty good strategy.” She smirked, “Now that we’ve scoured the western mountains and reunited with you three, it’s about time we regrouped with Lieze’s force. I’ll bet she could do with some support down in those workshops.”
“Marché and I will make sure most of the Deathguards are equipped with those weapons.” He nodded, “I’ve spent long enough skulking through these humid halls. Hopefully we can wrap this war up before I forget what the sun looks like.”
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Within the depths of Alberich’s iron palace, there sat a room beneath any other. Devoid of light and sound, it resembled a cruel oubliette to the untrained eye - an eternal prison to stow the very worst of Dwarven society until the air was suffused with the spirits of the wicked dead. The fortress guards were fond of those rumours, forbidden from ever entering themselves. Though on occasion, when the mountain’s magma heated the hours of the night, it was said that hushed voices could be heard from those fathomless depths.
Only Alberich and Mime were allowed to traverse that hallowed pit. When times were dire, they threw open the grated hatch and lowered themselves down the ladder, descended the iron steps, and threw open the engraved iron doors separating them from the secrets beyond.
It was the privilege of a king and his most trusted advisors to seek wisdom from those who consorted with the far cosmos. Alberich had lost count of how many times he had knelt upon that lonely pillar in the abyss, and yet he could never quite quell the sensation that something about that cavernous chamber was deeply wrong - wrong on a level that transcended conventional perception.
Reacting to his presence, violet smoke poured out from the magical censers shelved within countless alcoves along the walls. The smell made him nauseous, lightheaded, and ecstatic all at once. Dark as that chamber was, seeking the faces of those who dwelled within its darkness was a fool’s errand. Alberich wasn’t certain that he wanted to see. Their voices may have been human, but there was nothing soulful about the emptiness in their collective tone.
No - all he could perceive was the block of text hovering over their heads in the shadows. And what he saw were not the names of Dwarves, humans, or Elves, but incomprehensible characters of a language so complicated and alien that he risked a headache merely by examining them. It was in that room, and that room only, where Alberich felt true fear - the instinctual fear experienced by a specimen under glass.
One Thousand and One Orphans Wagered,
One Thousand and One Eyes Won,
From the Beginning, to the End, to the In-Between,
These Childlike Eyes Perceive All That Was, and All That Will Be.
Make the Sacrifice.
From his waist, Alberich drew a crystalline dagger and held one stubby arm over the abyss. He winced as the tip pierced his flesh, causing fresh blood to trickle into the darkness. No matter how much he focused his hearing, there was no sound of the droplets hitting the distant floor - if there was one.
Then, as if he was nothing more than a commoner, he prostrated himself on the pillar, touching his forehead to the freezing stone. “My blood is yours.” He declared, “In return, grant me the strength to carve my own path, and the wisdom to overcome my enemies. Tell me how the woman named Lieze Sokalar can be defeated.”
Pins of light flared up in the walls, bright enough to paint the darkness like a night sky, but dim enough to obscure the silhouettes of their owners. The violet fog led one to believe that the sight was little more than a dream. When a voice answered Alberich’s plea, it radiated from the depths of his own mind, splitting his skull like a rabid thought.
“She who has been abandoned by fate. The demon child. Hers is a tale forged in blood and bone.” He heard, “The Dragon may yet fall, but a sacrifice of untold proportions must be wagered to expose its heart. Victory must come at a cost.”
Alberich raised his head from the ground, “Haven’t we sacrificed enough already!? My nation is a shell of its former self! My people struggle against an enemy that strengthens itself with every victory, no matter how small! What more could I possibly wager!?”
“A sacrifice of blood is needed.” The voices answered.
“I’ve given enough…” Alberich stood, “If I sacrifice anything else, what will be left of the mountains to rule? What hope is there of inheriting a land beset by plague and annihilation? My predecessors laboured to fortify these mountains against any threat, and now the only solution is to give it all up for a chance at one woman’s life!?”
He turned and stormed down the steps connected to the pillar, balancing himself on the precarious walkway leading back to the safety of his fortress, “I was wrong to seek your guidance to begin with. Wars are won with steel and fire, not pointless riddles! Just you wait and see - I’ll prove that a path can be carved through this chaos without destroying my own nation!”
He had no love for the Oracles and their riddles, no matter how infallible their wisdom had proven over the centuries of Dwarven rule. He refused to waste his time bartering with the unknowable instead of rallying his men on the front lines to stand against the forces of madness. For too long had he hid away within the safety of his fortress while Mime risked his life to deliver the mountains from evil.
“You!” As soon as he emerged from the forgotten hatch and made his way to the throne room, his finger was upon a stationary guard, “Bring me my warhammer! And you! Fetch me as many mana potions as you can possibly carry! Gather our finest soldiers and have them report to the Royal Delve’s entrance!”
It was on that cruel, fateful day when last he lowered the visor of his impenetrable armour - when he and Mime had descended into the labyrinth of the earth to fell the Amber Dragon. Adrenaline quickened his heartbeat as the mere sensation of being trapped within that suit of scorched steel. His body understood that the feeling portended a moment trapped between life and death.
“Lieze Sokalar…” He muttered, “You will die this day!”