In the days of creation, when all things were new,

The wings of the makers over waters, they flew.

The clay of creation they shaped for their need,

And claws of the makers layed four peoples to seed.

First came the elf folk, tall, slender and lithe.

Gifted with youth, but bound by creed.

For oil and sap proffered in tithe

Theirs were the forests forever to heed.

Then came the dwarf-kin, short, stalwart, and fell

The thunder of hammers marks where they dwell,

With mountains of Gold and pitchblende to trade

But doomed by fire, ‘cross mountains remade.

At last came orcs and the men of clay,

Short lived children, ever the prey,

Naught were they promised, no home to own,

But that which they bleed for, with bronze and bone.

Chapter 1: Hold the line!

Harolt Weaver-son looked on at a wave of green. The pass in which he stood was maybe a mIle wide. They would pour through, smashing their thin lines of pikes and shot. He grasped his arquebus with thin shaking hands. To steady them, he gripped his breastplate. It was loose and ill fitting.

“What’s got you quaking in yer’ boots boy?” It was Sharn, the man at arms who was in command of Harolt’s ramshackle line of Arquebusiers.

“Well, sir it’s just… well…” Harolt’s words froze in his mouth.

Harolt took another hasty glance to the south. His eyes were met with an ocean of green hulking forms sandwiched between the sheer walls of the pass. Harolt was not sure why they had come north in such numbers this time. He was not sure why he of all people, a farmer’s son from a northern province had been called up to stem the tide. He was sure of one thing however. He was not ready to face the tide. He wished he could be anywhere. Anywhere but here.

Finally Harolt found his words.

“It’s just sir, This is it isn’t it? Just like in the histories.”

At this, the old man at arms laughed.

“Listen here boy! If you want to speak about histories, we can speak histories. See that keep behind us? That there’s living history. Great big thing of stone she is. Well if you look at it’s base, you can see quite a few bits of stone around her. Granite, red Sandstone, Limestone. Truth is, a fort has been built to defend this pass a hundred times by a hundred different human kings and queens. Sometimes she’s been wood, sometimes limestone, sometimes granite as she is now, since she has been since we rebuilt her when we resettled here two hundred years ago. So yes, If you ask some Elvish lord to tell you a history of the land, he’ll tell you that this little mound of stacked stones is living proof that human kingdoms are kingdoms of sand, doomed to fall again and again.

Harolt Grimaced. “You aren’t being very reassuring.”

The old man Guffawed. “I’m getting there! Well, notice anything odd about where we are?”

Harolt took a second, and spoke.

“We’re in front of the keep... Why are we in front of the keep?

Sharn smiled. “Well see here laddie boy. That there holdfast can hold maybe 1000 men, and provisions enough to last a year. “

Harolt paused. “Yes, well sir, why aren’t we in there? With the Empress, and her guard, and all that–”

Realization dawned on Harolt just as Sharn began to speak. “Well you see. Those foundations were only meant for so many humans to cram in there. Those past kingdoms and fiefdoms which held this pass could barely muster twelve hundred men at arms and quaking yeomen on short notice. But we, today in the Fuschia Empire have 3 things those past lords and kings never did. We have a professional army five thousand strong. I was with that guard when I was young. We have forewarning by 2 months due to our settlers south of the pass. And most importantly, we have a conscription and mobilization system which can raise another fifty thousand spears like you in short order using old pensioners like me as officers. And that's only our forward force! Apparently the empress is trying to raise another hundred thousand from our southern provinces as a reserve.”

Harolt nodded with understanding. “So we have better odds than old Hrivan or even old great Kurvath ever did.”

“Exactly sonny.”

Harolt paused. “But I heard the captain say there are two hundred thousand greenskins crossing the pass. That’s still a lot more than our fifty five thousand.” Harolt tried his divisions with his fingers. “That's nearly 5 times our number!”

“Don’t underestimate the power of discipline. We’re force enough to hold the length of the pass, and avoid encirclement. Most battles are decided by who turns first to rout. Stand firm, and we will win this day.” Harolt nodded.

In the distance a horn sounded. The sound reverberated off of the cliffs around them, and fifty thousand pairs of human eyes looked south in fear and anticipation. The Campfires to their south were out, and dull thudding reverberated north, driven by two hundred thousand orcs’ heavy footfalls.

The mood in the camp changed quickly, from surprised fear to grim determination. Men rushed to pick up their long guns and pikes, while officers waved their swords and batons around, rushing men into their formations.

Sharn spoke behind him. “Alright son. Remember what I told you. Stick with the company, and stand your ground. I’ll be right behind you shouting and screaming. I might sound scary, but only to make you remember to stand your ground. If our line holds, we may yet see the morrow.

Harolt rushed to his feet, and found his line. He recognized the men around him. To his right was Pethan, from Rumvria village north of Harolt’s family’s farm. To his left was Dylit from the mill the river over. Their expressions were grim, a mask of newly learned discipline covering their fear. The Green horde before them approached at a slow march, their footfalls growing louder. He could hear Sharn beginning to shout behind him.

“Listen up, 8th company!” Sharn raised his voice even louder. “Before us stands a force of vagabond murderers and knaves! Your three weeks of training might feel like much to you now, but I know you have now more courage in your blood than these animals have felt in their entire miserable lives! Stand firm until they reach firing distance. Hold your fire until I give the order, then retreat behind the berm while the pikeman take your place! Let’s show those dwarven lords in the mountains behind us that their gifts of fire and thunder were not misplaced!”

The distant rumble built to a roar. Harolt thought he could hear a low chanting. The orcs were closing the distance between them with frightening speed. They were maybe 800 meters away from them now. He could barely make out large hulking forms, sheathed in muscle and ragged cloths and bones.

Sharn began shouting again.

“Ready weapons!”

Harolt planted the sharp end of his gunstand in the soft ground. He hauled up his heavy arquebus, and rested the barrel end on the Y shaped part on the stand, bracing the butt of the weapon on his shoulder.

“Wicks Light!”

A young boy ran past with a burning torch, resin and linen and wood. He paused behind each man, lighting their lengths of powdered rope. Harolt did the same as the boy passed, his rope burning with a satisfying low hiss. He secured the end to the lock at the back of his gun. The greenskins were close now. He could see clearly as they crested the near hill, their hulking frames wreathed in ropes and twine and bone shards. Their features were shockingly similar to some men he’d known, minus the green skin, and glowing yellow eyes. They were scarcely 200 meters now.

“Steady!”

Harolt could see the bloodlust in their eyes, as they rushed forwards, clubs and axes covered in dark stone shards. They howled a dark chant, piercing deep into Harolt’s soul.

“Steady!”

They were almost upon them, maybe half a minute more, and his entire line would be torn apart on their obsidian and teeth. They were almost-

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“Fire!”

Harolt pulled the long trigger mechanism up. His gun gave a light hiss as the fire in the pan ignited, then his body was kicked back with a phwoom as the gun fired its deadly projectile. Black blood burst forwards as dozens of greenskins faltered, and fell dead. Those around them lucky enough to survive looked around for a second in shock. Harolt felt a wide grinning smile spread across his face. A lead greenskin shook his head and roared, raising his club forwards in challenge. The rest regained their courage and began charging forwards.

“Pull Back!”

Harolt was pulled from his frozen stupor. He reached forwards and pulled his gunstand from the ground and turned, rushing behind the rest of his company as a company of pikemen marched to fill their place, 3 ranks deep, and emanating a forest of deadly spikes.

Finally he reached the back of the berm where his company was hurrying to reload, some relighting their wicks, and others grabbing new ones. Some were already beginning the tedious task of loading.

Harolt felt a firm hand on his shoulder. It was Sharn.

“I forgot one last thing we have that the old human kingdoms and empires never did. Gunpowder!”

* * *

Geordi Stonefoot looked on over the clash of men and ork. Billows of gray and white smoke rolled over the battlefield. Another line of arquebus fired with a series of cracks. The shots were not in perfect synchrony, as a dwarven line would be, but the result was basically the same. Charge upon charge of orcs shattered into disarray against subsequent ranks of firearms. What was left of their momentum was met with a forest of pikes, forcing them back, while the ranks of shot reloaded.

He scoffed. “The stone council was wrong. My father made at least one good decision as high king. I’m honestly in awe at how quickly they’ve adapted to using our gifts.” Geordi lowered his spyglass.

To his right, the elf princeling squinted, his sharp eyes scanning the battlefield from the raised platform of the observation tower. “They were right. You should never have offered it. You have no idea what they are capable of.” The elf was clad in resplendent silver armor, his helm held at the side, allowing long streams of silver blond hair to stream ethereally in the breeze, free of his deceptively youthful face.

Geordi guffawed. “Oh I have some idea. This is history in the making! A human army might actually hold the greenskins at the pass. My uncle told me of when he showed you our first hand cannons all those centuries ago. I’m told your eyes nearly popped out of your head when we demonstrated it! In any case, you should see some of the things these humans are coming up with. I talked with an officer of the queen’s guard who showed me an arquebus so light he can fire it accurately without a stand! A musket he called it.”

The elf shook his head. “You would not laugh at such things if you knew what lies ahead. You’ve played with fire, and very soon, I’m afraid it will blow up in your face.”

Geordi chuckled. “Oh you elves and your prophecy. Remember when you predicted that a human mage would turn into a fire drake and fly off into the heavens!”

The elf winced. When he spoke, his voice was disdainful. “The prophecy,” He emphasized, “did not have to be literal, and besides, the strings of fate spin many ways.”

Geordi rolled his eyes. “Believe that if you will, but in the here and now, there is much to be done.” Geordi noted with some discomfort, a series of neat formation blocks forming at the rear of the orc army. Something was different about these ones, how they looked at least. He glanced to his right. The elf had noted it too. He squinted, scanning the distance to a detail Geordi’s own spyglass could never hope to achieve.

“These orks, they are ordered, stranger still, their officers-” The elf cringed as he realized the insinuation of discipline within an orc army. He corrected himself. “Their leaders, they wear discs of metal, bronze I think.”

Geordi watched with some dismay as the ordered rows marched through the volleys of fire, continuing on, past the losses. Pikes rushed forwards, but were met with a concerted charge. The line of pikes bowed. The human commanders appeared to have noticed this too, and several blocks, reserve companies Geordi assumed, were rushed in behind the buckling line. The front line broke, and though through the glass, Geordi struggled to make out distinct details, he could tell the pikemen and arquebusiers fled in disorder, disrupting the lines of reinforcement behind them. The new companies had hardly regained some semblance of order when the orks crashed into them. Here the lines tussled too and fro. Perhaps this one would hold, at least for now.

“Alright princeling, enough talking, let’s take to the field, like old times!” Geordi signaled to a dwarf engineer on the ground below. A knot was unhitched, and a team of pack donkeys were led back towards the tower, lowering the platform through a complicated set of pulleys.

As they descended, the elf looked towards his feet guiltily. Geordi raised an eyebrow. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve been distant all day. Last campaign you were fawning over the humans copying the simplest of firearms! What's got you bottled up today?”

The platform reached the ground with a jolt. The elf still couldn’t meet his gaze. He spoke now with a tinge of guilt in his voice, something which took Geordi quite aback “I am sorry my friend. You are right. Today is history in the making. The elders have made a decision. With the humans now able to defeat the orc menace, there is no longer any need for elven blood to be spilled.”

Geordi was shocked. “You mean to say that-”

“We will never again fight side by side. My host of elves is to retire uphill, and allow this fight to play out between you dwarves, the humans, and the orcs.” The elf took a moment and paused. “I am sorry. I am normally not attached to the fleeting lives of mortals, but for what it is worth, I have enjoyed fighting by your side these past three centuries. I am irked to say it, but it–” the elf paused again, finding his words." It pains me to bid you farewell. I can’t say that I agree wholeheartedly with the elders, but I must respect their decision”

Geordi nodded understandingly. He held out his arm. The elf paused, bent down, and clasped it, arm in arm. It was strange, god’s be damned, but Geordi could swear he saw a lone tear trickle down the elf’s face.

The elf let go, rapidly donning his intricate helm, obscuring his face. He rose to his towering height, and turned, striding up the hill with an almost supernatural elegance. All across the canyon, formations of elf-folk bounded away to the north, even as dwarves began to form ranks and head towards the center. Geordi followed suit, donning his helm and making the short trek to the command tent.

Arriving within, Geordi was greeted with an orderly war council. In the center of the great tent was a large oaken table, a long map of the pass unfurled along its length. Painted wooden tokens and pucks represented units. Around the table sat the eleven other leaders of the dwarven kinfolk, all were clad in either heavy armors, or in rich furs and elaborate tunics. All wore ornate jewelry, or armor shining with gilded accents. In contrast, on the far side of the table, a lone figure in a clean white uniform, sporting only a gold circlet crown on his head sat, leaning over the table, and examining several loose papers.

“Uncle!” Geordi exclaimed. “Why is our vanguard not committed? The humans’ right flank is buckling!”

His uncle Grumnir, the high king, sighed and raised his weary visage. “You would know, young nephew, if only you were not late. Already we have made our arrangements for the battle to come.”

Geordi scowled. “I was otherwise occupied. I bring news. A surprisingly organized cohort of orks has met the human’s right flank. And our pointy eared friends will not be joining us today. Therefore I say again, It is paramount that we commit to the field as soon as possible to plug the human line.

High king Grumnir clenched his temple in annoyance. “Of the disposition of the elves, we are already aware, a fact you should already know, having of course read the orders of the day this morning.” He paused. “You have, of course, read the orders of the day?”

“I–” Geordi glanced to the side with shame. “I did not get around to it, there was much to be done this morning.”

Grumnir frowned. He waved offhandedly to his right. “Underking Vantsir, please educate my nephew as to our current standing.”

Vantsir smirked “With pleasure, High king.” Vantsir stood somewhat taller than most dwarves, a short wolfskin cloak trailing from his intricate plate armor. He eyed Geordi with a glare. Geordi responded in kind. Vantsir was one of eight of the twelve council members who had voted to peacefully depose of Geordi’s father three centuries ago, and replace him with Geordi’s uncle. Of course such a margin was overkill. Only half of the council was needed to replace a high king with a willing member of the current royal line, as had been the case with the ascension of his uncle. Though Geordi was reticent to acknowledge it, many whispered of the great mistakes his father had made to earn such a broad vote of no confidence from the council. He scowled at the thought. At least his father was a dwarf of action. Grumnir on the other hand spent days deliberating on ever decision, as it appeared was happening now, even as battle raged down the gap.

Vantsir cleared his throat, adopting an air of professionalism, likely to make Geordi’s late arrival look worse in contrast. “Fifty five thousand humans hold the mile length of the gap. The first ranks of paired companies have already been exhausted and are presently reconstituting in their rear. That leaves some three hundred companies. A hundred and thirty of those were initially committed. Of their reserves, fifty hold a rear guard around their fortress and the ground around it. Another fifty have been committed to filling emerging gaps in the line, plus a full thirty recently committed on their right to reinforce against a concerted and enduring orc push on that flank. That leaves forty more companies as remaining reserves, plus roughly seventy that may eventually be reconstituted from the pieces of their depleted units. As such we are not so worried about this break in their right flank. We are however hesitant to fully commit to that side of their line. We are concerned that follow-on assaults on other parts of the line could lead to a breakthrough, granted their currently limited reserves as they reconstitute their forces. This would not be a problem if they did not hold their most capable units so far from the contact line. This has been repeatedly communicated with riders, but the empress and her staff are so far unwilling to part with their professional troops. As such we sit just behind the contact line, lest we commit early and find the human lines pealed back by a breakthrough, and the bulk of our forces encircled.”

High king Grumnir spoke up. “That is not the only reason we are not fully committed. There are several unanticipated factors here I struggle to weigh. Firstly I am concerned with the disposition of the elves. They stand proud to our rear, uphill, and yet they will not even offer their eyes, to say nothing of their confounding refusal to fight. Perhaps they know something we do not. Whatever the case, something there is afoot. The humans have strange reports of another army further north, of men with no armor, dressed in green as if orcs, and even stranger things. Ordinarily I would put little stock in such tales, but yet still it disquiets me. Additionally, without elven observers, we cannot properly estimate the orks’ own dispositions. I fear this column of ork shock infantry is not their full strength. As of now, I am content to offer the support of our cannon. Perhaps if we had enough force to span the entire pass, I would, but as it stands I will not trust the humans to protect my flanks. After all, while timber decays and clay crumbles, what is stone may never shift.

While The assembled kings nodded at the ancient wisdom, Geordi grated his teeth. His emotions began to simmer over. He burst out.

“You speak of stone? Your resolve has not the strength of sandstone. Thousands of the humans die on the field as we speak, and yet you do nothing. The only stone within you is in your hearts.” He glanced around the room, feeling the weight of the disapproving stares. Anger from his uncle, and smug dismissal from Vantsir. The rest exuded outrage at their honor. Geordi would not have to deal with it long, nor to stick around for the consequences of such a blatant mark upon his uncle’s honor and authority. He turned his back stormed out of the cavernous tent.

Outside, he found the concerned look of one of his lieutenants, Brunmar Iron-heel. Geordi clenched his fists and gave a quick command.

“Ready my vanguard. We march for the pass.”