Chương 2: Doom Befell Dagbellow Dell

Burbak Breakbow stood over the ruins of Dagbellow Dell and wept. Shameful tears ran down his scarred face and soaked into his blood-caked beard. He did not weep alone. The surviving Berserkers lined the ridge, unable to face each other. Dagbellow was gone. The gate was smashed, the stockade was overrun, and black smoke roared from the thatched roofs. The fields of golden barley that ringed the town were all aflame. The attack began just after harvest. Wolf Riders came first, hurling torches.

As the farmers tried in vain to contain the fires, a horde of spearmen arrived, backed by archers. Now, pillars of smoke rose from blazing sheaves. Long lines of smoldering stalks were broken by the bodies of fallen warriors. The defenders' losses were tremendous. Two Shieldbearer phalanxes were broken and slaughtered. The Ballista was shattered. The General and his retinue were gone, mobbed down by Goblins and carried away to an unspeakable fate. War was war, casualties were inevitable.

It was the barley that made Burbak weep. It was one thing to raid for riches, or to vie for territory. To burn good barley was an act of madness. The gobbos could have plundered the entire crop. There was no need to attack the stockade or massacre the farmers. When winter came, all of Dagbellow would have starved. Instead, the Goblins spent thousands to overcome the little stronghold. They came in screaming waves. Ten times, the invaders were repulsed. On the eleventh wave, the arrows and oil ran out.

The defenders fought tooth and nail, to no avail. Dagbellow Stockade was swallowed by a sea of green faces and sharp, yellow teeth. To his credit, Gorthar Hurdaken did not flee when the Goblins broke through. He fought on as his bodyguards fell, one by one. Surrounded, he took a stand, desperate to buy more time for the Imperial reinforcements to arrive. Weeks before, Gorthar met with Brendan the Emissary, Mouthpiece of the Emperor. Brendan had assured him the reports of a horde in the west were nonsense.

Even if they were true, the Goblins could never break through Saber Pass. The High Haliak Fortress was unassailable. Brendan swore the dwarves had nothing to fear, the Emperor would preserve them. It was all lies. The Bla'Claw horde cracked the High Haliak like a quail's egg. Greenskins poured over the border and razed everything in their path. Burbak Breakbow and Hilg Stonesthrow had arrived just in time to watch spears pierce Lord Gorthar's sides and filthy feet stomp his brilliant cloak into the muck.

A chattering mob of Goblins hoisted Gorthar's limp body above their heads. They laughed and carried him off, cackling as they withdrew. There was nothing left to loot. Burbak and Hilg were left in the ashes, too late to save anyone. Gorthar should have known better. The words of men were rootless sandstone. Dagbellow was built upon the Emperor's empty promises. Every Dwarf who settled here was a fool. Breakbow turned to his warriors and held up his thick hands.

He was gory to his armpits, his armor glistened with sticky, green Goblin blood. One by one, the others lifted their hands, a few raised stumps. Each Berserker was painted in death, from head to toe. None could recall what they'd done with the black wrath upon them. Burbak didn't know if he'd killed ten or a hundred. It wasn't enough. With every battle, the brothers dwindled. There were always more Goblins. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Runagir. Duandan. With me. The rest of you, see to your wounds. See if there are any survivors in the ashes," Breakbow commanded. Breakbow's Blood Brothers hastened to his side at once. Runagir was red-eyed, Duandan looked as if he'd swallowed a stone. The three Dwarves picked their way across the battlefield. Corpses festered in the sun and flies swirled in great, stinging swarms. They saw no survivors. At the eastern edge of the stockade, they found the bunker.

Tangles of Goblin bodies surrounded the entrance in diminishing rings where the defenders broke, fell back, and reformed. Here, they'd made their last stand. With a sinking feeling the Berserkers climbed over the wall of dead. The heavy lid of iron-banded oak was chopped apart. Down the spiral stair, all was dark. Goblins had snuffed the ever-burning lights. No sound came up from the pit. There would be nightmares inside.

"Draw straws?" Duandan suggested.

"Guard here, brothers. I will go," said Burbak Breakbow. The sergeants turned away, stung. He hadn't meant to shame them. Duandan and Runagir's forebearers had left the mountain long, long ago. Neither could see well in the dark. Burbak could. He laid down his bloody battle axe and drew his wicked daggers. Heedless of stealth, he flew down the spiral stair, hoping for foes. His eyes shifted into the bleached grays of undersight that pulsed with each beat of his heart.

There might be a thousand Goblins below, stymied by the final door. He would butcher them all. At the bottom, the stench of death blew from a trapped passage. A false path to the right had claimed many Goblins. Alas, they'd found the hidden way and broken through. Burbak stalked forward in the low tunnel, ready for an ambush. The reek of viscera wafted from a pit where the floor had broken away. A dozen Goblins lay skewered at the bottom. Burbak cheated along the edge.

Fifty paces ahead, it looked like the tunnel had collapsed. The odor of freshly scythed hay tickled his nose.

"Oh no." With a rag over his mouth, Breakbow moved as close as he could bear. What looked like rubble was only dead Goblins. Their yellow eyes were bugged-wide. In their frenzy to get away, they'd trampled each other. Burbak climbed up to look past. A great mound of Goblins was piled before the smashed holdfast door. His eyes stung, he could go no further. There was no need. He knew what had happened now. When the Goblins broke through, the women broke the seals and spilled the vials.

The women and children were all dead. Breakbow had a mad urge to dash forward into the holdfast and take a deep breath. He would fill his lungs with poison, lie down, and be still forever beside the women and children he'd failed to save. He turned away, so distraught he nearly blundered into the pit. As he climbed the stairs to the surface, a strange thing happened. His eyes began to adjust to the natural light, but his vision stayed gray. Outlines pulsed and threads of black seeped in at the seams.

The daggers in his hands felt burning hot, eager to be quenched in blood. The rage! Burbak's body stiffened with alarm. It was a wicked thing, a terrible sin to slip into the black rage with no foe at hand. That was the oathbreaker's way. His daggers clattered against the steps. He clutched his hands over his temples and tried to bottle the anger, breath by breath. The darkness only grew. He threw his head back and bared his teeth at the gray haze of sky above.

Above the bunker, Runagir and Duandan jolted at the unearthly howl.

"REVENGE!"