Gollochs Rise

The Great Hold of Ganekhaz, The High Halls of Clan Herewydd

The air in Chief Brokk "Gilded-Horn" Herewydd's hall was thick with the smoke of Steinor goat-fat candles and the tension of unspoken dissent. Thurgrom Stonefist stood at rigid attention, his gaze fixed on the malachite gemstone that served as his chief's left eye. Borin Rock-Heel stood a pace behind him, his arms crossed, his weight shifted in a way Thurgrom recognised as pure, stubborn disapproval.

"The order stands," Chief Brokk said, his voice a low growl. He ran a hand over his own gilded horns, fastened to his helmet in the Herewydd tradition. "King Golloch has united the holds. He has given us purpose, and in return, he demands loyalty. Clan Stone-Shale, in their arrogance, have refused the oath. They are rebels."

"They are our neighbours," Borin said, his voice dangerously quiet.

Brokk's malachite eye flashed. "They were our neighbours. Now they are a broken link in a chain. And a broken link is a weakness. Golloch does not tolerate weakness. I do not tolerate it." He turned his good eye to Thurgrom. "The Lord of Ganekhaz has given our clan the 'honour' of bringing them to heel. It seems he trusts our Ironwatch in the passes."

"And the Mountain Breaker," Thurgrom added, his voice flat.

"And the Mountain Breaker," Brokk affirmed. "Golloch's soft bellies in the capital want this done cleanly. You will advance on their hold. You will show them the Golden Ram of our clan. You will show them the machine that held Dolgarth. They will submit."

"And if they do not?" Thurgrom asked.

Chief Brokk’s smile was grim. "Then you will remind them why our ancestor was named 'Iron-Brow.' Make them submit. That is the order. You are dismissed."

The high passes of the Abkhazla range were cold, but it was a different cold from the one in the sagas of Dolgarth. That had been Winter's unnatural spite. This was the cold, silent chill of shame.

Inside the Mountain Breaker, the silence was deafening. The machine itself, an ancient, revered relic of Clan Herewydd, seemed to protest. Its green-lacquered plates were chipped from centuries of fighting Orcs and Goblins. Its Golden Ram's head was dented from breaching the gates of forgotten Goblin-holds. Now, it was marching against Dwarfs.

Flinn and Kili, the new gunners, were pale and silent on the howdah above. This was their first true campaign since their training exercises, and it was not what they had dreamed of.

Borin was the first to speak, his voice rasping over the speaking tube.

"This is wrong, Thurgrom."

Thurgrom’s hands didn't move from the steering levers. "The Chief gave the order."

"The Chief is wrong! This machine... the sagas say Darin 'Hearth-Heart' himself used its fires to save our kin at Dolgarth's Gate. It's a shield! We're using it as a hammer. Against our own."

"Our grandfathers traded goats with Stone-Shale," Kili’s young voice piped down from the howdah, trembling. "My great-uncle married one of their lasses."

"Quiet, Kili!" Thurgrom snapped. His voice was steel. "I have my orders. Chief Brokk gave the order. The Lord of Ganekhaz gave the order. High King Golloch gave the order. That is the chain, Warsmith. We are soldiers, not politicians. We hold the links. We do not question them."

"A chain can be a tool, or it can be a shackle," Borin shot back. "Can you even tell which this is, Thurgrom?"

Thurgrom did not reply. He saw the Stone-Shale hold ahead, a minor fortress carved into the mountainside, looking small and defiant. A column of green-shielded Herewydd Ironclads, their axes glinting, marched in the Behemoth’s shadow.

A high, whistling thwack echoed through the pass. A bolt thrower. It pinged harmlessly off the Mountain Breaker’s thick hull. A warning shot.

"They see us," Flinn squeaked from above.

"Of course they see us," Thurgrom grunted. He brought the Behemoth to a halt and keyed the external vox-hailer. His voice boomed across the small valley, echoing off the peaks. "In the name of High King Golloch and Chief Brokk of Herewydd! Open your gates! Swear the oath!"

The reply came from a Dwarf in dark, shale-grey armour on the parapet. "Golloch is a usurper, and Herewydd are his boot-lickers! We built this hold with our own hands! We will not break!"

A Herewydd Ironclad Captain, Duregar Ironbrow, stomped up to the BehemExample. His shield was emblazoned with the Golden Ram, and his helmet bore the same design, a tribute to their clan's founder. "They refuse, Commander. Chief Brokk's orders are clear. Breach the gate. The Shieldbreakers are ready."

Thurgrom’s jaw clenched. He looked at the gate—old, strong, and marked with runes of kinship. He looked at the rebel Dwarfs on the walls, their crossbows aimed.

"Borin," Thurgrom ordered, his voice low. "Advance us. Ram-head down. Slow."

The Mountain Breaker groaned and began its heavy, pounding stride. The Herewydd Ironclads raised their shields, the green and gold a stark, grim warning. The Behemoth reached the gate. Thurgrom pushed the ram-head against the ancient iron-banded wood, but he did not apply full power. The engine idled, the machine a terrible threat held in check.

"Last chance, Stone-Shale!" Thurgrom yelled into the vox. "Stand down!"

For a moment, there was only the wind. Then, the Dwarf on the wall yelled, "For our fathers! Fire!"

A second bolt thrower fired. But this one was not a warning. It wasn't aimed at the hull. It was aimed at the crew.

The bolt, thick as a Dwarf’s arm, shrieked through the air and slammed into the howdah. It didn't penetrate the thick armour, but it struck the base of the flame cannon's traverse mechanism. Metal screamed and shattered.

"Flinn!" Kili’s voice was a high-pitched shriek of terror.

"My arm! By Fulgaria, my arm!" Came Flinn’s agonised response

The sound of his gunner's pain broke Thurgrom’s hesitation. The doubt, the shame, the conflict—it all vanished, burned away by a cold, pure rage. His duty was to his King, his Clan, and his Chief. But his oath was to his crew. The rebels had fired on his crew. On his machine.

"They shed our blood, Borin," Thurgrom said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He looked back, his eyes meeting the Warsmith's through the internal viewport. "They are rebels. And they are traitors. Full power, Warsmith. Ram them. Break them!"

Borin’s face was a mask of misery. He looked at his levers, then at the blood dripping through the plates from the howdah above. He closed his eyes for a second, his duty to his Commander and his clan warring with his conscience. His conscience lost.

"Full power," Borin’s voice crackled, hollow and dead. "May the ancestors forgive us."

He slammed the throttle forward. The ancient engine, the same one that had fought Winter's ice, gave a deafening, vengeful roar.

The Mountain Breaker surged. The Golden Ram's head struck the Stone-Shale gate with the force of a falling mountain. The gate didn't just break; it exploded, disintegrating into a cloud of splinters and shattered iron.

"HEREWYDD! FIRM AND FAST!" Duregar Ironbrow roared, raising his axe. The Herewydd Shieldbreakers and Ironclads charged past the smoking Behemoth, a river of green and gold pouring into the darkness of the hold.

The sounds began almost immediately. Axe on shield. Hammer on iron. The guttural war cries and the pained, choking screams of Dwarfs fighting Dwarfs.

Thurgrom ordered Kili to get Flinn down from the howdah and into the relative safety of the main cab. He stared into the blackness of the breached hold, his face like stone, listening to the sounds of the brutal civil war he had just started.

Borin slumped over his controls, the engine settling into a heavy idle. He couldn't look at Thurgrom. He just watched his gauges.

"Warsmith," Thurgrom’s voice came over the tube, devoid of all emotion. "How is the engine?"

There was a long pause.

"She's... she's running hot, Commander," Borin replied, his voice thick. "But she'll hold. She always holds."

The four Dwarfs sat in the iron silence of their machine, bound not by victory, but by a shared, terrible act. They were no longer just a crew. They were all veterans now.