Rediscovery

The Ruins of Dolgarth, The Great Ice Gate

For centuries, Dolgarth had been a tomb, encased in the magical ice of a defeated god. Now, it was a ruin, haunted by the fresh ghosts of Mortibris’s undead legions and the ancient, cold spirits of Winter. The air reeked of pulverised stone, grave-dust, and the sharp tang of necromancy.

Prince Rordin, High Guardian of the West, stood atop a mound of shattered skeletal remains, wiping soot from his cheerful face. "Blast again, lads!" he bellowed, his voice echoing in the vast, icy cavern that had once been the city's main entrance. "And this time, try not to bring the rest of the mountain down on us!"

His Imperial Warsmiths, their beards grey with rock dust, exchanged weary glances before scurrying to place new blasting charges. They were working on the Great Gate—or rather, the mountain of ice and granite that had been the gate.

A few paces behind the prince, two Dwarfs from Clan Herewydd stood apart. Commander Thurgrom Stonefist, his green-lacquered shield embossed with the Golden Ram, watched the excavation with a stoic, unreadable intensity. Beside him, Warsmith Borin Rock-Heel nervously tapped his fingers on the haft of his cog-hammer, his eyes scanning the ice, as if listening to the stone itself.

"They're wasting powder," Borin muttered, his voice a low rumble. "This ice is... wrong. It’s imbued. The blast-front just slides off it."

"They'll get through," Thurgrom said. His voice was flat, but his grip on his axe was white knuckled. He wasn't just here on Rordin's orders. He was here on a sacred quest from Chief Brokk himself. The Herewydd clan sagas, the ones his father recited like prayers, spoke of this gate.

"Hold your ears!" Rordin shouted.

The world dissolved in a deafening KRA-KOOM! The explosion of black-blood powder sent a shockwave of frigid air and ice-shrapnel through the cavern. When the dust settled, a dark, ragged hole, barely the size of a Dwarf, had been torn in the centre of the ice plug. A rush of impossibly stale, cold air hissed from within.

"We're through!" Rordin cheered. "Bring the Lanterns! We're—"

"Wait," Thurgrom said, his voice cutting through the prince's. He stepped forward, his axe raised. "Something's in there."

He stalked to the breach, Borin right behind him, hammer in hand. Thurgrom aimed his bullseye Lantern into the darkness. The light glittered on something massive. Something green. Something made of cold, dead iron.

"Borin..." Thurgrom whispered, his voice cracking for the first time. "The sagas were true."

Borin pushed past him, his eyes wide, torch held high. There, entombed in a cocoon of crystal-clear ice, was a Steel Behemoth. Its hull was scorched black in great swathes, its shape ancient, but its lines were unmistakable. It was a masterpiece. On its front, dented and chipped but still proud, was a massive Golden Ram’s head.

It was the Mountain Breaker.

"They... they sealed the gate... from the inside," Borin said, his voice choking with a Warsmith's awe and grief. He walked the perimeter of the ice, his torchlight playing over the scene. The Behemoth wasn't alone. Frozen around its legs, like wolves at the base of a cliff, were the shattered, crystalline forms of Ice Elementals and the glass-like shards of countless frost-sprites.

Rordin and his Dwarfs stared, speechless. "By Golloch's crown," the prince murmured. "It's the relic of Dolgarth. The machine that held the gate."

Borin ignored him. He was at the rear of the machine, near the engine housing. He ran his soot-stained fingers over the frozen hull plates, his eyes tracing patterns only he could see. He saw the scorched vents, the emergency-welded manifold, the slagged-over fuel lines. This wasn't damage from the enemy. This was the last, desperate act of a Warsmith.

"He blew the main fuel line," Borin whispered, a tear freezing on his cheek. "He shunted the entire payload into the ignition chamber to blast the ice off. A full purge... By the forge, the heat... the pressure..." He leaned his forehead against the cold, dead iron. "Darin 'Hearth-Heart'. My ancestor. You saved her. You magnificent bastard, you saved her."

Thurgrom Stonefist placed a heavy gauntlet on his friend's shoulder. "And his crew saved the city, Borin. They held the gate." He turned to Prince Rordin, his eyes burning with a cold fire. "My Prince. On behalf of Chief Brokk of Clan Herewydd... I am reclaiming our property."

The Great Hold of Ganekhaz, The Hall of the Warsmiths

The Mountain Breaker arrived not in triumph, but in chains. It took three weeks to cut the 40-ton relic from its icy tomb and drag it on a massive transport rig back to Ganekhaz. When it was finally lowered into the cavernous Hall of the Warsmiths, the impossible happened.

The hall fell silent.

The symphony of mechanical violence—the grinding of gears, the hammering of pistons, the roar of the foundries—all ceased. Apprentice and master, smith and guild-lord, all put down their tools. They emerged from engine pits and gantries, their faces black with soot, to stare in disbelief.

In the centre of the hall, the Mountain Breaker sat, inert and scarred. It was a ghost from their oldest sagas, its green lacquer scorched, its golden ram staring with dead eyes.

Chief Brokk "Gilded-Horn" Herewydd limped forward, his heavy boots echoing in the sudden silence. His council—Valara Stonehallow, Orin Highclimber, and Duregar Ironbrow—followed a pace behind. Brokk walked a full circle around the dead machine, his malachite eye and his good eye taking in every detail. He saw the scorching from its final, desperate blast. He saw the dents from elemental fists. He saw the pride of his clan, forged in iron.

He stopped in front of Thurgrom and Borin, who stood at attention, their journey complete.

"The sagas are true," Brokk growled, his voice thick with emotion. "It held the gate." He nodded once, a look of profound, ancestral pride on his face. "You have brought our ancestors' shield home. You have honoured the roots of our clan."

He then turned his gaze to Borin, and his expression hardened. "The relic is home, Warsmith. But a relic is a dead thing. A tool is to be used."

Brokk slammed his fist on the Behemoth's cold hull. The clang echoed through the silent hall.

"Make her live again."

Borin looked at the impossible task. The engine was shattered, the cannon warped, the hull cracked by centuries of magical frost. It was a wreck. A beautiful, legendary wreck.

A slow smile spread across his soot-stained face.

"With pleasure, Chief."