The
Iron Legion
Chapter 5
Engraved bas-relief images and faded frescoes lined the walls of the dwarven highway leading to the ancient city of Gyrth Orom. Accursed Grimrock. The soft glow of phostwood branches illuminated portions of a crumbling mural, depicting scenes from the glorious past of the dwur. The building of Durindan. The Death of Durin in combat against the Great Wyrm Fer'hiss. The burial of Durin at Azak-Morad. Markad Khûn Durin raising the lost Axe of the Dwur Lords at the first Council of the Great Clans Chiefs. The Children of Durin, swearing the Oath of Azak-Morad, bearing the lost Fardüins of the Seven Great Clans. The defining moments of the ancient nation of the dwurs lay there, lost in the darkness.
The strange caravan paid little heed to the history that passed them by. The Company of the Raven marched in a tight group, bearing dead phostwood branches to light the way, and leading a small train of giant pack lizards. The beasts' soft braying was the only noise resounding through the dark tunnels. The men followed their dwarven guide in silence. Twice now they had been forced to turn aside and seek alternate pathways by unexpected collapses in the Highway. Brok speculated that dwurs fleeing the cursed city had activated hidden trigger points in the stone, to discourage pursuit. This area was not very seismically active, and dwurs built tunnels to last, he claimed. Sunder tried in vain to maintain his bearings through the winding dwarven passages, but even in the relatively straight King's Highway, he was hopelessly out of his element without the sun and stars to guide him.
The rest of the Company fared no better. The long days of endless gloom had worn their spirits down. Keras would not play the flute, for fear that the echo would reveal their location to subterranean predators. Lotheneser barely spoke. His Olven blood made him especially uncomfortable. Jisander and Jord had lost their usual cheer, and even Eliazar and Arngrim had ceased their mutterings of doom. Their silence revealed the depths of their despair. Durlan tried to rally their spirits with tales of the Company's history, but his efforts amounted to little in the face of long days in darkness, with no fire to provide warmth and light. The Company fell into a silent routine. Watch was kept in small groups, weapons were sharpened and armor was polished. Their days seemed endless. Only the three dwarves seemed at ease. Their steps led unerringly in the direction of their goal and they were able to somehow sense the passage of time in the disorienting darkness. It was said that once a dwarf traveled down a path, he could retrace it perfectly. Old Brok spoke little save to reminisce of the lost glories of Gyrth Orom. Thane Ghallar was of good cheer, though, and spoke constantly to the Fruzt barbarians, who endeavored to instruct him in the Common speech. It was slow going, but there was little else to do during their long journey.
Sunder awoke each day to practice the sword forms. Keras would rise beside him and silently twirl his staff through intricate patterns of attack and defense. They did not spar with each other, for fear that the noise would attract unwanted attention. Sunder had shifted the scabbard of his sword from his back to the hip, to allow for easier access while in the confined spaces of the subterranean domain. The sword flowed smoothly from its sheath and into the forms. Sunder was a master of several styles of swordplay. The one he favored was that originally developed in the ancient Suel Empire, millennia ago. The Sueloise had developed an intricate system of fighting, using long, slightly curved swords with a single sharp edge. These were light and could be wielded in either one or both hands, though a two-handed grip was the traditional way. As the Empire fell into decline, the decadent society turned the once fluid style into a rigid ceremonial art form.
However, the Oeridian tribes who escaped the destruction of the Sueloise injected new life into the ancient forms, and adapted many of the techniques into their own style, though they favored a one handed approach, combined with the use of a shield. In the modern world, it was the Oeridian style of sword and shield that prevailed. Given the great complexity of the Sueloise school, only the most gifted swordsmen continued to follow that tradition, albeit using straight, two-edged swords in the Oeridian fashion. To Sunder's knowledge, only a score of swordmasters of the Suel school existed on eastern Oerik, mainly in the Great Kingdom of Aerdy, and in the Valley of the Sheldomar, where the old Suel blood ran strong. Keras had trained in the Sheldomar version of the Suel style, while Sunder was a master of the Oeridian variant.
Aside from the wild fighting styles of the Flannae and the northern barbarian tribes, there were only two other recognized formal styles of sword combat: the elven school and the relatively new discipline of fencing. Sunder had learned the basics of the complex art of elven bladesinging during his training with the Olvenguard of the Count of Sunndi. This style represented the crowning achievement of the elven martial arts, and was the source of all the variants of swordplay practiced by the Eldar. Bladesinging was originally developed to allow sorcerers to cast their spells while engaged in combat with their long swords. Very few elves achieved mastery of this art, which required an immortal lifespan of dedication. Most practiced a variant of this style, forsaking the sorcerous aspect and concentrating on the sword. Those elves fought with either a single sword or with a long sword in one hand and a long dagger on the other. Some even fought with a long sword in each hand.
The elven tradition had contributed somewhat to the latest fashion among the aristocracy, namely, the art of fencing. This style had developed in the past few decades as the nobles in Rauxes had taken to carrying slimmer, lighter swords, known as rapiers. Fencing emphasized speed and dexterity, and many had taken to wielding daggers with the second hand, in a fashion somewhat resembling that of the elves. After all, the Eldar were regarded in some circles as the epitome of aristocracy and sophistication. The only drawback was the limited effectiveness of the lighter swords against heavily armored opponents. Even so, this style had quickly spread among the nobility and cosmopolitan centers of the eastern Flanaess. Jisander was trained in this discipline, which was quite popular in Rel Mord, the capital of the Kingdom of Nyrond.
Yet even the familiar routine employed by the Company in times of war did not serve to assuage their unease. The men were all anxious to return to the sunlit world above. They spoke of little else. Just when things seemed at their bleakest, the Company arrived at their destination.
"<Behold Gyrth Orom, the City of Bronze, where ancient wonders were crafted in days of yore!>" Brok proclaimed, as the Company crowded around to stare at the wondrous sight before them. The dark tunnel that was the King's Highway opened up into a cave of gargantuan proportions. The roof rose hundreds of feet above them, and the ancient road led down to the cave floor, which stretched like a valley below them. Large, slanting beams of intense sunlight entered through natural openings in the stone ceiling, casting pools of radiance across the valley floor. A flurry of snowflakes swirled in the chill winter breeze, gleaming like goose down as they fell into the cavern. In some places, withered leafless trees stood under the light beams. A winding stream twisted across the cavern floor, past spiraling stalactites and stalagmites, sparkling brightly where the sunlight struck its roiling surface. Stone bridges crossed it along different intervals as the King's Highway stretched down the valley into the dark city at the far end.
Grimrock stood in the darkness, ancient stone walls and ramparts rose high above the valley. Enormous statues of dwarven warriors, each seven times the height of a man, flanked the huge bronze gates carved to resemble the gaping mouth of a gigantic dwur head sculpted in stone. The head rose over ten spans in height. Cupolas and buildings could be seen rising beyond the ramparts.
"<In ancient times, Gyrth Orom was bathed in sunlight, and its bronze gates and roofs sparkled like jewels. But when the gods punished He-Who-Has-No-Fathers, the mountains shook and the gap above the city was closed. Darkness claimed Grimrock.>" Brok's voice trembled with emotion.
"Blessed Pelor! Light at last," Keras sighed in relief. The men behind him shared the feeling, blinking back tears from eyes now unused to the full glory of the sun and giving thanks to Pholtus and Pelor for the gift of light.
-----o-----
The Company followed the winding road, passing by tall stone columns and the jagged spires of stalagmites. Sunder and Ghallar led the way, sword and warhammer ready, with Arngrim and Lotheneser behind them. The rest of the Company followed in combat readiness, two abreast, surveying the area before them. Keras and Jord brought up the rear. Brok followed closely behind Lotheneser, though his guidance was not needed at present, as their goal lay in plain sight before them. The old dwarf continued to extol the wonders of the accursed city.
"<Once this valley flourished with life,>" he explained, as the men passed the remains of a withered tree and a broken fountain. "<The elves of Aliador, our allies of old, brought many gifts for the rulers of Gyrth Orom. They planted great gardens in this valley, with groves of their sacred laürelasse trees, brought as saplings from the holy realm of Arvanaith, or so they claimed. Those great white trees grew tall and strong here. Their golden leaves and sweet scent were highly prized by our ancestors.>"
"<Quiet, now, Respected Elder,>" Ghallar whispered. "<We must not give away our position.>" The Company advanced across a rune-carved stone bridge, arcing over the rushing river below. "<The city seems to be devoid of life, but we cannot be sure.>"
The men had debated over the approach to the city, but at Brok and Ghallar's insistence, had opted for a frontal assault. The walls, the dwarves claimed, would be very difficult to scale, as dwur masons usually took care to build sharp edges to cut grapple lines, and other structural defenses were sure to be in place. The main gate, Brok was certain, had been left open during the evacuation. Sunder had reluctantly deferred to the dwarves' council in this regard. He expected to encounter resistance nonetheless, and so the Ravens marched forth, geared for combat.
The Highway stretched out beyond the river, and sloped upwards into the gaping mouth of the main gate. Darkness surrounded the Company once more as they approached the accursed city. Sunder strained his hearing for the sounds of enemies. Almost instinctively, he eased into the walking stance known as Leopard in the High Grass, loosening his sword in its sheath. Lotheneser and Asharak knocked arrows to bowstrings as the Company advanced past the great bronze gates, left ajar so many years ago by the fleeing inhabitants. The entrance itself was an enormous tunnel spanning the thickness of the great walls.
A silvery mist shone with an eerie light, adding its luminescence to that of the phostwood branches. The faint glow cast shadows across the deserted courtyard of the city. A rune-carved obelisk arose in front of them, and dozens of dwarven skeletons, clad in rags and rusted armor, lay sprawled over dry fountains and broken statues. The thin mist parted before them as the Company entered Grimrock.
A faint moan arose in the darkness. The men froze, their weapons gripped in fear. Sunder signaled a defensive formation. The men complied in silence, with practiced ease. No movement disturbed the shadows. The unnerving sound continued to rise and fall, sometimes seeming to draw near and sometimes receding into the darkness.
The mist seemed to thicken at their feet, rolling in like the tide. The courtyard below their ankles became lost to their view as the mist began to glow more brightly. The men tensed in anticipation. The moaning sound began rising once more, this time frighteningly close. The hair at the back of Lotheneser's neck rose at the sight of the dwarven skeletons stirring in the mist. He shouted a warning, drawing his mighty bow and taking aim at the creatures. Two shafts flew at the rising monstrosities. The arrows struck true, but had little impact on the moaning skeletons. Lotheneser jumped back as one of the things swung a rusted axe in a powerful arc. Wielding the bow as a club, he struck back at the monster. The thing bore the brunt of the attack, seemingly unharmed. It drew back its axe for an overhand blow. Lotheneser desperately dropped the bow and drew his basket hilted broadsword, striving to parry the attack in time. The skeleton's head shattered into dust and tiny fragments, as Ghallar's warhammer struck it squarely between the shoulders. Ghallar grunted and spoke some unintelligible words in dwur. Lotheneser grinned back and whispered a relieved thanks. The pair turned back to back to face more skeletons coming their way.
-----o-----
Keras twisted and turned like the whirlwind, spinning circles against the small group of dwarven skeletons that attempted to surround him. The bronzewood staff spun through the air, shattering a collarbone here, a ribcage there. Keras blocked and turned axes and avoided hammer blows, striking back at every opportunity. Around him, the Company of the Raven had engaged the enemy, which outnumbered them four to one. Two of the Ratikan soldiers had fallen to the groaning skeletons' axes. The rest appeared to be holding their own. Jisander and Eliazar fought back to back, swords flashing in a blur, holding more than half a dozen rotting skeletons at bay. Agni protected old Brok with a fierce look and a wicked axe. The rest of the Company, save for Sunder and himself, engaged the enemy in small groups. Durlan's voice could be heard above the battle, ordering defensive positions and shouting encouragement. Cries of "Ravens!" and "Forward the Raven!" arose from the Company, their swords and spears flashing in the mist's silvery glow. Block, turn, strike. Turn, block and sweep. Keras' dance was usually performed without fear or passion. The rhythm of battle and the ringing of metal upon metal provided the tune. Countless times he had performed this dance with death, but something was different this time. A haunted look marred Keras' usual calm expression. This time a cold fear numbed his brain, a nameless dread clogged his throat. This time he saw his own fate in the enemy. The price of a debt unpaid, a promise not kept, a duty betrayed...
-----o-----
Sunder was a blur of motion. Form flowed into form as he faced a half a dozen skeletons by himself. He was aware of the danger, yet moved with confident ease. Twisting the Wind kept the enemy at bay, with Sunder spinning in a tight circle, using slashes and short thrusts to parry and attack. The skeletons fell back, granting him room to maneuver. Sunder took advantage of the opportunity to press his attack.
Lightning of Three Prongs struck down his first opponent, as an initial thrust turned into a slash in an unexpected direction. Turning and reversing his grip, he recovered the slash quickly into Kingfisher Takes a Silverback. Sunder knelt on one knee, the weight of his body driving the sword in a powerful downward thrust. The heavy sword shattered a second skeleton's collarbone and ribcage, its point nearly touching the ground. With a slight twist to the side, both sword and wielder rose straight up, tearing up yet another opponent from hip bone to skull. The Tower of Morning, point held straight up. Another step and The Courtier Taps His Fan, a quick and powerful overhand blow, crushed a skull. Sunder recovered and twisted. A thrust to the chest to dispatch an opponent, then pivot and kneel with a slash to finish the other. The blade swung smoothly around in an arc and was sheathed in a single, fluid motion. Lizard in the Thornbush flowing into Folding the Fan. From a low crouch, one hand on scabbard and the other on the hilt, Sunder surveyed the situation. Rusted axes and the remains of six skeletons lay before him. Leopard in the High Grass moved out gracefully, seeking his prey...
-----o-----
The combat lasted for a few brief moments, but it seemed like an eternity to the Company. The mist had receded back somewhat, and no longer shone quite as brightly as before. Some of the men had been wounded in the fight, and Durlan was doing his best to bandage them. The dwarves could be heard muttering their prayers, grim and angered at the fate of their people. Lotheneser's sharp hearing could make out their words: Azak-Morad, Kor-Morad, Hâl Durin, Khûn Moradin!
"At least now we know what it is we face," Eliazar said, in his usual sarcastic tone. The others chuckled softly.
"Enough play, lads," Sunder reluctantly brought them to order. He had not asked for this command, but fate had thrust this duty upon him, and he would do his best to keep them all alive. "Two of our men are down. We must move swiftly. These things could come back."
The men sobered up at his words, and quickly fell back into formation. The Company moved deeper into Grimrock.
-----o-----
Ancient stone buildings lay in ruins, cracked and torn as if from an earthquake. Large boulders had crashed upon many roofs and the streets were littered with rubble. Strangely enough, the Company found little need for their phostwood branches as they found that many city streets and houses were lit by a warm, golden glow emanating from basins mounted on the walls. These were filled by a glowing gravel called rhadhamaerl by the dwurs. They claimed it would glow for centuries and was commonly used as a source of light.
They had not run into any more skeletons, though the strange mist seemed to cover the entire city. Brok led the Company down winding streets, heading toward the forges.
The ring of hammer upon anvil brought them up short. The Company eased into defensive positions. Sunder motioned quietly for Eliazar and Lotheneser to come forward. Brok, Ghallar and Keras also moved towards Sunder, as they had agreed before, with Asharak and Arngrim covering the rear. Durlan signaled the rest of the Company to move back.
With barely a sound, Sunder, Lotheneser and Eliazar glided towards the main forges. Eliazar's talent for moving silently, acquired after years of stealthy burglaries, was matched by Lotheneser's natural ability and Sunder's wilderness training. The mist thickened and swirled about their ankles as they got closer.
Turning the corner, they saw hundreds of skeletons lying on the floor, half covered by the glowing mist. The ringing noise came from dozens of animated dwur skeletons moving about the large hall, carrying broken hammers, and laboring over rusted anvils and dark, unlit forges. The things moved about in imitation of the tasks they had done in life. Shapeless lumps of cold metal were hammered again and again in a vain attempt to forge wonders, as had been done in the past. The mournful moaning sounds were loud in the room. Sunder signaled his companions forward, readying himself for a confrontation.
Lotheneser and Eliazar moved like cats, darting from shadow to shadow. They made no noise as they glided from corner to corner of the large hall. The pair ducked behind enormous cauldrons, and hid behind stone columns when the dwarven skeletons approached, going about their incessant fruitless labor. Soon they were lost from view. Sunder awaited their return anxiously.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, two figures detached themselves from the shadows.
"There is no sign of this Iron Legion, whatever it is," Lotheneser whispered in Sunder's ear. "The hall leads to yet another area where more skeletons continue this senseless toil. They bring rubble and rocks in iron carts, as if it was metal ore, and pour it into broken smelters, where it spills over and collects in an enormous pile. No fires are lit."
"It is madness," Eliazar added. "They continue to work for no reason, no purpose. How long have they labored thus?"
"I know not," Sunder replied. "But if our goal is not here, then we must move on. Did any of the things see either of you?" he asked.
Lotheneser grinned. "Even if they had eyes, Turmacil, they would have seen naught but their own shadows." Sunder smiled. Turmacil was what the Count of Sunndi's Olvenguard had named him in the days when he had served under that army: Blademaster.
-----o-----
The Company sped swiftly but stealthily through the city. The swirling mist and mournful moaning seemed to be everywhere. Down dark streets they passed countless skeletons engaged in the recreation of what surely had been a busy day in the great city. As they passed an open marketplace, they witnessed dwarven skeletons milling about rotting shops, ghastly vendors holding aloft their bony hands, silently hawking their long gone goods. Greater still were the numbers of inanimate piles of bones, bearing testimony to the great loss of life that had been the fall of Gyrth Orom.
The residential areas proved to be of no help. Dodging patrols of skeletons dressed in rags bearing the faded livery of the city guard, the Company of the Raven encountered only more of the strange signs of unlife in the city. Many houses and halls were abandoned, and provided refuge when the skeletons drew near.
And so their search led them to the city armories. The patrols were more frequent here, as they must have been in ages past. Under Brok's guidance, and with the aid of Lotheneser, Eliazar and Jisander scouting ahead, the Company made it safely inside the building. Brok led them to the deepest level, where he was sure that the most valuable weapons were stored. Working a secret catch beside a pair of iron doors flanked by stone carved warrior dwarves, Brok led them into a room full of wonders.
-----o-----
"<By the gods, where can it be?>" Brok was furious. The Iron Legion continued to elude them. The men beside him were far from furious. They were spellbound by the ancient treasure trove of weaponry. Double bladed axes stood beside gleaming swords and bright shields. Dwur-sized suits of armor of various designs were arranged in neat displays. All manner of spears and poleaxes were stacked against the walls. Most were studded with jewels, or else plated with precious metals.
Ghallar seemed thoughtful for a moment and finally spoke. "<The treasures before you belong to the dwur, but it has been your courage which has brought us to recover it. I am sure that our ancestors would not mind if each of you claimed a single weapon as a reward for your valuable service.>" Agni and Brok frowned at his words. The dwur were notoriously greedy, and were reluctant to part with anything which they viewed as theirs. It did not matter to them that the treasure had been lost to them, and had now been recovered by men. It was dwarven treasure, so they saw it as theirs.
Some of the men grumbled at this, but Sunder and Durlan were quick to remind them of the thin line they walked with the dwur. If they got greedy now, the dwarves might remember their supposed transgression of Cragholme. And though they greatly outnumbered the dwarves, the Company of the Raven prided themselves in being honorable men. They would fulfill their obligations.
Sunder examined the various swords, testing their weight and balance, and finally settled on a hand-and-a-half sword like his own, but forged from black adamantite steel, matte black, with only the edges in gleaming metal. A single rune was etched on the blade, near the hilt. Sunder girded on the blade's sable scabbard with inset rubies and black iron highlights. Brok noted his choice and spoke in his grave voice. "<You have chosen the sword Taragarth the Quencher, forged long ago, when Emperor Inzhilem II of the House of Neheli-Arztin ruled the Sueloise and fought against the Fiery Kings of the Hellfurnaces, the descendants of the Great Wyrm Fer'hiss, whom Durin slew.>" At the mention of their great king, the other dwarves replied: "Azak-Morad, Kor Morad, Hâl Durin Khûn Moradin!"
Keras chose for himself a staff made of charcoal-black wood, light as a feather and hard as bronzewood. It was shod with black iron at head and foot, and graven with ancient runes. Again Brok noted his choice and spoke. "<You have chosen Blackthorn the Firebrand. An ancient weapon made by the mages of Aerdy.>"
Lotheneser picked a pair of long daggers. One was a plain steel dirk, with 5 emeralds inset on the hilt and pommel. It was sheathed in a plain leather scabbard. Brok knew it to be Tarngrim the Unveiler, forged by the priests of Boccob. Made to pierce the veils of illusion, that men's sight be ever unclouded and their eyes open to the truth. The other was clearly an elven-forged dagger of mithril steel, with a large sapphire on the pommel. The mithril crosshilt and ivory grip were engraved with leaves. The blade was sheathed in an ermine scabbard with silver highlights. Again, Brok knew the dagger. "<That is Lachluin the Blue Flame, forged by the elves of Aliador in fair Erieadan, which is no more.>" Brok shook his head sadly. "<Of old were the Olve our allies, before the darkness. Before Vecna came.>"
Agni spat on the floor. "<Speak not of that one, Elder, for he was doomed by his own evil. His time is long past and the world has been free of his taint for ages.>"
Lotheneser was satisfied at his choice. He hung them both on his belt. A human blade and an elven one, he smiled wryly. Torn between two worlds, he thought, such is ever my fate. What better choice of weapons for Lotheneser Half-elven&ldots;
The others chose their weapons, some of which were known to Elder Brok, and some which were not. Some chose shields and armor plates, but all claimed their share. Ghallar hefted an impressive warhammer, while Agni bore a new battleaxe.
-----o-----
Having girded themselves for battle, and having rested and eaten a cold meal, the Company of the Raven set forth to complete their mission. Their route from the armory led them to a wide plaza leading to the great palace. Scattered rhadhamaerl lamps lighted the empty yard, the silvery mist glowing softly. The Company waited for a patrol of dwarven skeletons to pass beyond their sight before moving into the plaza.
As they neared the center of the open space, the mist seemed to thicken about their feet, and the moaning sound rose in pitch. The Companions braced themselves for a skeleton attack, but none came.
Suddenly Jaryd screamed in agony. The mist rose to embrace him, turning a deep crimson color. The men watched in horror as Jaryd died, the flesh being peeled from his bones as if bathed in acid. His armor and spear clattered to the floor. His bones fell down, joining those of the dwarves of Grimrock. The mist seemed to thicken and gather around the Company, a pair of glowing points of light appeared, resembling eyes. The moaning rose and turned into a howl.
-----o-----
