The Commander
Cowards. Thin blooded cowards. This isn't a temple, an orphanage, or a convalescent home- It's a damned fortress. Have they forgotten we're at war? Did they just not see the drawbridge, the traps, the fortifications, the damned castle topside where warriors drill day and night preparing for this very day? Did they think these things were for fun? The gall of them, to make a fortress their home and to be surprised when the foe comes to their door. We were ready for this, we militia dwarves. It's why there were no tears shed when I gave the order to charge and we ten souls began the march to certain death.
I was born Bembul Armorclasped and in Brassworked I am called The Demon of Flesh. I'm the miserable bastard responsible for this mess. Sure the Baron rules the fortress, the Mayor does his will, the Sherrif keeps his peace, and the Champion carries his banner but I am the only one you could call responsible. When troubles approaches I'm the first one to respond with steel in hand ready to kill or die for the fortress. I make the hard decisions and that means this is my fault.
I've lived in this fortress my entire life. My father was a cook and my mother worked leather, neither earned glory from their trade. My father spent all day rendering fat till his beard and clothes reeked of it, my mother stitched and cut leather into quivers and waterskins so long that she'd often lose use of her fingers by supper. Sometimes I'd follow them to work or play with the other children but mostly I'd go to the courtyard to watch the grown dwarves train. At night my parents told me stories of great heroes and adventurers who were fearless and bold. I drank them in with relish until I turned twelve and the militia was expanded, I signed up straight away. My parents were fearful but there had been no serious threat to the fortress for a long time and they knew I was far too willful to dissuade. I'd also convinced them this was my best way to a room of my own and out of the dormitories I'd been consigned to. Instead of resisting my mother personally stitched me a new suit of tough leather clothing to supplement my lack of armor and my father prepared my favorite blackberry biscuits for when I went on patrol.
The head weaponsmith of the day was As Uvel a fantastically ugly woman whose skill as a forgemistress was legendary. I dreamed of wielding a blade carrying her mark but I was on the bottom of the heap. The veterans had all the good equipment and the more promising recruits had their scraps. What I was left with was a plain wooden shield spiked with elk bone and an iron short sword with no makers mark save a picture of a turtle on the hilt. The bastard weapon was probably left at some other fortress by an invader, traded to the merchants for supplies, then traded to us for stone crafts. The balance was awful and the metal was brittle but it was mine and I was a warrior when I held it.
It was hard going. I was twelve and hadn't gotten the grasp of my body. I didn't have the delicate control of a true adult and I was soft from a lifetime of playing games, even the other rookies were vastly superior in sparring. They didn't hold back either, I was whacked, thrown, kicked and slammed with regularity and I would always return to my home ragged and badly bruised. I took to it well though. Blades that sought my flesh found iron or air, I developed the raw power to break grapples, I struck so quick and fierce that on the odd chance I was met by a shield I could still send a foe crashing to the ground.
There were so many dull years, training and drilling to no end and dreaming of a chance to prove myself. One year I remember being quite excited about the expansion of the sleeping quarters, this meant more trees had be cut for beds. The elves weren't happy about this and our insult to their Liaison did little to help matters. That summer when the world was in bloom and I was on patrol outside the walls they sent an ambush to teach us a lesson. They say I grinned like a wolf beset by lambs as I lead the charge.
I laughed as I ran into through a hail of arrows, one pierced my soft leather coat and became stuck in the fat of my side stopped only by the thick cords of muscle that I'd built. I got in close quickly and saw the fear in a bowelf's eyes as the desperate swing of his bow had no effect just before my sword pierced his heart. He fell to the ground gushing with blood just as a swordsman closed to make it a fair fight. He was incredibly quick and skilled with the polished mango wood blade. Shallow cuts soon decorated my face but when he missed a stroke I seized his arm. I challenged him to dodge now as I cleaved his head in two. Two more swordsmen broke away from the pack and came at me with elven curses heavy on their tongues. We rattled swords until one missed and I siezed his hyper extended arm with mine, there was no way for him to dodge the blow that killed him. Before his friend could stop me the hilt of my sword shattered his rib cage and the fragments ripped his lungs apart. I lopped off his head in an act of mercy.
The woods echoed with my laughter. My cohorts became entangled with the closing ambushers and we 10 were doing a fine job of driving them back. Just as I feared the fun was done I was beset by a giant tiger. I threw up my shield in time to stop the dread teeth but was thrown to the ground by it's vicious impact. It's rider was a lithe and graceful woman with hair the color of fire and eyes as green as the ancient forest. Veyico Thili, the Gulf of Hope the fearsome and beautiful warrior princess of the Tepid Realms. She looked quite youthful but she remembered days lost to history, she had been a warrior for as long as there'd been war and she'd eaten countless foes. This warrior princess was trilling like a demon and tilting at me with her spear from the back of a war-tiger, and I stood clutching my cruddy iron sword and my flimsy wooden shield an untested boy of sixteen.
The tiger fell on me again, I listened with horror in my throat as it's teeth scraped against my thick leather coat unable to find purchase. Only after I realized I was not yet dead did I have the presence of mind to roll and leap to my feet. On her next pass I tried to unseat her by taking my shield and pushing back against her spear. My inexperience showed plain and the weapon punched into my shoulder stopping only at the bone and knocking me back to the ground. I was a quick learner and when she charged again and I leaned away from the spear, diving to the side of the tiger and with a quick slash opened it's belly spilling it's guts on the ground. The beast let out a horrible sound and went sliding across the forest floor. The elf rose awkwardly, mud covering her face and her deep green eyes burning for my blood.
She set on me quicker than I expected. Her spear passed by my shield and tore a deep gash into my cheek, she didn't rest on it either- a second later she drove the butt of her spear into the side of my head rattling me. The shaft of her weapon found my gut and for a moment I felt fear. She set up to plant her spear in my throat but I clumsily dodged and kicked her hard in the shin buckling her lithe leg. I followed up quickly with a shield strike that cracked her back and tore a groan of pain from deep in her belly. I launched my death blow but succeeded only in hacking at a wisp of red hair that floated to the ground as she shot out again with her spear. I couldn't stop myself from laughing, blood staining my teeth and fledgling beard- we were truly dancing now.
She was more experienced but I had iron and the enthusiasm of youth. If she had a metal weapon I'd be dead at least a dozen times over but as it stood she needed to hit something soft and vital while dodging my clumsy but deadly strokes. I collapsed twice from exhaustion but I was quick with my shield and created enough space to catch my breath. We'd drifted somehow deep into the forest and my allies were nowhere in sight, I thought I might die there until finally her knees quaked and she buckled. I was instantly invigorated, I was apparently doing something right. I bared my teeth and swung hard pressing my advantage. We were both dripping with sweat, panting, and screaming wild curses as our battle reached it's crescendo.
A truly inspired strike came deadly near my throat and I was forced to throw myself out of the way, by sheer chance my blade drifted inside her guard. She noticed as quick as I did but with a painful wrench of my back and a skillful flick of my wrist my sword cleaved joyfully through her thin wrist sending her hand and spear falling to the ground. There was a second between us where our wild and weary eyes met and I relished in the shock of the bested warrior as I reared back and drove my balled fist down into her head. It was the last time anyone saw that lovely face- her head burst open like a rotten melon and sprayed me with gore. At the sight of it one of my allies collapsed, exclaimed in horror and left his lunch on the turf.
We returned to the fortress triumphant and when my waiting mother saw me she cursed loudly while my father painted the brown mud green. My face hung in tatters loosely attatched to my skull and the sweat that coated me had mixed with the blood and my whole face and half the front of me were bright red. That night I did my best to lay still while doctors put my face back together and in the great hall they sang the praises of the Demon of Flesh. The next day I'd missed the bragging so I took it upon myself to start anew. I drank heavily and laughed in the faces of the veteran militiamen, we unproven rookies were the only ones to taste blood in the first conflict in years.
They brought me into the most veteran infantry squad right away just for the chance to shut me up. They didn't do a bad job of it, the training was more brutal and I didn't take to it the way I first did. Still, whenever a blade caught me a little too hard or the ground met me with vigor I'd remember my deadly duel with Veyico. The practice sharpened me but it was Veyico who was my real teacher, you can only really learn from an enemy who wants to kill you and knows how. Her every move was a test and when I failed she punished me, I had a scar for each of her lessons.
I practiced in peacetime but I only learned in those few and frantic days when the enemy came for us and I found a new oppponent. I was truly happy in those days. Leather clothes my mother made covered in patches and tears to remind me the importance of dodging, my warped and pitted shield covered in broken elk bone, my terrible iron sword. I looked like a fool, like a farmer kicked out of bed and told to defend the fortress. Oh I'm sure they thought that right up until the dancing started. I jumped and dodged and blocked effortlessly batting away murderous blows. I chopped off limbs and mutilated bodies cracking skulls and splitting men open. Those were my glory days, young and relying on pure enthusiasm to survive and relishing in the pureness of war.
I came to be coated in steel armor with a masterwork steel blade in one hand and a masterwork steel shield in the other all heavy with brass decorations. They were undoubtedly better but they were so much less satisfying. I didn't dodge as frantically now that blades would just glance away from me, I didn't shiver when I threw up my shield because I knew it would hold up, when I swung my sword I didn't have to compensate for a dreadful balance. I climbed a mountain every day to pray at a shrine then some bastard moved it to the bottom.
Soon I was the most veteran warrior in the fortress miserable title. It meant all my friends were dead and by some stroke of pure luck I hadn't joined them. Even as my beard went white I was spoken of with respect and fear. Bembul Armorclasped, the Demon of Flesh; honored Militia Commander of Brassworked. Some years bolstered our ranks, some thinned us out but I spent all of them in the barracks or the field. I never took a wife but every dwarf who carries a weapon is one of my children. I shared every bit of wisdom I had with them and when the time came to test them I felt fear and glee watching their successes and failures. I don't know if I'm a good commander. My father always said that if he didn't outlive me it meant he'd done his job well. What's it mean that I've buried dozens of my recruits? A few became great, some left the service mutilated, some I had to bury. The goblins carried the swords but I was responsible for whatever happened to them.
When the goblins came from the northwest I set a trap. We were vastly outnumbered but I had a plan, I lead twenty nine dwarves northeast and set twenty to ready themselves inside the walls. Forty conscripts bolstered the defenders and when the goblins were in range they all charged waiting for my men to come in from behind and cut them down from two sides. Then the second wave attacked. Goblins climbed the southern walls, the defenders fought the first group to the north and there was little hope of repelling them alone much less falling back to protect the fortress.
What was I to do? I split my force of backstabbers and sent twenty back to the fortress to repel the goblins scaling the walls and I ordered the nine of my own squad to charge as planned. This one feels different. Damage has already been done and I think the fortress may be doomed. The dwarves who placed their faith in me are dying in the fields. I can see them now, greenskins crossing blades with our defenders. There's at least two hundred of them. This is certainly the end. Death or glory, I'm responsible.
No room for clever planning here. I'm an old, steel coated, leader of dwarves but in my heart my hair is black again, my joints are supple, and I'm wearing my ratty leather clothes. I smile as I think of how I must look, fearsome and deadly as I charge. I can't see my own face but there's horror in their eyes when my blade lashes out. Let's see how I am as a teacher.
Poll
8 (61.5%)
Author
Topic: The Day That Brassworked Fell (Read 15272 times)