The Battle for the Ash Fields

The dwarven host, when it finally crested the blighted hills overlooking the ruins of the Red Kingdom’s capital, was a sight to chill the marrow of even the stoutest heart. Row upon row of dark-bearded warriors, their steel armor gleaming with a dull, malevolent light, their heavy axes and warhammers held with disciplined readiness, advanced like an inexorable tide of iron. Their banners, black and grey emblazoned with a snarling axe, snapped in the desolate wind. They had come expecting the riches of a fabled land, eager to claim the Crimson Comforts their king so furiously desired; the panorama of ruin and decay that greeted them was an unwelcome, puzzling sight.

From their hastily prepared positions within the skeletal remains of Elmsworth’s former palace, the defenders watched with grim faces. Their numbers were pitiful, their “fortifications” little more than rubble piles rearranged and sharpened stakes angled precariously.

“They will expect a direct assault on what remains of the main gate,” Elmsworth murmured, his voice hoarse from shouting orders and inhaling the ever-present dust. He had spent the last two days sleepless, recalling every lesson from his long-forgotten military studies, adapting them to their current desperate straits. “We will not give it to them. Valerius, take your handful to the old eastern orchard. Use the dead trees for cover. Harass their flank when they commit to the main approach. Flicker, are your… surprises ready?”

The wizened old scout, Flicker, offered a weak, wheezing cough that might have been affirmation. He had spent hours with a few younger volunteers, rigging tripwires from scavenged vines and digging shallow pitfalls camouflaged with ash and debris in the narrow, rubble-strewn alleyways leading to the palace courtyard – their designated killing ground.

The dwarven vanguard, a solid block of heavy infantry, advanced with arrogant confidence, their heavy boots crunching on the ash-covered ground. As they neared the crumbling outer walls, a ragged volley of stones and a few precious, scavenged arrows rained down, mostly bouncing harmlessly off their thick shields. The dwarves grunted in amusement rather than alarm.

But as the first wave pushed into what seemed like an undefended breach, Flicker’s traps sprung. Cries of surprise and pain erupted as several dwarves stumbled into hidden pits, their advance momentarily disrupted. From the skeletal remains of the eastern orchard, Valerius and his small band unleashed a volley of arrows, more a nuisance than a true threat, but enough to draw a detachment of dwarves away from the main thrust, dividing their attention.

It was then, as a squad of particularly large, axe-wielding dwarves charged towards a crumbling archway that offered access to the palace courtyard, that Sir Kaelen made his stand. His rusted armor creaked like a tormented spirit, but as he planted his feet, his longsword – chipped and stained but still serviceable – came up in a surprisingly steady guard. The first dwarf, expecting to brush aside the decrepit old man, found his axe turned aside by a parry that spoke of forgotten skill. For a breathless minute, Sir Kaelen was no longer old and stooped; he was a knight of the Red Kingdom once more, his blade a flickering barrier. He felled one dwarf with a desperate, well-aimed thrust before a warhammer blow sent him staggering back, his breath sobbing in his chest, but his stand had bought precious seconds and inspired a nearby cluster of farmer-militia to hold their ground with renewed ferocity.

Further back, near a crumbling fountain, Mistress Elara chanted, her voice thin and reedy, her gnarled hands weaving complex, if trembling, patterns in the air. Most of her incantations dissolved into nothing, forgotten fragments of a more potent past. But then, as a group of dwarven crossbowmen took aim at Elmsworth, who was directing defenders from a precarious perch, Elara’s voice suddenly gained a strange resonance. A thick, swirling cloud of the ever-present grey ash billowed up from the ground directly in front of the dwarves, choking them, momentarily blinding their aim. The volley went wide. Elara slumped against the fountain, her face ashen, dangerously depleted.

The dwarves, taking unexpected, if minor, casualties, were more irritated than truly bloodied. This was not the swift, decisive plunder they had envisioned. This desolate land, these starving, ghost-like defenders, were proving an infuriating, puzzling obstacle. Their advance slowed, not from fear, but from sheer, frustrated surprise. The battle for the ash fields had begun, a desperate, uneven struggle against an encroaching darkness.