War In The Depths

Chapter I

Crashing to the floor the dwarf skidded along on his torso, his face smacked against the hard-cold stone of the passage floor. Each slab of stone was a masterwork, forged over centuries by numerous stoneworkers leaving their intricate carvings to be continued by their successors. The walls bore etches of past kings, the history of the Dwarven people and their journey amidst the deep overlooked all who travelled the tunnel roads. A second was needed to stop his eyes rolling in their sockets. His vision returned to him, displaying the crimson red of his blood coating the epitaph of Jurrir Tunnelborer, beneath his stone effigy, the words illegible drowned in his blood. The king of legend looked down on the dwarf, his stone eyes meeting his. He had seen this statue countless times, the king responsible for establishing the numerous highways connecting all Dwarven settlements and societies. Pickaxe in hand he had forged the way with thousands of others to unite his people. Without Jurrir there would be nothing but cramped dingy passages that would struggle to fit three Dwarves shoulder to shoulder, not the sprawling network of roads able to hold multiple traders, their wagons and the beasts that pulled them. For all his work and the prosperity it brought his people, it may be the downfall of his entire race.

The screams from the tunnel brought him back to reality, their shrill screech pierced his ears like knives against glass. "Up! Up!" a voice screamed. Like a wolf pup being carried by its mother he found himself hoisted by his scruff, his feet limply dragged behind him smearing the blood from his shattered nose across the floor. Loskra, scout commander of The Golden City, like the warrior queens of legend hauled him with one hand, sword in the other, and shouted at the remainder of the scouts to keep moving. He looked up at his saviour, her red hair like the colour of his own blood flowed to her shoulders where it met with the sturdy plate mail of the scout commander, the gold trimming glinted with the light of the abundant torches of the highway tunnel. Turning back, she pointed her sword to the group of Dwarves that followed up behind them. It was the finest sword he had ever laid eyes upon, the emerald placed at the centre of the cross guard matched its wielders eyes, the iridescent blue sheen of it's perfectly weighted blade made from their most precious ore, myrkrtite, a dark ore that when worked properly became stronger than anything the realm of Man could create, and near weightless. Although it certainly wasn't as long as would be common amongst the surface races.

"Ready crossbows!" she ordered; the fifteen dwarves immediately turned about and dropped to one knee, crossbow stocks positioned firmly against their shoulders. Determination emanated from her, there wouldn't be another dwarf lost today if she could help it. She dropped her scout back onto his chest, Loskra pointed at an unarmored member of the unit with her now free hand, "You! keep running, make sure they have that gate open for us. Go!" without a second of hesitation he was off, the pounding of his feet sounding as if each stride would break his bones. They were close, it shouldn't take him long to reach the gates in a full sprint. Four hundred metres until the left turn followed by another three hundred metres to the gate. It's true Dwarves aren't exactly natural athletes but even that feat would take no more than a couple minutes. "Loose!" he heard Loskra shout followed by the mechanical whining of the crossbows as they auto fed another bolt into position from their side mounted bolt drum. Their races ingenuity knew no bounds, the sheer amount of raw resources available to them allowed them the freedom to experiment unlike the other races who made use of all valuable ores best they could to maintain well equipped armed forces. Mechanised crossbows were ordinary among Dwarven people, you'd be hard pressed to find a store without one under the counter. Rumours that the military had begun construction of larger mechanised siege weapons were also common amongst the people, whether they held any truth was to be seen. The shots must have found their targets. His ears were again being assaulted by the shrieks of what pursued them, the sound reverberated in his brain, grotesque imagery flashed in his mind before he shook his head and banished the thoughts. Another volley had been launched, the scouts aim was impeccable, the bolts were sure to hit. Amongst the military forces there were none better at ranged warfare than the scouts, although a sense of pride for them, it was oft regarded as weak amongst the other forces. After all, what's an army without a shield wall of swords and axes to smash your enemy's front line?