The Grudgestone Clan

The earth rocked as though its very foundation were split. Ketil hurried to inspect the cannon, preening over its parts and gently touching the places where it was marked with the old family runes. The Grudgestones had suffered losses enough in dwarfs and arms; they did not need to forfeit a beautifully made cannon from the Golden Age simply by failing to check for flaws every once and a while. The engineer ran his eye across the brass casing of the dragon-mouthed artillery piece, leaning in close every now and then to make certain the ancient weapon hadn't sustained a fatal wound–fracturing, even of a nails breadth, would render it useless and irrepairable. Once a cannon started to come apart, there was little that could be done. Oh, certainly there were techniques of patching the problem, but only an umgak manling would dare to fire such a dangerously repaired weapon again.

Ormir watched his brother from behind the defensive hoarding. The stone had been hastily thrown together over the course of a week and was gaurenteed to stop neither crossbow shot nor ballista bolt, but it was the best that could be done under the circumstances. The fearsome voice of Asabelle Thunderale roared in the camp, instructing her thunderers to line up at the wall, for their turn on watch had come. Ormir glanced over his shoulder to take a look at his wife–she was a terror on the battlefield as well as in the hold. Red tunic ablaze like a banner awash in fire, she stomped to and fro, her great-grandfather's gun slung over her shoulder. Bad as the situation was, Ormir couldn't help but feel a warm stirring when he saw her in command. Perhaps there'd be time when the bombardment had finally ended.

The Grudgestones had been camped on this damned ridge just north of Ekrund for almost two weeks now, pinned down by the movement of Orc armies in the hills. Shot and powder were beginning to run low, and no runners could make it through the orcish pickets to request aid. Ketil, bright as he was, had sent up specially made flares on three occasions but they seemed to be a waste of powder more than anything else. No one responded. Either they hadn't been seen this far from any sensible dwarfish holdings or the battle for Ekrund was lost and the camps there struck in retreat.

A shape stood out in the darkness: a venerable langtrommi, beard wagging, huffing and puffing up the hillside. Handguns trained on the distant figure at once. It was more than likely a trick. Earlier in the day a pair of grobi had put on beards hacked from the bodies of Durrag and Baztir and come half way up the road to the camp before they were spotted. The clan's Book was growing fat on hatred in this war.

But, as the figure grew nearer it became clear that this was no grobi disguise made from butchered cousins. Ormir let up a shout, whooping to Ketil. "He's come back!" he hollared. The normal grave dignity of a longbeard leader had left him for the moment. He was brought back to childhood, when the three boys had all played in the hills or down in the mine together. Ketil grinned fiercely, adjusting his helmet to get a better look.

It wasn't Krudd Thorinsson. As the longbeard grew closer the joy died stillborn. Certainly it was one of Thorins sons, as he wore the mantle of a runecrafter. The dwarf was too old to be Krudd, who had been sent out to try to get through to someone in the Marshes where there were certain to be warcamps a few days ago. Ketil grunted and said "Arnfinn. You're brother is missing. How did you get here?"

The aged dwarf gave a flinty look to the engineer as he passed him and headed down towards the makeshift barbican. "Better not to know. The road is not so easy these days."