The sun hung low in the west, bleeding gold over the valley floor, stretching the shadows of scrub-brush and broken rock. Sweat traced rivulets down Belorn’s temple as he stepped away from the stubborn wagon, wiping his brow with a patch of rough linen that had long since lost the battle to grime.

  “Bloody wheel’s cursed,” he muttered.

  Behind him, Cloris and Dweeble were halfway to blows again, which meant progress was minimal and the shouting maximal.

  “I told you not to hitch the ponies to it again, you sodding milk-skulled fool!” Cloris’s beard bristled like an angry cat’s tail as he brandished a prybar in one hand, the other waving at the wedged wheel like it had insulted his ancestors.

  “You think you know everything, whitebeard!” Dweeble shot back, huffing as he yanked on the other side. “Were losing light, and you’re slower than a drunk mule in mid-winter!”

  Belorn watched the exchange with mild amusement. It was like watching two goats try to headbutt down a stone wall—futile, loud, and strangely endearing.

  “Would ye come over here and help, ye durned dolt?” Cloris barked at Belorn without turning around.

  Belorn sighed. “Quiet down, both of you. I’m taking a break from your petty arguments.”

  He meant it as jest, but there was fatigue behind the words. The kind of weariness that clung to bones. Truth be told, he’d always had a soft spot for the brothers. Cloris with his bluster and gray-flecked beard, and Dweeble, ever the impulsive shadow behind him. Family came in strange shapes, and though they weren’t blood, they were kin by battle and road.

  It had been Cloris who gave Belorn his first chance, all those years ago. Most dwarves never left the under-mountain keeps—never felt wind beyond mine shafts, never tasted foreign spice or seen the sun rise over a desert dune. But Belorn had wanted the world, even if it didn’t want him. He came from a line of smiths, same as his father and his father’s father. He had taken up the trade for a time, enough to know he was good with the hammer, but not content. His pa had seen it in his eyes and given his blessing with a grumble.

  The rest of the kin? Less kind.

  He hadn’t returned to Stonebar Hold in over thirty years. The last time he did, his younger brother refused to shake his hand and his mother looked at him like he’d died and forgotten to stay buried.

  “Should’ve been born a human,” she’d whispered when she thought he wasn’t listening.

  Belorn pushed the memory down like an ember smothered by calloused fingers. Not now. Not here.

  He turned and marched back toward the wagon, where Cloris and Dweeble were still locked in their passionate and profoundly useless debate. Without a word, he stepped between them, gripped the top of the cracked wheel, and leaned back with all the weight his shoulders could muster.

  “Ready?” he grunted.

  Cloris nodded. Dweeble spit into his palms.

  “One… two…”

  “Three!”

  Muscle and iron groaned. For a moment it refused to budge, then with a wet sucking noise and a shudder, the wheel popped free from the mire, flinging flecks of earth onto all three of them.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  They stood panting, victorious and filthy.

  “About time,” Cloris muttered.

  Belorn allowed himself a tired smile.

  “Aye, what are you grinning at, smithy?” Dweeble scoffed, brushing off his coat. “This whole mess is your fault. If you’d just accepted Harold’s help back when he offered, we’d be with the caravan by now.”

  Belorn’s grin faded. “I’ll not take help from a swindler who undercuts honest work just to line his own belt pouch. Harold’s no dwarf—he’s a rat in stone’s skin.”

  “Still, better a rat than roasted mutton if we don’t catch up.” Cloris pointed a thick thumb down the trail. “The caravan’s half a mile off, heading for the pass. We tarry here much longer, and we’ll be fending off mountain cats or worse.”

  "We have to catch up to the others," said Belorn. Cloris turned towards the mountain pass where the rest of the caravan was just beginning to start the climb upwards out of the valley. "They got bout two hours on us I'd say," he called out.

  They turned as one to fetch the replacement wheel and bracing tools.

  That’s when the shadow came.

  II. The Ridge

  It was sudden—unnatural.

  Belorn had lived through storms, cursed ruins, and even a sandwraith’s chase across the Gilt Wastes, but never had the sky gone dark so swiftly. Not a single cloud moved above, not a hawk or bird in sight.

  A weight pressed on him, slow and heavy. He turned, eyes lifting toward the western ridge.

  And then he saw them.

  Figures. Hundreds. No—thousands. Crowding the ridge line like iron teeth in the mouth of some foul god. The shapes were unmistakable, even from distance.

  “Orcs,” Belorn said aloud. His voice cracked like a boy’s.

  “What’re you blabbering about?” Cloris called, straining beneath the wagon. “Get over here and—”

  “Orcs!” Belorn shouted.

  That got their attention.

  Cloris straightened. Dweeble dropped the axle he was carrying. Both followed Belorn’s gaze.

  “Durin protect us,” Cloris whispered.

  III. Above

  High upon the ridge, astride a monstrous, snorting war boar clad in black iron plates, sat Warmonger. His hulking frame was layered in bones and rusted chain, his face painted with the blood of giants, tusks jutting from a helm made from the skull of a forest troll. He watched the caravan snake below like prey already wounded.

  In his right hand he held Ar’Sul, the demon sword, bound with glyphs and soaked in the blood of kings.

  To his side stalked Shermongrin, the shaman, swathed in rotting skins and feathers, teeth braided into his dreadlocks. He cracked his whip across the backs of the orcs nearest him, snarling incantations into the wind.

  Warmonger’s voice was low and sharp. “Are the others in place?”

  Shermongrin did not answer immediately. He was busy, whispering into the minds of a frenzied cluster of gore-cloaked berserkers.

  Warmonger turned, his gaze slow, menacing. Silence swept down the line like a blade through grass. No orc dared meet his eyes.

  “I asked,” he said again, louder this time, voice like the groan of a siege engine, “are the others in place?”

  Shermongrin finally bowed. “Yes, mighty Warchief.”

  Warmonger stared at him. The shaman’s loyalty was useful, but only so long as it bent to the right spine. There had been whispers—always whispers—that the shaman sought more than visions. That he believed Warmonger’s days were numbered.

  Let him dream.

  “Then let us begin,” the Warking growled.

  Shermongrin turned to the front ranks, lifting his staff high. Two orcs emerged with hide-banners fashioned from stitched skin—man, elf, dwarf, beast.

  They raised them to the wind and waved.

  From the far valley came the answer—three war horns howled like wolves with hollow throats.

  Then came the charge.

  IV. The Flight of Kin

  The hidden pass they had found weeks ago poured forth orcs like ants from a ruptured hill. The valley echoed with screams and the pounding of feet. Belorn could see the front half of the dwarven caravan pivot, confusion shifting to fear as the trap was sprung.

  Cloris shoved Belorn, snapping him from the horror. “We have to go!”

  “What should we do?!” Dweeble cried, his face pale as chalk.

  “Untie the ponies!” Cloris barked.

  Belorn ran.

  They worked as one now, no time for bickering. The ropes were loose within moments. Cloris leapt onto his mount, Dweeble after. Belorn hesitated for the briefest heartbeat—then vaulted onto the last.

  The three ponies galloped down the trail, dust kicking in sheets behind them.

  As they rode, Belorn looked back.

  The ridge was alive with fire and iron. The valley swarmed. Screams danced on the wind. He saw the caravan attempt to reach the narrow mountain pass where numbers wouldn’t matter, where shields could form a wall and the orcs’ savage charge would break like surf on stone.

  It was a good plan.

  Belorn turned back, his face tight with fury and fear.

  “Faster!” he shouted. “We ride for the keep!”

  V. Two Hours

  Two hours to the keep.

  Another hour to convince the prince.

  Two hours back.

  The odds were piss-poor. But dwarves had spat in the face of odds since the First Delving.