Magnar kept his eyes closed and gripped the handle of his great axe, trying to will his legs to stop shaking and keep his body upright. The smell of burning buildings and smoldering bodies had laid siege to his nostrils, while the main assault against his ears by the combined forces of steel on stone and frantic shouting was well underway. The dwarf let out a long breath and forced his eyes open. All he could see in front of him was the moss and rock that made up the small hillside he hid behind. Magnar's regiment had broken off from the main body of the Rising Suns during the night and positioned themselves amongst the hills and the trees to the west. When given the signal they were to use their long hook ladders to breach the rear of the fortress.
Those were the orders given to Magnar's sergeant, a giant of a man they called Thrane, at least. Magnar did not have a damn clue where in Eridan he was, why they were attacking this unknown fortress or who was even paying them to do it. And the longer he waited against the cold hard rocks and heard men screaming and dying, the less he cared about any of it. Maybe his father had more wisdom than Magnar had given him credit for when he had forbidden him from joining the mercenaries. They were what he called “killer vagabonds who dressed like soldiers but fought like thieves.” Daydreams of glory, trading fatal blows with an enemy, filling his pockets with gold and his bed with women were more convincing than any words his father could have ever spoken. But, now those once distant dreams had manifested into a stark reality of how fragile his own mortality really was. Magnar wanted glory and gold, but perhaps it was not worth the price he once thought it was.
Magnar suddenly felt a large hand grip his shoulder. He turned and looked up at the stern, hard lined face of Sergeant Thrane. The hardened veteran stared down at Magnar, sunlight peaking through the canopy and gleaming off his bald head.
“Calm yourself boy, we don't need you shitting yourself and giving us away.” Thrane said, releasing his grip on the dwarf's shoulder.
Magnar wanted to rebuff the sergeant's slight, but a loud explosion sent his stomach to his sphincter and sapped any care he had about Thrane's words. Shitting himself suddenly felt like a real possibility. Magnar could only manage a small nod.
Thrane dropped to a knee and brought his face close to the dwarf, their noses almost touching. The sergeant looked into Magnar's eyes and his face softened. “Don’t let the other lads fool you, we all felt exactly how you do now. Stay close to me and I will bring you through to the other side unharmed. Those men in that fortress are just as scared as you are right now.” Thrane whispered to him. The commander stood and pounded his fist against Magnar's chest before saying, “it doesn't get easier, but you get used to it,” and walking away.
The small amount of courage Thrane's presence had given Magnar fled almost instantly when three quick blasts from a ram horn sounded from the battlefield.
The signal.
It was time for Magnar and his regiment to make their approach. Thrane took one giant stride and stood on the crest of the small hill they hid behind. “Their walls are their coffins – now let's bury them!” Thrane shouted as he raised his steel claymore above his head. The other Rising Suns around Magnar let out a long, collective cry and began scrambling up the hill. Magnar could barely muster a whimper and stood in the same spot. Maybe if I let the others go first, I can sneak in after and make them all think I was there the entire time, the dwarf thought to himself as he tried to fold himself into the hill and avoid anyone noticing him. He had always thought himself brave, but fist fighting the biggest dwarf in the Bronze Hills was a far cry from the now real possibility of taking a sword in the gut. Thinking of how brave he once thought he was, and the arrogance with which he carried himself, now embarrassed the dwarf as he pushed himself deeper into the safety of the hillside.
A hand gripped the back of the dwarf's leather jerkin and pulled him up. Thrane gave him a small smile and then shoved him forward, towards battle and what felt like certain death. Somehow, against every instinct he had, Magnar's legs began propelling him toward the fight. Magnar focused on the orange tabard, the distinctive customary garb of the Rising Suns, worn by the man running in front of him. The dwarf watched it flap in the wind as the man sprinted forward and noticed a small amount of mud that was smeared near his buttocks. Magnar's eyes then drifted to several patches in the tabard where it had undoubtedly been ripped on some distant battlefield. He was just starting to count the small tears in the fabric that had yet to be repaired when the dwarf suddenly realized the man was hurtling back towards him.
Magnar was just able to throw his body to the side and look over at the man, a javelin protruding from his stomach, a small line of blood spraying from the wound. Magnar began to reach out for the man, who was screaming in agony and clutching at the wooden shaft impaled into his midsection. Thrane pushed Magnar away and shouted for him to run. Magnar looked up and saw the small, gray-stone fortress looming in front of him. Arrows, javelins and rocks were streaming out of the towers and over the parapets towards the dwarf and his company. Black smoke was rising from somewhere and fallen orange tabards were already populating the small open field between the forest where Magnar was and castle walls where he needed to be. Magnar tightened his grip on his axe, but the strength that had just recently filled his legs had evaporated. Four orange tabards rushed passed the dwarf and he noticed they were hauling one of the long ladders his regiment was to use to breach the short walls of the fortress. Magnar fell in behind and placed a free hand on the ladder in an attempt to appear helpful.
Somehow, Magnar and his fellow Rising Sun's had reached the base of the castle walls. The two in the front dug the feet of the ladder into the dirt and the two behind began forcing the top of the ladder towards the wall. Magnar pushed the ladder with all his might and miraculously he felt the satisfying force of the wooden ladder slapping the walls. The four other Suns then pulled on the bottom of the ladder in unison and the reinforced metal hooks at the top gripped the stone parapet.
“Hold the bottom dwarf!” one of his comrades shouted, jumping onto the ladder and ascending it with impressive speed.
Magnar threw himself at the foot of the ladder, gripped the sides and used all the muscles in his back to pull it deeper in the earth and keep it steady. The remaining three Suns pounded up and several more emerged from the field and made their way over the walls in quick succession. Magnar looked to his right and saw several more ladders, all occupied by orange tabarded mercenaries, in place against the fortress. The stream of projectiles from the castle had been dammed and Magnar let out a deep breath. He had just survived his first assault.
Sergeant Thrane soon appeared from the forest and was standing next to Magnar. The gigantic man flashed a crooked smile down at the dwarf, who was still pulling on the ladder with everything he had. “Ready to feel why we all do this?” the sergeant asked, extending his hand down to Magnar. The dwarf released his death hold on the ladder and took Thrane's oversized, calloused hand. Sergeant Thrane hauled Magnar to his feet with strength that didn't seem possible. The sergeant gestured to the ladder and raised his eyebrows at the dwarf. Magnar wanted to spring to the top like he saw his fellow mercenaries do, however, that quickly turned to an awkward crawl as the dwarf was having to hold his axe in one hand.
As he was reaching the top, Magnar suddenly remembered he was climbing towards armed combat. Fear gripped the dwarf. His stomach was knotted and felt empty all at once. His fear overwhelmed him to the point that his vision was beginning to blur. Magnar looked down and saw Sergeant Thrane right on his heels, claymore strapped to his back.
“Fucking move!” the sergeant bellowed, but Magnar was frozen, barely able to breath, let alone climb. Thrane pulled a knife from his belt and jammed the point into the hamstring of the dwarf. “I will kill you right here. So either move and fight, or stay and die.”
The look in the sergeant's eyes told Magnar that the threat was not hollow. Magnar again willed his body to keep moving and before he realized it, he reached the top of the wall. The dwarf threw himself over, rolled once and came up into a fighter's stance with his axe in both hands, ready to strike, or at least look like he would.
The top of the wall was deserted, and the fighting had moved to the towers and lower levels. Magnar saw that the front gates had been breached and hundreds fought to the death in the crowded courtyard.
Thrane smacked the back of Magnar's head and pointed to a room to Magnar's left. The door had been broken door and the dwarf could see the silhouettes of men engaged in mortal struggle. Magnar, who had regained a small amount of courage and determination, began jogging towards the room. When he reached the threshold the dwarf paused for a moment. An arrow flew at him from inside and grazed the outside of his upper arm. Magnar felt Sergeant Thrane push him inside as he attempted to back away to safety. Magnar lifted himself up and looked around the circular room.
The smell of blood, smoke and excrement rushed into Magnar's nostrils. Broken furniture and shattered bodies littered the floor. Magnar tried to breathe, but bile was filling the back of his throat and he began to cough. Several Suns were swinging swords wildly at the enemy, who had formed a makeshift shield wall and jabbed at the mercenaries with spears. Three men behind the semi-circle of shields were cranking bolts into crossbows. Sergeant Thrane bounded towards the enemy with astonishing speed and smashed himself against their shields, cleaving his giant claymore into the head of one of the defenders. The man dropped instantly, blood pouring onto his face from beneath his metal skullcap. A second swing of Thrane's claymore cut off the leg of another defender and the armored man crumbled to the ground, screaming. The shield wall broke and the defenders began to flee in every direction from the laughing, blood covered giant that was Sergeant Thrane.
“Where ya going, lads?” the sergeant bellowed, as he closed the distance between himself and a defenseless crossbowman. The crossbowman threw down his weapon and looked as if he was trying to surrender. Sergeant Thrane did not allow him the opportunity as he rammed the point of his claymore through the man's sternum and tore it back out.
Magnar stood a few steps inside the room, holding his axe at chest level and staring as the Suns butchered the remaining defenders. The dwarf moved deeper into the room and danced around the outskirts of the condensed battle, wanting to appear to as if he was being useful in anyway. The mercenaries slaughtered the defenders with ruthless efficiency and after a few moments they had all been dispatched.
Sergeant Thrane stood next to a doorway, nostrils flaring, eyes wild with bloodlust and his claymore dripping. “Don't admire your work too much lads” Thrane shouted before booting open the door and disappearing through it. The other Sun's let out guttural shouts and charged the open doorway, with Magnar bringing up the rear.
Magnar could only see the mercenary in front of him as they descended the spiraling stairs, the sounds of fighting and death creeping closer with every step. Suddenly Magnar's view opened up and the dwarf found himself in a large hall, dozens of mercenaries locked in combat with two scores of defenders. Thrane and his small band of wall breachers immediately threw themselves into the fray, hacking unsuspecting enemies from behind. The unexpected surge of mercenaries on their flank sent chaos through the ranks of the once disciplined defenders of the castle. Panicked men started to break away and look for exit paths.
Standing in front of the doorway, Magnar suddenly found himself face to face with a defender. The man was attempting to flee through the door in which the dwarf mercenary was blocking. The man was sweating heavily from the brow and panted as he made a direct line straight to Magnar. The dwarf stood staring at the man as he rushed towards him, swinging his sword down in a long arc towards Magnar's head. The dwarf, using his natural speed and agility, quickly side stepped the labored swing. The defender did not attempt second strike, instead opting to rush through the door and up the stairs.
Magnar cursed himself for not at least swinging his axe once at the man. A chance at redemption soon presented itself, however, as two more men charged towards him and their freedom. Magnar froze, two enemies attacking him at once would easily overwhelm the inexperienced and fear-stricken dwarf. However, when the pair were a few paces away, one suddenly crumpled to the ground and shouted in anguish, an arrow shaft protruding from his spine. The remaining enemy did not slow his stride by a heartbeat to check on his fallen friend, instead quickening his pace towards the axe wielding dwarf. Armed with only a hand axe, the man swung it at Magnar's head absently as he tried to run past. Again, Magnar easily ducked the blow, but this time the dwarf closed his eyes and swung his axe back towards the man.
Magnar's eyes bolted open when he felt shock run down his arms from his axe head embedding into something solid. The man clutched at his side, where Magnar's weapon had lodged into the soft tissues beneath his rib cage. He twisted and fell to the ground, pulling the axe from the dwarf's grasp. Magnar stood over the man for a moment before rolling him onto his back. As he did so the man's arm lifted and he plunged a dagger towards his killer. Magnar was able to push the dagger wielding arm away, and pin it to the ground. Magnar then use his free hand to punch the wounded defender in the face with three quick blows, rendering him unconscious. The dwarf placed his foot on the man's chest and dislodged his axe from the enemy's gut. Blood sprayed from the wound and covered Magnar's chest and face, saturating the dwarf's short beard and blinding him as it washed into his eyes. Magnar nearly tripped as the wounded man rolled onto his side, the opening of the wound painfully shocking him back to life. Managing to stay upright, Magnar attempted to wipe blood out of his eyes, but his hands were equally as coated. Eventually the dwarf was able to use the dry back of his tabard to clean his hands and then clear his vision. The dwarf looked down at his fallen enemy, lying motionless on his stomach, blood pooling beneath his body.
Magnar's hands began to shake and his breath shortened. Not from nerves, but from the adrenaline of having just survived the encounter and besting another in a life-or-death struggle. The thrill was more intoxicating than twelve pints of the strongest ale. Magnar let out a loud roar and charged towards the remaining cluster of defenders, now surrounded by Rising Suns. The dwarf ran directly to a graying man on the outskirts and hefted his axe. The man took a disciplined stance and prepared his sword and feet to deflect the blow and counter attack. Magnar did not give the man a chance to do either as he used his speed and compact frame to ram his shoulder into the defender's stomach, sending the man reeling to the ground. As he tried to scramble to his feet the dwarf swung a precise strike and his axe blade chopped into the defender's forehead. Magnar ripped his axe free and the man dropped lifeless back to the ground.
The dwarf had no other opportunity to test his mettle that morning, as the Sun's quickly overtook the outnumbered and exhausted defenders. Lieutenant Malric, known more commonly by his moniker “Bloodhand," walked into the hall a short time after the battle ended. Sergeant Thrane brought him the head of what must have been the castle's leader. The tall, lean muscled Bloodhand took the decapitated prize by the hair and studied it for a moment. After a moment, he raised it into the air and shouted, “Victory for the Rising Suns, now do your duty!” The mercenaries all began shouting and Magnar joined them, unsure of what his duty was now that the fighting was over., but unable to calm himself.
The dwarf quickly learned that to mercenaries, their duty after fighting was simple: raid, pillage and drink. The castle's stores were emptied, cook fires sprang up throughout the courtyard and the goats and pigs in the stockyard were butchered faster than the previous occupants had been. Several barrels of ale were discovered in the cellars and mugs were distributed amongst the ranks. Magnar ate a half-cooked goat leg and inhaled several mugs of the slightly chilled ale. As night fell and the Sun's became increasingly intoxicated, Sergeant Thrane found his way to Magnar and stood over the inebriated dwarf. The Sergeant smacked his claymore on a rock several times and conversation ceased as all eyes peered towards him.
“Today we partook in the glorious sacrament of victory,” Thrane shouted and was met with thunderous, drunken cheers. The sergeant held up his hand a few moments later, quieting the crowd back down. “But one of us took part in a most sacred and traditional rite, that of baptism," Thrane continued before hauling Magnar to his feet. The dwarf’s vision was blurring and if forced to speak he was certain it would come out in a slurred mess. “Unlike those dainty clerics who baptize their new devotees in radiance and water, Magnar here, baptized himself in the blood of enemies he slew with his own hands. Magnar has thrusted himself into the most unholy Church of the Rising Suns and will forever be our brother!” Thrane roared before pushing a flask into the dwarf's chest. Magnar took the flask and, raising his axe above his head, downed the contents in one large pull. Magnar threw the flask into the dirt and the Rising Suns erupted into raucous chants.
“Magnar! Magnar! Magnar!”
The mercenaries hoisted the dwarf into the air as they continued to shout his name. Several offered other flasks or mugs of ale and welcomed him as their new brother. Magnar's smile faded for a moment as his thoughts were suddenly drawn to his real brother, Magnus. He prayed that his small, studious little brother was doing well now that Magnar had left home. Half the fights he had ever gotten in were to protect little Magnus. Magnar was jolted back into the current moment when the smell of strong pipe weed nestled into his nostrils.
Magnar searched for the source of the sweet, smoky aroma and his eyes fell on another dwarf standing a few paces away. He was older, probably Magnar's father's age, and staring intently at him. The dwarf smiled and walked over to Magnar, extending a hand. “Durgan, of Clan Runebeard" the dwarf said, long pipe expertly still hanging out of his mouth as he spoke.
“Runebeard? My father always said to never trust a mountain dwarf," Magnar replied taking Durgan's hand.
“Your father sounds like a wise dwarf then,” Durgan said, smile growing larger.
“I am Magnar of Clan Anvilcrest of the Bronze Hills," Magnar replied as the pair sat on a short bench near a waning cook fire. Durgan pulled out a large pouch of pipe weed and handed it to Magnar, who pulled out his long, wooden pipe and stuffed it full. After lighting the bowl and taking several large puffs, Magnar leaned back and handed Durgan the pouch back.
“You keep it. Consider it a gift celebrating your ceremony today,” Durgan said, as he pushed the pouch back towards a stunned Magnar.
“I… I couldn't," Magnar replied. “so far from home this is too great a prize.”
Durgan shrugged before saying, “The cellar had several sacks full, actually. We could smoke all night and barely make a dent in the supply.”
Magnar smiled, knowing the other dwarf was most likely lying. The two said little over the next few hours, mostly talking of home.
As the night was winding down and most of the Sun's had succumbed to sleep, Durgan looked at Magnar with a small amount of concern on his face. The older dwarf then said, “Look, if you are going to stay with us awhile, I have some advice.” Magnar took a long pull from his pipe and stared at Durgan. “You don't want to end every fight completely drenched in blood, and with that damned axe you were swinging around today, it would be almost unavoidable. I suggest we find you a nice hammer.”
End of Memory