‘Twas late spring when the snow blocking the southern pass melted. First, the elves came, and in great numbers. They were the first to warn us, but we didn’t listen. Then, the hill forts reported movement in the great basin; humans were gathering. Suddenly, the barons of the hills gathered and made their demands. For fear of raids, and for retribution of settling near our land, King Dazka was to raise a Doom—an army—and make a pre-emptive strike. They hoped a strike from the hammer of Old Mountainthrone, as it were, would send them back to the deep woods of the southern lowlands.

I should ‘ave never let the Demon Emperor draw my kin from the hills. Dwarfs were long-lived, skilled, and hardy, but few. To train a single dwarf in the way of the shieldwall and the ancient rites of war would take twenty-five years, at the least. All the while, the humans could throw their young at us, and even if we claimed five men to a head, a single dwarf was a loss that could hardly be replaced.

We made a terrible mistake.

‘Twas late in the fall, when my kin stocked the halls for winter, that I first heard of Marad Ka. They were the hill fort that protected the southern pass. If they were to fall, the kingdom of Golud Baradash would be exposed. And so, for its defense, the king had assigned a legion of 20,000 dwarfs. He further assigned a hundred ballista divisions and thirty-two of our mithril shieldbreakers. Two weeks before the first snow and we ‘ad heard nothing. One week before the snow and the report was placed in my hands.

I remember a long hallway. ‘Twas surreal to walk past the statues of ancient legends; kings, queens, and heroes, and wonder if that history had come to an end. I found King Dazka on the Overlook; a terrace cut in the face of the mountain. He was an ancient dwarf, revered by all the kin of the Daz Baradash. The sun was setting, but he ‘ad his eyes on the horizon. There was a hand on his great triple-braided white beard, and the other on the pommel of the axe at his side.

“Father,” I said and knelt before him. I presented the parchment with both hands, and my head down low. “Marad Ka has fallen.”

“I see that,” he grumbled. “Raise your head, my son, and look to the south.”

There was smoke on the horizon, but not of Marad Ka. The humans were advancing!

“No!” I shouted. In my shock I jumped to my feet, grabbed the balcony railing. My report fluttered from my hand and was carried by the mountain wind.

“They want to push their advantage,” my father said in his slow manner. The king of mighty Golud Baradash may ‘ave appeared stoic, but I knew him better. Rage burned in his eyes. “They will attack us again, even if the snow comes and traps them in the mountains.”

I looked at my father. He was clad in the ancient armor of the Ka—the Throne. It was red adamantine plate, gilded with mithril that sparkled with effervescence. He wore not his crown, but his tall plate helm. His battle mask laid on the round table beside him.

“You mean to fight him?”

“In one week,” my father said. “I’ve already given the order. I will gather the Dron Ka Doom and go to battle.”

“Before the snows come?” I asked, red eyes round like saucers. “What if they escape?”

“They should ‘ave the chance,” he said. “Cornered humans fight like rats. If we shock them, they will flee back through the pass, and that will be another year to seal the five holds.”

“And if you fail?”

My father’s face became very grim. “Do you believe the Demon Emperor to be so powerful?”

“Marad Ka—!”

“A fluke!” he shouted. “I wish to go to the field myself. I will settle this embarrassment before it shames us further.”

“Then, let me!”

My father’s anger subsided instantly, like a break in a blizzard. I was his only son and the lineage of Golud Baradash royalty hinged on my survival. I was precious to him for that reason, but not that alone.

Father set his gauntlet on my shoulder. “My life I have given to the kingdom, but you have not sworn the oath,” he said. “In a hundred years you might be ready, but I… cannot risk you yet.”

“I ‘ave the eyes,” I said.

His eyes welled with tears. That old dwarf was hard faced, but he could not deny my words. I had been born with the Ron Ker—the Rage Eyes. They were eyes of great myth and folklore among the dwarfs, and fabled to appear in an age where the kingdom faced crisis.

“I have proven myself, ‘ave I not?” I asked, placed my hands on his sturdy pauldrons. “I have been prince for a hundred years and always been your right hand. I have been yer Hammerer, yer Judge, and yer Marshal. I ‘ave fought in the coliseum for fifty years. Give me this chance.”

He hesitated, held his breath. I knew what he wanted, but he couldn’t say it.

“I know you take this seriously,” I said. “For you to don the armor, you must be worried. You must be ready to die for the kingdom.”

He tucked his lips and turned away. “I will not lose you to that scum.”

“This is what my eyes were for!”

“I know!” He pounded the balcony, shook the stone. “I know yer not a boy, but these wars… they are meant to be fought by fathers, not sons.”

My hands fell stiff at my side.

“If you were to fall in battle, the kingdom would crumble,” I said. “Let me go, father. Take a Doom west, to Shuk-ilkron. Protect the deep—the thol of our kin—and I will find you there. I will bring you victory.”

I could see the shimmer of my own red eyes in the sheen of his armor. I ‘ad ferocious magic, that he couldn’t deny. I know it pained him, but it was the only decision he could make. A father wanted the best for their child, for them to be safe, and for their destiny to be fulfilled.

My destiny was on the battlefield.

I left early next morning, at the head of a Doom a fifty-thousand strong. At the mouth of the southern pass, where it opened to the grassland of Amud Valley, we would strike. Sunder the earth with our hammers, break the sky with the sound of our battle cries; split the ‘eavens and earth! Whatever may come, I swore there would be blood. For Golud Baradash, the Doom of Balagrim Dazka—Mountainthrone—marched forward.

The dwarfs marched to war!