by Laurence J Sinclair
The heavy marching of dwarven warriors rushing to their posts, hastened by their king’s words, masked Brom Frostbeard’s retreat from sight. Even as the old cleric hobbled away from the great gate, the clank of armour was replaced by the clash of weapons, Alaric’s battlecry just audible above the screams of the dying. Each night, ever fewer comrades retiring home each evening.
Combat this close to his sanctum didn’t disturb Brom; it was the fifth such incursion in as many hours, and soon enough King Alaric and his soldiers would drive the attackers back. It was truly admirable how quickly the outsider had mustered his troops so quickly for the defence of the city, yet the priest shook his head that so many of his Winterholders should look to the newcomer for leadership. His own voice had barely been acknowledged at the council of war, the fighters caught up in Alaric’s bravado.
Had they so soon forgotten to whom they owed their survival? Brom had not.