Emerging onto the glacier for the third time felt surreal. The overcast sky pressed down, heavy and grey, mirroring the grim determination of the dwarven Iron Guard marching out from the Cog Gate. The wind seemed to have lessened slightly, but the air remained bitingly cold, carrying the promise of more snow. Twenty heavily armoured dwarves moved with disciplined precision across the ice, their formation tight, shields locked, steam projectors humming softly, creating an incongruous island of organized military might in the vast, chaotic wilderness.
Lunrik marched near the center of the formation, beside the stoic Captain Brokk. The dwarven axe felt reassuringly solid in his grip, though he hoped not to need it. His role, as defined by Borin, was tactical advisor on werewolf behavior, a role that felt both presumptuous and terrifyingly necessary. He constantly scanned the surrounding ridges and ice fields, his senses stretched taut, trying to anticipate where Grakkus's forces might appear, how they might react. Alaric's memories provided textbook knowledge of werewolf pack assaults – overwhelming force, flanking maneuvers, targeting perceived weaknesses – but Grakkus was known for brute force over finesse. Predictable, Borin had called him. Lunrik hoped the Forgemaster was right.
Ahead, moving far more swiftly and silently, Kaelith had already disappeared into the broken terrain leading towards the Ashfang encampment near the ice caves. Lunrik trusted her skills implicitly, but the thought of her out there alone, scouting such a large and hostile force, gnawed at him. He kept glancing at the dwarven communicator on his wrist, waiting for her hourly pulse, or the double pulse indicating a confirmed sighting.
Captain Brokk, beside him, seemed carved from the same granite as the mountains. His face, visible beneath the rim of his heavy helmet, was deeply lined, impassive, his eyes constantly scanning, assessing. He occasionally issued low, guttural commands to his squad leaders, adjusting their formation slightly as they navigated the treacherous ice. He hadn't spoken directly to Lunrik since the briefing, seemingly content to tolerate the werewolf's presence as ordered, but offering no warmth or conversation. Lunrik felt distinctly like an outsider, a necessary but unwelcome addition to their tightly knit unit.
They moved steadily towards the network of ice canyons Borin had indicated on the tactical map – the designated kill zone. The terrain here became more difficult, the smooth glacier surface giving way to deep fissures, towering seracs, and narrow, winding passages carved by ancient meltwater and shifting ice. It was claustrophobic, disorienting, and offered countless opportunities for ambush.
As they entered the first narrow canyon, the echoing acoustics amplifying the clank of dwarven armour and the hiss of steam projectors, Lunrik felt the tension ratchet up palpably. This was exactly the kind of terrain where a reckless commander like Grakkus might try a premature attack, hoping to catch the dwarves disorganized in the confined space.
"Captain Brokk," Lunrik said quietly, keeping his voice low but urgent. "Confined spaces like this… Ashfang in crinos form will try to use the walls for leverage, overwhelm the front ranks with sheer mass and speed. Expect attacks from above, if possible."
Brokk grunted, acknowledging the input without looking at him. He issued a sharp command in Dwarven. The Iron Guard formation tightened further, shields raised higher, weapons angled upwards towards the canyon rims. Several dwarves detached small, disc-shaped objects from their belts and tossed them onto ledges above – likely proximity sensors or sonic emitters. The dwarves were prepared, their tactics honed by centuries of tunnel fighting and defending against subterranean threats.
Suddenly, the communicator on Lunrik's wrist pulsed twice. Kaelith. Confirmed sighting.
Brokk glanced at the device, then at Lunrik. "Report location?"
Lunrik concentrated, visualizing Kaelith's likely position based on their approach route. "Ahead. Maybe half a klick. Beyond this canyon network. Ashfang vanguard sighted, moving towards the main canyon intersection."
Brokk nodded curtly. He issued another series of rapid commands. The Iron Guard picked up the pace, moving deeper into the canyons with grim purpose. They reached a wider intersection where several ice passages converged. Brokk signaled a halt, deploying his troops into prepared defensive positions behind thick ice barriers and natural rock formations. Steam projectors were angled towards the main approach corridor, kinetic resonators – heavy devices that hummed ominously – were planted firmly in the ice, aimed to destabilize the canyon walls.
The trap was set. Now, they waited.
The silence felt heavy, unnatural after the constant wind outside. Only the faint hum of dwarven tech and the occasional drip of meltwater broke the stillness. Lunrik crouched beside Brokk behind a thick wall of ice, peering down the approach canyon, his axe held ready. His heart pounded against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the tense quiet.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. Then, faintly at first, carried on the still air within the canyon, came the sounds of approach – the crunch of heavy paws on ice and snow, low guttural snarls, the clink of crude armour.
They appeared at the far end of the canyon – the Ashfang vanguard. Perhaps ten warriors, moving in a loose, aggressive formation, sniffing the air, their crinos forms massive and intimidating even at a distance. They moved with arrogant confidence, clearly not expecting organized resistance.
Brokk remained motionless, letting them advance deeper into the kill zone. His hand hovered over the activation rune for the kinetic resonators.
Lunrik watched the Ashfang approach, analyzing their formation, their body language. They were agitated, radiating frustration and aggression – likely scouts returning empty-handed or pushed forward by Grakkus's impatience. They weren't exhibiting much caution. Good, Alaric's ghost noted clinically. Overconfidence breeds carelessness.
Just as the vanguard reached the designated midpoint of the kill zone, Brokk gave a sharp, guttural bark – the command to fire.
The world erupted in controlled chaos. The dwarven steam projectors unleashed thick, superheated jets of scalding steam that filled the canyon floor, instantly blinding and choking the lead Ashfang warriors. Simultaneously, the kinetic resonators discharged with a deep, earth-shaking THROOOM, sending powerful vibration waves through the ice.
The effect was devastating. The lead Ashfang stumbled blindly through the scalding steam, howling in pain and confusion. The vibrations hit the canyon walls, shaking loose massive sheets of ice and snow from above. An avalanche began, not of loose powder, but of heavy, crushing ice blocks, cascading down directly onto the disoriented vanguard.
Several Ashfang were buried instantly under tons of falling ice. Others, scalded and battered, tried to retreat, only to run into the next wave of dwarves advancing methodically through the steam, their heavy axes rising and falling with brutal efficiency. The disciplined Iron Guard cut down the panicked survivors with grim precision, their axes cleaving through fur and bone, their tight shield formations impervious to desperate, disorganized lunges.
The ambush was swift, brutal, and utterly effective. Within moments, the Ashfang vanguard ceased to exist, swallowed by steam, ice, and dwarven steel.
Lunrik watched, awestruck and horrified by the dwarves' calculated lethality. They hadn't just set a trap; they had weaponized the environment itself.
But the sounds of battle – the roars, the steam jets, the avalanche – would undoubtedly alert Grakkus and the main force just beyond the canyon network.
"Main force incoming!" Captain Brokk bellowed, his voice echoing in the suddenly quiet canyon. "Hold positions! Prepare secondary charges!"
Lunrik gripped his axe tighter, his adrenaline surging again. The first wave was just a probe. The real battle was about to begin. He could already hear the enraged howls of dozens more Ashfang approaching, drawn by the sounds of slaughter, ready to hurl themselves into the dwarven meat grinder. He stood shoulder-to-shoulder with impassive dwarven warriors, an alien presence in their ranks, preparing to face the furious tide of his own corrupted kind, armed only with borrowed steel and the fragmented memories of a ghost king. The battle for the glacier's edge had truly been joined.