The enraged howls echoed down the ice canyon, growing louder, closer – a wave of pure, primal fury washing towards the dwarven position. Lunrik could almost smell the Ashfang bloodlust in the air, feeling the ground begin to vibrate faintly under the impact of dozens of heavy, charging paws. Grakkus wasn't holding back; he was throwing his entire force into a headlong assault, seeking immediate, bloody vengeance for his fallen vanguard. Predictable, as Borin had said, but no less terrifying for it.
The Iron Guard stood ready, a phalanx of implacable stone and steel amidst the ice. Steam vented rhythmically from their armour and weapons, shields locked tight, axes held low. Captain Brokk stood impassively at the forefront, observing the approaching storm, occasionally issuing sharp commands to adjust firing angles or reinforce sections of their defensive line formed by ice barriers and resonator emplacements.
Lunrik remained beside Brokk, gripping his dwarven axe, his knuckles white. His role as 'tactical advisor' felt suddenly inadequate. Advice was meaningless against a tidal wave of enraged werewolves charging into a confined space. Survival would come down to dwarven discipline, firepower, and sheer, brutal endurance. He scanned the canyon walls above, remembering his own warning, searching for any sign of Ashfang attempting flanking maneuvers, but the initial avalanche triggered by the resonators seemed to have scoured the upper ledges clean, making a high approach difficult, at least for now.
Then they burst into view. Not ten, but closer to thirty Ashfang warriors erupted from the mouth of the canyon further down, a churning mass of fur, claws, and snarling jaws. They charged recklessly through the lingering steam and across the debris field where their vanguard had fallen, their eyes burning with red, curse-fueled rage. At their head charged Grakkus himself, a particularly massive specimen of Ashfang brutality, his fur scarred and matted, a crude iron pauldron bolted to one shoulder, roaring wordlessly as he led the charge.
"Hold!" Brokk bellowed, his voice cutting through the Ashfang cacophony. "Wait for optimum range! Target the commander first!"
Lunrik watched Grakkus charge, a force of nature driven by pure aggression. He lacked Kaedor's cunning or Vorlag's discipline, but made up for it in sheer ferocity and intimidating presence. Taking him down early would be key; Ashfang morale often shattered without a strong Alpha figure leading the charge.
The Ashfang tide surged closer, howling, claws tearing at the ice. The disciplined dwarves held their ground, waiting for the precise moment. Lunrik felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple despite the freezing air.
"Now!" Brokk roared. "Fire!"
The front rank of Iron Guard unleashed hell. Steam projectors hissed, firing concentrated blasts of superheated steam directly into the faces of the charging Ashfang, scalding flesh, blinding eyes. Simultaneously, several dwarves fired their weapons – not steam, but nets. Heavy, metal nets launched with pneumatic force, designed to entangle and immobilize.
The lead Ashfang recoiled, howling in pain from the steam, several becoming instantly entangled in the heavy nets, tripping up those behind them, momentarily disrupting the charge. Grakkus, however, barreled through the steam and dodged the first net with surprising agility for his size, roaring in fury as he closed the distance.
"Axes!" Brokk commanded.
The second rank of dwarves stepped forward, moving through gaps in the front line with practiced precision. Their heavy Boar's Tooth axes swung in coordinated arcs, meeting the Ashfang who broke through the steam and nets. The clang of dwarven steel against werewolf claws and hide echoed deafeningly in the canyon.
Lunrik found himself instinctively moving forward with the second rank, caught up in the brutal tide of battle. An Ashfang warrior, momentarily blinded by steam, lunged towards him, jaws snapping. Lunrik reacted without thinking, bringing the heavy dwarven axe down in a powerful two-handed blow. The axe head crunched through bone, silencing the werewolf instantly. The sheer kinetic force of the blow travelled up the haft, jarring his arms.
He stumbled back, adrenaline surging, the reality of lethal combat hitting him full force again. Alaric's ghost felt grimly satisfied. Lunrik felt sickened, yet strangely focused. Survival. Defend the line.
The battle devolved into a chaotic melee in the center of the canyon. Dwarven discipline held, their tight shield formations and coordinated axe work proving devastatingly effective against the reckless Ashfang charges. But the werewolves' numbers, strength, and sheer ferocity were formidable. Claws tore at shields, jaws snapped at limbs, the sheer weight of their attacks threatening to buckle the dwarven line. Dwarves fell, armour breached, cries of pain mingling with the Ashfang howls. Ashfang fell more numerous, cut down by axes, scalded by steam, entangled in nets and dispatched ruthlessly.
Lunrik fought alongside Captain Brokk, plugging gaps in the line, using the axe with a brutal efficiency that surprised even himself. Alaric's muscle memory guided his swings, anticipating werewolf lunges, targeting vulnerable points. He wasn't fighting with the calculated grace of his former Alpha self, but with the desperate strength of survival, fueled by the axe's solid weight and the grim necessity of the moment. He took glancing blows, felt claws tear at his borrowed cloak, but managed to hold his ground, his presence bolstering the dwarves near him who likely hadn't expected a surface werewolf to stand so firmly.
Brokk fought like a force of nature, his own rune-etched axe a blur, cleaving through Ashfang limbs and skulls with terrifying power, bellowing orders in Dwarven, shoring up wavering sections of the line. He spared Lunrik a brief, surprised glance after Lunrik took down another Ashfang threatening his flank, a flicker of grudging respect in his stern eyes before turning back to the fray.
Grakkus, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of destruction at the heart of the Ashfang assault. He ignored the steam, tore through nets with brute force, and smashed through dwarven shields with contemptuous ease, his claws leaving deep gouges in dwarven plate, his roars urging his remaining warriors forward. He seemed unstoppable, fueled by the curse's madness and sheer Ashfang belligerence. He carved a bloody path directly towards Captain Brokk, clearly recognizing the dwarven commander as the linchpin of the defense.
"Commander incoming!" a dwarf yelled, just before Grakkus slammed into Brokk's shield like a battering ram.
Brokk staggered back, the impact tremendous, but held his ground. He met Grakkus's furious assault with stoic dwarven resilience, his axe deflecting claws, his shield absorbing blows that would have felled lesser warriors. The duel between the dwarven captain and the Ashfang commander became the focal point of the raging battle.
Lunrik saw his chance. While Grakkus was fully engaged with Brokk, his flank was momentarily exposed. Alaric's tactical insight screamed: Target the leader! Break their morale!
Ignoring the pain in his ankle, ignoring the chaos around him, Lunrik pushed through the melee, angling towards Grakkus's exposed side. He saw an opening as Grakkus raised his claws for another devastating blow against Brokk's shield. Lunrik lunged, bringing his heavy axe around in a low, powerful sweep aimed at Grakkus's legs, hoping to hamstring him, take him down.
But Grakkus, despite his brutish appearance, possessed savage combat instincts. He sensed the attack at the last second. He couldn't fully evade, but twisted slightly. Lunrik's axe bit deep into his thigh instead of severing the hamstring, eliciting a howl of pain and fury.
Grakkus spun around, abandoning Brokk momentarily, his eyes blazing with murderous rage fixed solely on Lunrik. He backhanded Lunrik with contemptuous force, sending him sprawling backwards across the ice, the axe flying from his numb fingers.
Grakkus roared in triumph and lunged, jaws wide, aiming to tear Lunrik's throat out. Lunrik scrambled backwards desperately, defenseless, staring up at the descending maw of the enraged Ashfang commander. This was it. He had overreached.
Suddenly, a heavy crossbow bolt slammed into Grakkus's shoulder with enough force to stagger him, disrupting his killing lunge. He roared in pain and surprise, whirling towards the source of the shot.
Kaelith.
She stood poised on a high ice ledge overlooking the canyon – a position the avalanche had apparently not reached, or one she had found afterwards. Her dwarven crossbow was already reloaded, aimed steadily at Grakkus. She must have circled around after the initial chaos, finding a vantage point to support them. Her timing was impeccable.
Her shot bought Lunrik the second he needed. He scrambled away from Grakkus's immediate reach, searching frantically for his axe.
It also gave Captain Brokk his opening. With Grakkus momentarily distracted and wounded, Brokk lunged forward, his rune-etched axe flashing. He drove the heavy blade deep into Grakkus's already injured leg, severing muscle and bone.
Grakkus howled, collapsing onto the ice, crippled. Brokk didn't hesitate. He swung his axe again, a brutal, efficient execution blow that silenced the Ashfang commander permanently.
The death of their leader had an immediate, devastating effect on the remaining Ashfang. Their furious charge faltered. Confusion and fear replaced rage in their eyes. Seeing Grakkus fall, seeing the disciplined dwarves reforming their lines, seeing Kaelith poised above with her deadly crossbow… their morale shattered completely.
The fight went out of them. Some turned and fled back down the canyon the way they came. Others dropped their weapons, snarling defensively but clearly broken. The Iron Guard showed no mercy. They methodically dispatched the remaining resistance, securing the canyon with ruthless dwarven efficiency.
Within minutes, the battle was over. The canyon floor was littered with Ashfang dead, steam rising from scalded bodies and cooling dwarven weapons. Several dwarves were injured, a couple seriously, but their line had held. They had decisively repelled Grakkus's assault.
Lunrik slowly got to his feet, retrieving his axe, his body screaming with aches and bruises. He looked up towards Kaelith's perch. She gave him a brief, almost imperceptible nod, acknowledging his survival, before melting back into the shadows on the ridge, resuming her scout role.
Captain Brokk approached Lunrik, wiping gore from his axe onto the ice. He looked Lunrik up and down, noting his battered state, then glanced towards the spot where Grakkus had fallen.
"Your intervention was… timely, werewolf," Brokk admitted gruffly, the closest thing to praise Lunrik had heard from a dwarf yet. "Though reckless." He paused. "The Dravenwolf huntress also possesses… commendable accuracy."
Lunrik simply nodded, too exhausted to speak. They had survived. They had fulfilled their part of the bargain, assisting in neutralizing the Ashfang threat. But the victory felt hollow, stained by the brutality of the fight, overshadowed by the larger mysteries still surrounding them – the Whispering Ice Pass, the silent hunters, the grieving dragon, the true depth of Magdra's plans, and their own uncertain future within the stone heart of Grimfang Deep.