The Turning of the Glaive

Being a Tale of Battle from the March of Glaives.

There are many sayings about Dwarves. Plenty of them focus on their drinking, or work ethic. Racists favor citing Dwarven greed or miserly behavior. Ironically, in bars and taverns dwarf tossing is more likely to come up than dwarf drinking. Whether the topic is pro or con usually depends on the disposition of Dwarves in the vicinity. While most might consider the idea of being thrown for sport or combat to be an offensive pastime, some just like the sensation of being thrown through the air. Others still take this as a point of pride that they are small enough to be thrown but hearty enough to make an impact upon landing.

"Think about it," the pro-Dwarf-tossing Dwarf usually begins, "Ya' never hear about Gnome tossing do ya'? Just imagining it brings a smile to the face. And Halfling tossing, well, that just sounds mean! No, no, no. Now think of a Dwarf, all muscle and beard or flowing lass locks, tucked up in a ball that springs open into a wild whirl of blades and bearings before it lands! The thought itself sends most runnin' in fear!" Or so the argument might go.

One thing that's rarely spoken of, however, is Dwarven hearing.

​You see, among the mixed population of the Republic of the Black Gem, Dwarves are the shortest race that is likely to be stationed on the front lines. Of course the smaller races have many active combat roles in the legions, but as far as infantry forces go, those races are more likely to make up scouting or flanking forces. So Dwarves in the infantry find themselves about a foot below the wide mix of peoples fighting alongside them. This is why among the infantry of the Black Gem, Dwarves make up the front line. Those behind them can see over them, and the Dwarves themselves can rarely make out the devastatingly overwhelming forces that they face.

Young Dwarves love to boast that they'd never run or break their lines, even if they could see the entire hordes of the Nine Hells before them. History says otherwise. Veteran Dwarven soldiers, however, know that it's not the sight of what's in front of them, but the sounds of what's behind that should drive prudent decisions that war sometimes requires. Veteran Dwarves can serve as a sort of barometer for a battle. They've developed a sixth sense for judging the greater fight at large. It goes beyond what they can hear to something akin to feeling the pulse of a battle. As though it were a living being struggling in its first and mostly likely last thrust of a short-lived and bloody life. ​

Alvaro Montes wouldn't have called himself a veteran. The fact that he'd started this battle as one of a handful of surviving members of the 3rd battalion made him a veteran. Nor would he call himself a leader. The fact that the other soldiers listened as he hollered orders urging them on and warnings protecting them from being blindsided by hobgoblin war beasts made him a leader. If one wanted to be technical on the matter, the fact that his squadron's captain took an arrow to the neck probably helped that leader argument as well, but to those that need that argument often have the fact that leader and commander are not always same.

For Alvaro all those distinctions and titles meant very little. The fact that his finely crafted rapier and been sheared down to half its length some ten minutes prior meant far more. It meant his arm was tired from stabbing well-armored Hobgoblin soldiers in the joints of their armor with a jagged piece of metal. It meant picking up a small throwing axe in his off-hand and hacking like an inartful butcher, rather than the finely-honed gentleman warrior he fancied himself. It meant being splattered in green ichor and red viscera that painted him in the death of friend and foe alike. In short, it meant every bellowing shout of short Dwarf carried the weight of mad monster behind it.

It meant that when he yelled "Shields right! Hounds incoming!" that every soldier within arms-reach of a shield not immediately facing down a foe rushed to guard their right flank, as though they'd been warned by a blood-soaked demon that the wolves of the Infinite Wastes came for their very souls. It meant when he followed up with "Up and under! GUT THEM!" that all those shield-bearers with wild wargs and wolves teeth inches from their faces found it within them to produce a blade, even if it was just a dinner knife or broken arrowhead, and stab repeatedly into the soft bellies of the beasts.

Unfortunately it also meant that when Alvaro paused, taking in the cacophony of the battle, so too did his soldiers. As the hounds slumped onto the floor, their blood adding to the slick viscosity of the mud beneath Alvaro's feet, a great Goblin cheer rang out across the battlefield. It was an odd moment -- their flanking attack had been repelled and yet their forces let loose a coordinated cry of triumph and glee as though they were responding to someone, or something. Alvaro clambered up the pile of dead Wargs -- wolves the size of horses. He was forced to stab one with his broken blade on the way up, but on the plus side … he needed the hand hold. 

From atop the mound of fur and wounds, Alvaro first saw his soldiers pouncing on the opportunity to backstab and throat slit those Hobgoblins so distracted by this great cry that they'd turn their backs on active combatants. And he watched them die with looks of pride and victory in their eyes. Then, he followed those dying gazes to see the cause: a grand glaive wielded by a heavily-armored Hobgoblin, thrust rhythmically into the air. Each time it stabbed the sky the chorus of cheers rang out.

"What're they saying? Glory?" Alvaro asked, only speaking a smattering of the goblin language.

"THE Glory. Specifically," one of the other soldiers corrected his translation.

​Alvaro didn't understand the need for a distinction, but when the mighty weapon came crashing down upon an equally ornate shield, a shield clearly made to be paired with the glaive now striking it, Alvaro knew he was witnessing something momentous. The Glory shattered the shield in a flash of divine wrath that burst across the field. "Dorian's doom …" Alvaro muttered as the energy of a deity crashed like a wave over the sea of soldiers.

​An understanding settled into Alvaro's heart as the energy washed past him. Glory and Honor had been the divine weapons of Iro's champions since the days of the first republic. Every soldier had prayed to the god of victory and righteous war, most had dreamt of carrying those magical arms into a fight, and now here he was watching them be stolen by the enemy. Iro's own glory had now been twisted, turned against his own followers. And now, the call of the Hobgoblin leader had again changed. Alvaro just looked to his soldiers for a translation.

​"The Glory Maker is ours… charge."

On another day, at another time, Alvaro would've rolled his eyes at someone translating the goblin command for 'charge' to him. On this day however, he merely shifted his gaze in horror as an emboldened army following a charismatic leader came barreling down at them. Across the Republic's battle lines, many of the soldiers were too distracted with the immediate threats facing them to understand the impending slaughter. Alvaro shouted up and down the line, he ordered his soldiers to carry his warning, to grab speaking stones, use minor magics, flags, flares and all other communication forms to alert the army. 

The call to regroup came barely in time. But watching the losses the Republic soldiers were suffering, one would be forgiven in thinking it hadn't come at all. Volleys of arrows, bolts of lightning, even bombastic balls of fire did nothing to disrupt the organized rush of Hobgoblin steel chewing through the soldiers of the Republic. Alvaro's unit had become the singular point holding its position as the battle lines collapsed around them. They fought as they retreated, killing as many as they could while falling back, struggling to keep from getting cut off from the rest of the army.

A sky ship attempting to cover the infantries' retreat and regroup was caught ablaze by Goblin magics. Its crashing into the oncoming Hobgoblin forces only served stem the tide briefly. Alvaro watched survivors attempting to climb free from the wreckage.

"We have to get them out! Form up! Move! Move! MOVE!" Alvaro shouted above the sounds of bashing metal and crackling wood, and so his soldiers moved.

They rushed along the battlefront deflecting incoming arrows crawling over the dead bodies to reach the wreckage. Most of the survivors were dragging themselves away from the burning boards when Alvaro arrived.

​"Encircle the wounded! If you can carry a weapon grab it now!"

"The captain's up there!" one of the air crew cried, his tears of pain and sorrow washed clean the only parts of his face not covered in black soot or crimson blood. "We cant leave him!"

Alvaro had come this far; giving up and abandoning someone now didn't make sense. He followed the crewman's point to see the silhouette of a hulking behemoth with a thick muscular body and arms that could drag on the floor, standing atop the flaming wreckage, heaving goblin corpse back down into the fray that dared to try to climb aboard and claim his ship from him.

"That's the captain? What the hell is that?" Alvaro asked, seeing hints of blue skin illuminated by the fires of the ship burning beneath this creature. 

"No, that's his mount. THAT'S the Captain!" The crewman responded as one of Alvaro's soldiers began dragging him to his feet.

Looking back, Alvaro saw a small figure emerge atop the blue behemoth. It was Halfling-sized, wearing a shark jaw as a mask and tossing magics into the fray, all the while holding onto the reins of the blue skinned monster beneath him. Alvaro didn't have time to process what he was seeing. All he could do was climb the wreckage to get this … captain … and his crew out of here. 

"Are you mad!? Get down, we're overrun!" Alvaro commanded the Halfling, who looked entirely unfazed by Alvaro's blood-soaked visage.

"I can't! I have come to deliver a package to that Hobfuck right there!" The Halfling pointed to the commander of the Hobgoblin forces wielding The Glory Maker and ordering his soldiers onto the burning wreckage. The Halfling spoke with a confident, almost mad-like glee even as his toad monster ripped limbs off enemy soldiers, only to sling them back at the oncoming forces. "Good job Chaos Toady!" The Captain cheered, patting his mount's head.

"Thanks Captain Ades," the blue toad monster croaked back.

"I taught him that!" Ades beamed proudly back to Alvaro. 

"Dorian's doom," Alvaro cursed himself and his luck. "What's the package?" he asked frantically, now being forced to defend himself from the swarming Hobgoblins. 

"It's him!" Captain Ades said, drawing Alvaro's attention to the unconscious, unarmored man slumped over the railing. "Here!"

Alvaro looked just in time to catch the small crystalline vial Ades had tossed to him. With no time to waste, Alvaro splashed the liquid down the throat of this stranger, who instantly coughed himself awake. 

"I hope you have some miracle wrapped beneath those bandages." Alvaro said, pulling the man up to his feet by his linen-bound hands. 

"Wish I did," was all the man said before looking past Alvaro.

The relative quiet that had come over the battlefield did more than the stranger's gaze to alert Alvaro to the fact that the Hobgoblin war leader, that heavily-armored soldier who minutes earlier had shattered a shield blessed by a god, had just climbed onto a burning crashed airship to kill … most likely all of them.

"The Wanderer. You should have known better than to stumble your way before me." The armored Hobgoblin spoke loud and clear, addressing the barely-conscious man. 

"The Revolution," said the man. "We both know that I only end up where I'm destined to be." The man straightened his back, attempting to strike an equally imposing figure. It might have worked, if he wasn't wincing in clear pain as he did so. 

"Then thanks be to destiny for giving me the joy of your being your end." Before the sentence had finished, the two figures were charging each other. Alvaro had seen unarmed monks break stone and shatter metal before, but even witnessing those miracles he saw no way for this wounded Wanderer to dent The Revolution's armor, much less defeat him. 

The skill of these two combatants was beyond the embellished fish tales of glorious fighters that drunkards and old vets would tell after a few too many drinks. And yet, even with the help of Ades and his chaos toad (the skills of whom were impressive in their own right) Alvaro could tell The Revolution's victory was certain.

​But for a moment, something in his gut pulled his eyes away from the fight before him, as the battle barometer in his soul told him to look across the battlefield. The Hobgoblins were watching … ready, eager, no needing to witness the victory of their leader.

Ades was thrown from Chaos Toady as Alvaro watched.  And there it was ... sliding across the deck, having fallen from the captain's belt, was a bard's cone. Used to magically enhance one's voice and send it booming out. As the Dwarven instinct of battle took over, Alvaro rushed across the deck to grab the cone and began yelling order back to the Republic's forces. "COUNTER ATTACK!" began his first command. "Now, while the enemy is distracted! Line breakers to the front!"

His words echoed over the battlefield, he shouted coordinates for magic bombardments, and siege breaker blitzes. The soldiers of the Black Gem rallied to Alvaro's call, but this resurgence would be short lived once The Revolution emerged victorious. 

Looking back at the microcosm of this war taking place on the deck of this ship, he saw Captain Ades wounded on the floor, the blue chaos toad trying to drag itself to its feet, and The Revolution readying a coup de grace for The Wanderer. 

Alvaro's feet took him running forward without thinking. The Dwarf rushed to the scene, desperate to stop what would surely rally the Hobgoblin forces. He had no plan ... but he didn't need one.

"Chaos Toady!" Captain Ades croaked a command at the mount he'd long-since been thrown from. Then Alvaro felt the floor disappear from beneath his feet as the blue behemoth hoisted him into the air, and launched him across the bow of the ship like a cannonball. He slammed into The Revolution and felt The Glory Maker cut into his torso, but Alvaro grabbed the glaive and held on with a death grip. The momentum of being thrown carried the dwarf past the enemy commander, and he dragged the magic weapon away with him.

Alvaro fought the oncoming blackness as he pulled the bladed part of the glaive from his gut. When he heard a whispered word from Ades across the ship, he somehow found the strength to get to his feet. He looked back just in time to watch The Revolution slump to the deck.  Something was glinting in the waning light -- the handle of a rapier with a broken blade, stuck out of the side of the Hobgoblin's helmet, jammed in there by The Wanderer. 

Alvaro could see little, and hear less, but in his heart he knew there was one last thing to do. Gritting his teeth through the pain, he climbed to the edge of the wreck and hoisted The Glory Maker high into the air, so ally and enemy alike could see the turning of the glaive.