Binty Blackthorn - A Wildhammer lass

Outside the gryphons were silent. Dusk was fading fast into a moonless night where the eerie mountain winds were howling through the trees. It would be a rough night, and yet a few settlements carved into the side of the mountain flickered with life, their windows aglow, telling of warm hearths and good company, like jewels in the darkness.

The thick oak door, carved with a fresco of feathers and hammers banged open, sending a squall of wind and leaves shivering into the gathering. The grey bearded Shaman looked up from his choice place by the fire as it guttered suddenly. He nodded to the young girl furthest from the fire and she dutifully padded over the pushed the latch back into place.

She could hear the low voices resume by the fire as she paused, pushing the thick curtain to one side, glimpsing out into the inky wilderness, the treetops were dancing with the storm and a few lonely guards scuttled past, hoods up and leaning into the wind. She smiled, letting the curtain fall back into place grateful not to be under orders like them.

Her grandfather leaned forward; he was drawing the tale out, teasing the listeners like he loved to do, building a vision of the tunnels beneath Grim Batol. Of the way things used to be, how it had once been a stronghold for the Wildhammers.

It was an old story, but one told with such craft, and the ale was always so good at the Blackthorn hearth, no-one had a mind to interrupt.

Ready hands topped up his cup as he paused from a long draught from his mug.

“Y’see” he paused, nodding in gratitude “when th’ Dark Irons came, they brought more’n weapons. They brought th’ damn witch Modgud”

He paused for effect, allowing the grumble of resentment to pass through the crowd.

“She did things, t’ the shadow. We were never afraid of th’ darkness, never afraid of whit we’d carved wi’ our own hands. But imagine it, th’ shadows crawling, clawing n’ creepin’ around yeh. Imagine th’ terror o’ seein’ yeh kin consumed by it”

He curled his free hand into a claw, it cast a shadow across the room that crept up the walls and caused the young girl to cling to her small pint and squirm closer to her elder kin.

It was safe though, she knew it really, here amongst her clan. Her grandfather’s voice rumbled above her like a distant storm. But still she could not help but imagine the darkness, how it must have been during the battle. To have the very shadows surrounding you in those tunnels suddenly turn and fight. She shivered, drowsing.

Gentle hands tucked a blanket around her as she began to slumber. Her kin and her clan, they always looked after each other, and they would always defend what was theirs.

Outside a gryphon cried out against the gale, and in her dream Binty lifted a hammer of light against the shadows, sending the darkness scattering before her, she was keeping her kin safe. She was standing between them and the enemy, she was proving her worth at last.

Her grandfather leant back, taking a long sip of beer before driving the tale towards the treachery and low deeds of the dark irons, and he wondered at the strange smile on his granddaughters face.

Absolutely wonderful!! I loved the beginning poem so much too haha "consider buying me a beer" ^^

thanks Shae ^^

“C’mon lass!”

The old rumbling voice was abrupt, there was something wrong. Lurching awake the young dwarf brushed her red hair aside, blinking sleepily in the dawnlight.

“Up yeh get” Her grandfather slung the words over his shoulder, frantically dragging his hand across the high shelves, looking for spare ammunition.

He nodded to himself, eyes flicking to the door whilst loading a small decorative shotgun, viewing down the barrels as he snapped it shut. He tossed the weapon over to her numb grasp and beckoned her to follow. She did as bid, slipping on some fleece lined boots and throwing a warm cloak around her shoulders as they peered out of the door together into the misty morning light.

It was as if the grey clouds were too heavy, swollen still from the previous night’s storm they had slithered to cover the foothills of the mountain. The fog obscured the sight; figures scarce twenty feet away were distant ghostly outlines.

As they stepped outside they could just about make out a line of dwarves heading further down the mountain side, two ranks of rifles, a fierce Sergeant bearing a heavy mace prowling behind them, barking orders.

“Yeh’ll fire on mah Order, watch yer powder, watch the kin beside yeh… give these lanky bastids nae room and don’ fall back!”

The Sergeant turned, prowling back down the lines “Whatever yeh do, don’ fall back!”

Binty could feel her hands shaking. She stood close to her grandfather as he called out for news, blank faces appearing owlishly at the other doorways. She wanted to ask, to question what was happening. But now wasn’t the time… she looked to the stormhammer hanging at his belt, he hadn’t worn it in ages. Her free hand grasped the edge of his cloak, eyes growing hot with a whisper of tears, ready to betray her cowardice.

She took a deep breath, setting her jaw defiantly, willing some control and yet her fingers still twisted into a fist around the cloak hem.

Her grandfather turned to look at her, dropping stiffly to one knee to place a hand on each of her shoulders. “Lass, get inside wi’ the rifle. Don be opening the door t’no-one. I’ll be right ‘ere, nothing’ll happen. Go now… An’ don’ be peerin’ out!”

He pushed her backwards gently, his face grim as he unhooked the stormhammer from his belt, unreadable, closing the door between them before turning to call out to a gryphon rider, who was running up the mountain path headed to the eyrie.

Binty could hear the muffled conversation as she stared at the engraved pattern on the door inches from her nose. Her knuckles were going white, gripping the weapon too tight. It seemed to be trolls, they were advancing through the trees. A sneaky dawn attack, they had done this before. Her heart seemed to be breaking itself against her ribs. She’d never noticed how intricate the engraved pattern was.

She jumped as a bitter volley of gunfire crackled through the air. Stepping back slowly from the door she imagined ragged lines of trolls breaking before the tightly packed group of dwarves.

Another volley, then another… her eyes widened as the firing then fell into disarray, a desperate free for all. She could hear the shouting, the wildhammer guards screaming their challenge. They would be drawing their hammers out now, charging in at close range, rifles dropped to the floor and forgotten.

There was a loud thud on the door, a sick rendering of cracked wood. Binty shrieked almost dropping the gun, aiming wildly forwards. Her grandfather was shouting just outside, just feet away. Indecision wracked her, the door was concealing the fate of her kin. There were muffled blows then a dragging sound, a soft ragged sigh, and then silence.


S i l e n c e


The seconds tolled past, each one an age, she forgot to breathe.

The handle on the door was turning…

She fired in terror as the thick door banged open, then her grandfather’s voice came swearing through the smoke that had suddenly filled the small room “bloody motherlode child!…” His voice exasperated as the shot missed him by a beards whisker. “I’ll give you a hammer next time”

Behind him, on the cold grey streets outside, a troll lay dead, a berserker who had got further than the rest of his attack party. Binty stared at the blood caked on the pale blue skin, the strange symbols drawn with crude skill across his bare chest, he seemed to be young. She looked up and saw the foreign axe buried deep in the wood of their old door. Young but he had been strong.

It had been a hard and brief battle, down in the valley the guards were wiping gunpowder stains from their cheeks, brushing the sting from their eyes as they kicked the troll bodies into a heap. They lifted the wounded gently onto litters to be carried back to the stronghold. The sergeant lay dead amongst the bloodiest group. People were drifting down the slope, helping where they could. Some just kneeling beside the fallen in disbelief. Retribution would be sought, the Thane would see to it.

Across the valley, distant shots resounded, telling of the chase going on through the trees, furious dwarves charging and sniping at the retreating Witherbarks. The gryphon riders were in the sky already, soaring into the low clouds, screeching as they disappeared.

The Alliance needed these gryphons and the wildhammers would always be there to protect them. Defiant and proud, wild and free, these dwarves could always be relied upon.

Binty stared into the dead eyes of a monster and tried to hide her shaking hands beneath the winter cloak, “So” she muttered weakly “a hammer o’mah own then?". Her grandfather reached down, looping an arm around her shoulders, and gave her a relieved hug.

Wow, your writing is excellent, I'm not sorry to say I'm really impressed! The way you spin a tale with just enough description and just enough action, and bring everything to life... I loved the first part especially, with the old tale and the hearth fire the sense of kinship among the dwarves. I've always liked the Wildhammers, and I'll definitely be following this story!

I loved especially the opening post, the dwarven one, it was absoluetly great. I'll admit not having read the other stories - I'm no good with long stories - but that verse was absolutely great! I'll be looking forwards for another should you make another!