Arc VI- Chapter 4: Hammergate

Vris moved the pieces. Not with haste, not with noise, but with certainty. The map of Harrowhall was etched into his mind now: every tunnel, every choke point, every fracture left behind by betrayal. What had been lost at Hammergate would not be reclaimed. It would be taken.

His forces gathered in the dark like a storm beneath stone. Goblins formed tight ranks with blades ready. Wargs paced low, breath steaming. Ogres shifted with slow, crushing intent. Orcs of the Blackgrin and Fleshfeeder clans stood in brutal anticipation. Stone-Eaters held firm as bedrock. Ethrani warriors stood silent as carved pillars. Above them all, the Moonlit Choir drifted, already moving into position.

And at the center of it stood Vris, mounted atop Varkha. Still. Waiting.

Then his voice rang out.

“Now.”

The assault began.

The first to surge forward were the dead. Undead trolls, Maggra’s will burning in their hollow eyes, violet witchlight igniting within them. They did not roar. They did not hesitate. They crashed through the tunnels and onto the Hammergate bridge like a tide of rot and bone, absorbing the first wave of resistance.

Then the Maw followed.

Vris leaned forward as Varkha launched into motion, the great warg tearing across the bridge with terrifying speed. Behind him thundered Grond the Graveheart, Trollbane dragging sparks across stone. Dunzok and the Blackgrin surged at Vris’s back, forming a brutal vanguard of iron and fury. The Fleshfeeders spread along the flanks, eager and hungry, their ritual markings smeared in fresh blood.

The bridge became war.

Steel met bone. Claws met flesh. The sound of it wet, thunderous, unrelenting filled the cavern as the Red Maw crashed into Ulg’s forces with all the weight of vengeance.

Elsewhere, Hadrik Veinborn and his Stone-Eaters met another threat. Lizard-folk mercenaries from the Eastern Crawl struck with cold precision, their blades fast and fluid. But the Stone-Eaters did not break. They met them with grounded force, crushing forward step by step, stone grinding against scale in a brutal contest of endurance.

Above, the Moonlit Choir sang. Their dissonant harmonies rippled through the cavern as they clashed with the Batkin, winged humanoids shrieking as they dove through the air. Shadow met shadow in the skies beneath the mountain, their battle waged in eerie, fractured silence.

And still the bridge burned.

Vris carved a path through the chaos, Heartfang in hand, Ruin whispering at his side, his presence cutting through the battlefield as the Maw surged behind him.

Then it slowed.

Not the war, but its center.

Bodies clogged the middle span of the Hammergate bridge troll, goblin, orc, and worse piled together in a tangled mass. For a moment, neither side could push through.

And through that stillness, he emerged, his eyes pooled with glee.

Trollking Ulg stepped forward onto the far side of the bridge, massive and blood-slick, his grin wide with hunger and amusement. His eyes locked onto Vris.

“Well,” Ulg rumbled. “There you are.”

Vris dismounted slowly, Varkha stepping back just enough to give him space.

They faced each other across the dead.

Then Ulg laughed.

“Let’s make it simple,” he said, spreading his arms. “You and me.”

A pause.

“If you lose, the Red Maw belongs to me. The Eastern Crawl takes it all.”

His gaze flicked past Vris.

To the cage.

Maz hung there above the carnage, battered but alive. Her eyes found Vris instantly.

Watching.

Waiting.

Ulg’s voice dropped.

“But if you win… my people serve you.”

Silence followed.

Heavy.

Final.

Vris’s eyes never left him.

“Clear it.”

The bodies began to move, dragged aside, kicked away, pulled to the edges of the bridge. Both sides gave space, not for peace, but for something older.

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Something inevitable.

Back on the bridge, the path was clear.

Vris stepped forward.

Ulg met him halfway.

They circled, slow and measured. Each step deliberate. Each movement watched.

No roar.

No immediate clash.

Just tension tight, coiled, ready to break.

Maz watched from her cage.

Alive.

Seeing him.

Knowing.

And somewhere, high above and hidden from sight, the Old Woman watched as well, her form half-shadow, her smile curling with quiet amusement.

“Oh,” she murmured softly. “This should be fun.”

And on the bridge, in the center of it all, the war narrowed to two.

And began.

From the western tunnels, Maggra’s forces struck. Ironhide and Gorehill ogres burst from hidden passages, slamming into Ulg’s rearguard in a crushing pincer. Violet witchlight erupted across the battlefield as Maggra unleashed her magic, necromantic energy tearing through troll ranks and igniting the fallen into motion once more.

Her power bent the flow of the fight.

And it drew Vorla.

The troll came through the chaos like an avalanche given flesh. One of Maggra’s risen warriors disappeared beneath her first swing, bones scattering across the stone. Another she caught by the throat and hurled into the ogres advancing behind it. Her guards followed close, hacking apart anything the necromancer sent between them and their mistress.

Vorla's eyes found Maggra.

“There you are.”

One of Maggra's heads grinned.

The other rolled her eyes.

“Was wondering when—”

“—the ugly one would find us.”

Vorla roared and charged.

Maggra drove her staff into the stone.

Three corpses rose between them.

Vorla went through all three.

The first lost its head. The second folded beneath the troll's shoulder. The third managed to sink broken teeth into Vorla's arm before she tore it free and crushed its skull beneath one enormous foot.

Maggra barely had time to move.

Vorla hit her.

The collision drove the two-headed ogre backward hard enough to crack stone beneath her heels. One of Maggra's heads snarled as Vorla's claws raked across her shoulder, tearing through hide and flesh.

“Strong.”

“Smells terrible.”

Vorla seized Maggra by the throat.

One throat.

That was the problem with fighting a two-headed ogre.

Maggra's other head smiled.

“Forgot something.”

Vorla's expression changed.

A dead troll behind her opened its eyes.

Violet fire burned within them.

It wrapped both arms around Vorla's waist.

Vorla released Maggra and twisted, ripping the corpse's jaw away with one hand before smashing her elbow through its skull. By then Maggra was already moving.

Her staff struck Vorla across the face.

Bone cracked.

Vorla stumbled.

Maggra raised one hand.

The battlefield answered.

Bodies twitched around them.

Goblin.

Troll.

Orc.

Things whose names no longer mattered.

Violet threads stretched from Maggra's fingers into dead flesh, and the corpses rose together.

Not wildly.

Not stumbling toward whatever happened to be nearest.

Together.

Vorla saw it.

So did Maggra.

Before Vris's mark, death had answered her like a pack of starving animals. Powerful. Useful. Difficult to control once enough corpses were moving.

Now?

Maggra could feel every one.

She crooked two fingers.

Six dead warriors attacked Vorla at once.

One caught an ankle.

Another seized her wounded arm.

Two climbed her back.

Vorla bellowed and tore through them, ripping limbs free, smashing skulls, biting into one corpse's shoulder and wrenching half its torso away.

But every moment spent killing something already dead was a moment Maggra remained alive.

“Again.”

“Again.”

More rose.

Vorla fought through them.

She was magnificent in the way only something terrible could be magnificent. Blood covered her arms to the elbows. Corpses accumulated around her feet. Every time Maggra thought she had finally slowed, Vorla found another reserve of violence.

Then the troll broke free.

She lunged through the dead and caught Maggra across the face.

Maggra reeled.

Vorla followed.

A fist hammered into her ribs.

Another drove into her stomach.

Maggra spat blood.

Vorla grabbed one of her horns and dragged her downward.

“You think your little goblin king made you strong?”

Maggra's eyes narrowed.

Vorla leaned close enough that Maggra could smell old meat between her teeth.

“You were hiding behind walls when we came.”

One of Maggra's mouths curled upward.

“Hiding?”

The other began laughing.

Vorla hesitated.

That was all Maggra needed.

Her hand slammed against Vorla's chest.

Violet light exploded between them.

Vorla screamed.

Not from fire.

From recognition.

Every corpse surrounding them turned its head toward her at once.

Maggra straightened.

Blood ran from one nostril. One eye was swelling shut. Her shoulder hung lower where Vorla's claws had torn through it.

Both heads were smiling.

“We weren't hiding.”

“We were collecting.”

Maggra closed her fist.

The dead attacked.

Vorla disappeared beneath them.

She roared from somewhere inside the mass, throwing bodies aside, ripping limbs free, forcing herself upward beneath the sheer weight of the dead.

A hand caught her wrist.

Another seized her ankle.

Another wrapped around her throat.

Vorla tore herself halfway free.

Maggra stepped closer.

The troll saw her.

For the first time since the battle began, Vorla's expression contained something other than rage.

Maggra lifted her staff.

“You should have stayed—”

“—with your king.”

The staff came down.

Bone shattered.

Vorla collapsed to one knee.

Maggra struck again.

The troll tried to rise.

A dead hand caught her arm.

Another seized her hair.

Maggra struck a third time.

Vorla fell.

The dead held her there.

Maggra stood over her, breathing heavily.

Vorla still lived.

Barely.

Blood bubbled between her teeth as she looked up at the ogre.

“Ulg…”

“Will know.”

“He'll know exactly.”

Vorla tried to laugh.

Maggra's expression darkened.

“No.”

Both heads leaned closer.

“He'll see.”

The violet light came.

Vorla's body arched once.

Then went still.

For several breaths Maggra simply stood over her.

Around them, the battle continued. Ogres smashed through troll formations. Goblins darted between giants. Screams echoed beneath Hammergate.

Maggra looked down at the corpse.

One head considered it.

The other smiled.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

She extended one hand.

Violet threads slipped from her fingers.

They entered Vorla through the mouth, the eyes, the wounds opened across her body. The troll's fingers twitched.

Her back arched.

Broken bones shifted beneath flesh with wet cracks, not truly healing, merely becoming functional enough to obey.

Then Vorla opened her eyes.

Violet witchlight burned where life had been.

She rose.

Slowly.

Unsteadily.

Maggra watched her newest servant find its feet.

“Waste not,” one head muttered.

The other looked across the bridge.

Toward Ulg.

“Punishment suits her.”

Maggra pointed.

Vorla turned.

And the dead troll began walking toward the army she had once commanded.