You Want A War? You've Got One! 14.

The Stone Hills. Winter...

After hearing the second blow from a dwarven war horn, his horse is slightly skittish.
He gets it under control and as he realises that his army is coming under attack from not just infront of his position, but also behind them on the road.
Justifier Marsille looks over at the guard commander on the horse beside him, and is just about to mention, that for some apparent reason, he's unable to tap his magical power.
When all of a sudden he feels a sharp pain in his side. The sorcerer from the city of Falnic in Belinswae, who wears armour beneath his single, but thick robe layer. Goes to reach for his ribs beneath his left arm.
When suddenly there's a quick painful blow to his throat. The justifier Marsille goes to clutch at his throat as blood fountains from it.
As the sorcerer falls sideways off his horse, much to the astonishment of the guard commander beside him, along with the nearby officers, as well as his personal guards.
Helbe the elven thief hops forward into the saddle of the sorcerer's horse. The blurred and shielded elven magic user briefly glances down at the dying justifier. Then the young elven noble whips out his right arm.
The spike puncher sticking out of the right sleeve of the elven masterthief's cloak, slams into the side of the guard commander's neck as he goes to get off his horse to check on the sorcerer on the ground.
As the guard commander grabs at his throat and neck, and blood squirts between his gloved fingers from the fatal wound. The elven master assassin shifts away.
Where he just was, the guard commander topples from his saddle, and falls on the ground beside justifier Marsille. It takes the senior officer longer to bleed out and die compared to the sorcerer.
The elven princeling from Laerel in the Southlands is off to target the other spellcasters in the army of the sorcerer Marsille. There's only four of them, and they're not powerful at all. Infact they're pretty insignificant when it comes to magic. And with good reason. Well to the justifiers of Belinswae it's a good reason.
The rulers of Belinswae don't like to share their power with anyone. And in the main, they wipe out other practitioners of magic. Lesser spellcasters such as hedge wizards and witches, spell weavers and the like.
But they do let some of them live and serve them. For the justifiers of Belinswae are nothing but practical. And they have some of these lesser spellcasters to do the mundane work that they can't be bothered doing. Often using them in their raids into the Nomad's Plains. Or such as the case here, their invasion northwards into Stone Hills, as the justifiers of Belinswae wage war against their neighbours to the north.
A big bearded guard upon his horse is extolling those around him on the road, to advance forward through the ever dissipating mist. When blood suddenly spurts from a hole in his throat. As that guard goes to grab at his throat, and the sound of gurgling blood comes from his mouth. Helbe the elven thief shift away.
A slim guard, a foot trooper who is squinting as he looks ahead through the thinning mist. Draws in a sharp breath, and puts both of his hands to his throat, that's suddenly been slit open from ear to ear. He drops to his knees and falls over. The elven master assassin who has just killed him, has already shifted away.
A rotund guard, an experienced one, who is holding the reins of his horse as he stands beside it, and is using his riding crop to whip some of the pressed guards.
Who have suddenly found themselves under attack from dwarven warriors who have come out of the dissipating mist to the east of the dwarven made road.
Suddenly drops the reins to his horse, which takes off in fright, knocking down guards who are too slow to get out of the way.
The rotund guard stiffens for a moment, then he drops to the ground dead after the blurred and shielded elven magic user pulls the six inch steel spike puncher, out of the back of the guard's skull. The young elven noble from south of the equator shifts away.
On one of the wagons amongst the front of the camp followers who are behind the army proper. One of the healers is standing on the wagon bed, peering forward through the thinning mist, trying to see what's happening ahead. As is the wagon driver, and the support guard on the wagon seat infront of him.
Suddenly he topples backwards and falls flat on his back on the wagon bed with a thump after Helbe the elven thief pulls the spike puncher out of the healer's right eye.
The elven master assassin looks down at the dead spell weaver whose brain he's just punctured with the six inch steel spike puncher.
Then the grandson of the ruling prince of Laerel in the Southlands as he stands upon the wagon bed as the driver and the support guard look back in shock at the healer behind them. Looks up at the hill to the east that's right next to the road.
The rocky hill that's covered in slate and shingle that the line of wagons and carts of the camp followers behind the main fighting force of the justifier's army from Belinswae is now going by.
The young elven noble who knows what's going to happen next, infact he can now sense it building up. Quickly shifts away, heading back north, away from the line of wagons and carts that are making their way along the dwarven road, as it passes a hill, that typifies the name of this land, The Stone Hills.
Up the north side of this particular hill, which lies between the last foothill where the redoubt is just before the mountainhold of clan Kraelin. And to the south of it, the hill where the army of justifier Marsille made camp for the night. That hill being the last one in the foothills with any semblance of grass. As well as a smattering of scrubby trees. It's the reason the justifier's army set up camp there.
The dwarven delver Barmil Kraelin looks at the trade road below. The dwarven spellcaster who happens to be the cousin of the chieftain of clan Kraelin is with a small squad of warriors. All of whom are either scouts or archers. They too are looking down at the road as they wait for one of their number to return.
The scout comes back around from the east facing side of the hill, and when he crouches down beside his chieftain's cousin, he quietly says "It's loose around there alright".
"Aye, as i expected" quietly says Barmil Kraelin the dwarven delver, who then looks at the squad of ten warriors, and he quietly tells them "By Thaxel and Dovarn you better hold onto something tight lads, i canny not tell how much is gonna go".
The warriors after sharing looks of concern with one another, drop to the ground as the dwarven delver has just done.
The cousin of the clan chief Baedin Kraelin senses that there's no more spellcasters amongst the enemy army from Belinswae. The dwarven spellcaster who knows that the elven prince, Helbenthril Raendril has killed them all.
Watches the line of wagons and carts on the road below, come up alongside the hill that he and his squad are up at the moment.
Barmil Kraelin who has been building up power for a little while now, slightly nods his head as he sees the first of the wagons and carts of the camp followers going by the hill.
The dwarven spellcaster who wears armour beneath a tatty looking fur cloak he wears. Has never been good with weapons. Infact, he isn't afraid to admit it, for clan dwarf, he's pretty useless with weapons in combat. But that doesn't stop him from carrying a couple of small axes at all times.
Barmil Kraelin takes one of his axes, and out of habit, more than anything else, he pounds the butt end of the handle into the ground beside him as he casts the spell 'Ground Shake'.
The delver doesn't cast it here, where he and his squad of ten are. That would be certain disaster for all of them if he did that.
Instead he casts away to their right, on the east facing side of the hill they're up. The side that looks directly down on the trade road below. And that's definitely certain disaster for those down on the road who are going by the hill.
Barmil Kraelin and the small squad of scouts and archers with him, are shaken and flung about as they try to stay flat on the ground. They're hit by small rocks and bits of broken slate.
The worse they endure is bruises and abrasions. Not so those on the road below who are going by the hill they're up.
The face of the hill directly overlooking the road slides away. An avalanche of boulders, rock, slate and shingle cascades down the side of the hill towards the road. The fast moving landslide cashes into the wagons and carts passing by the hill.
Screams come from the mouths of both humans and horses as they're hit by the side of the hill that's slipped away.
Wagons and carts are shattered and destroyed, as are camp followers and support guards, as well as teams of horses. Smashed and pulverized by the largest of boulders, and the smallest pieces of shingle.
Rocky debris sweeps across the road, and onto the open ground on the east side of the trade road. It's about a sixty to seventy yard stretch of the trade road that's covered by the boulders, rocks, slate and shingle.
A trade road that was purposely built over a thousand years ago here next to this very hill, for this very reason.
In the wisdom of the clan dwarves of yore. Who knew that if they were going to trade with the region of Belinswae to the south, then there's a pretty good chance they would eventually get unwanted visitors here in the clanholds.
Throughout the Stone Hills, the roads go by certain foothills such as this one. Hills with extremely loose faces, where the boulders, rocks, slate and shingle can easily give way if they're given a helping hand.
Often in the springtime when there's heavy rain, there's landslides from such hills. Where work gangs have to go out and clear the roads. It's an annoyance, but an annoyance the dwarven clans of the Stone Hills put up with. Because the hills can also be a weapon for them in times of war. Such as now, as the justifiers of Belinswae invade the Stone Hills.
The dwarven delver Baedin Kraelin grimaces as he's got a cut along his right cheek from a flying piece of rock slate. It's pretty insignificant compared to what's happened down on the trade road below.
A few of the wagons and carts at the front have escaped damaged. But almost half of the wagon line has been struck by the landslide of rocky debris, that's created a swathe of destruction amongst the camp followers of the army of justifier Marsille.
As dust is now in the air to replace the mist along this stretch of the trade road. The army from Belinswae that's trying to work it's way up into the clan Kraelin mountainhold, has effectively been cut in two.
With the remaining camp followers, on the southside of the boulders and rocks covering a fairly decent stretch of the road, and onto the rocky ground to the east of it. Where the remaining wagons and carts can't go, to get around the debris from the landslide.
While to the north of it, is the main fighting force of the army proper. Who are now cut off from their support, such as field surgeons, smiths, cooks and the likes. And more importantly cut off from their supplies and extra equipment.
The army proper, who are under attack from three sides. On both sides of the road in two different spots. As well as on the road itself, at the very front of the army from Belinswae.
As he dabs at his bleeding cheek with an edge of his tatty looking fur cloak, Barmil Kraelin hears the screams of pain, and the calls for help from the injured survivors amongst the pile of boulders, rocks, slate and shingle across the road below.
And as he spots those from amongst the camp followers to the south of the wave of rocky destruction start to clamber over it to try and find any of the survivors.
The dwarven delver who is the cousin of chief Baedin Kraelin quietly says to his squad "Aye that's what ya get when ya canny think you can come up here like, and try to take our home".
Barmil Kraelin and the ten warriors with him up the hillside, watch what's happening below on the road, as their clan attack the justifier's army from Falnic in Belinswae that's trying to invade their clanhold. An army that's paying dearly, in both lives and materials, for doing so . . . . . .