August 1st, 1434 A.E., At the Gates of Myrgard

With the Ghol army defeated, the cowardly beasts abandoned their leaders and fled into the badland steppes. The main force of the Ghol army had been routed, but valuable time had been spent in doing so. As soon as the wounded could walk, Connacht's army was marching again towards Myrgard. They all hoped they would reach the Dwarves in time.

Had Connacht known the of the dire situation that befell the city of Myrgard, even he might have lost hope. For thirteen days the Ghol hordes had attacked the very gates leading into the dwarves subterranean city. Hundreds of dwarves had given their lives in its defense, and five times as many Ghol had spilt their blood upon its steps.

Hafgrim son of Horik, twelfth Ephor of Myrgard, had that morning looked out over the lands that his people once held. Now only weeds grew in the dry soil, between the bits of bone and iron and the blackened craters of earth. Twelve generations had his people roamed the above world. Now they stood on the cusp of retreating back into their stone carved chambers, not to see the light of the sun for many long years. If ever.

Valarik, first Chosen of the Khugaurt Axemen, approached his Ephor. His news was grim. The demolitionists had scraped together the last of their explosive powders. After this day, they would have to rely on their axes alone.

"Our axes... and our bodies", was the Ephor's reply.

A horn trumpeted in the distance, echoing across the scarred plain. The Ghol horde was upon them again. With grim determination, the dwarves made ready for the final defense of their kingdom.