The early morning sun shone from the gap in the clouds, illuminating the carnage commencing in the deep set mountain valley.
Four hundred Dwarven warriors were desperately fighting for their lives, the sigil of House Dragan (An armoured fist clenched before the golden stairs of their King’s throne) was emblazoned on their banners. The small force consisted of two hundred Iron Hands, the standard soldiers of , one hundred lightly armoured archers and scout skirmishers, and one hundred warriors of the Steel Legion. The elite soldiers were clad head to foot in heavy plate mail, and each on wielded a huge war axe in their right hand, and hefted a large bronze shield in the other.
Normally an army like this would have formed a shield wall or armoured line, but in this unfortunate turn of events they were surrounded, outnumbered and had been ambushed in the first place.
Their attackers had peppered them with arrows from the hills above before sending hundreds of infantry down the valleys sides to come crashing into the smaller Dwarven force.
Only the soldiers of the steel legion and The Paragon were holding against the attackers. The Dwarf Lord was wielding his great sword and slicing through all attackers who charged him as if they were butter. His axe wielding warriors had formed into several densely packed groups, hacking down all unfortunate enemies who came close.
There were many humans in the enemy force, and even a few Half Orc berserkers, but the majority was made up of steel clad Dwarf warriors, unmistakably Garanir folk.
After barely ten minutes all the Iron Hands had fallen, and the scouts and archers had lost their war with the enemy light troops.
It was now just The Paragon and the remaining eighty odd Steel Warriors holding against the still quite strong enemy force.
Garanth himself had taken little to dent his pride, one shallow scratch from a sword spanned across his shoulder plate, and a cut across his cheek was all that ailed him.
With a grunt he pushed the fresh corpse off of the blade of his sword, letting it collapse onto the ever growing pile.
He had lost count of how many men he had felled…a lot judging by the pile at his feet.

It was a lot more before the battle was over too. He and his men stood there for the best part of an hour, fending off attacks from all sides, fighting like the gods of war. Losing one man for every twenty or thirty odd of theirs (Look I like being OP).
As they fought, Garanth and his men slowly retreated backwards, making their way to the end of the valley, where the valley sides became vertical and were only about thirty feet away from each other, forming a river less gorge.
Eventually, after what seemed like an age they reached it, and they could finally all turn to face their attackers without the danger of being flanked.
By now however they were battered and broken, barely twenty men still stood, and the few who had got away with injuries had been pulled behind the line.
By now Garanth had sustained enough injuries to make him look like a walking corpse. His right arm was bleeding profusely from a number of deep gashes, the small of his back had been struck by a backhanding mace, and an arrow had slashed through the mail of his torso and had skimmed his chest, leaving a long scratch which was constantly being rubbed and scraped by his armour.

After another ten minutes of fighting the enemy finally receded.
And to the broken defender’s disbelief they saw them fleeing back up the valley, barely a hundred strong the flagless Dwarf infantry soon disappeared over the brow of the valley rise.
It seemed unreal at first, another battle won, and another tale to be told amongst the masses.
It was all Garanth could do to remain standing however. His whole body was plagued with pain, and every movement brought with it a fresh wave of agony.
But he could not let what remained of his men see his weakness; they were all men he knew and trusted with his lives…and the few who had retained them.
With a heave he swung his sword one last time and let it fall with a thunk into the blood sodden earth.
“Alright men, in a situation like this there is little to do but retreat to safety as fast as we are able. Heal up as best you can and then we’re off, and we do not stop until the gates of Garnir have closed behind us!”
Like a following of loyal wolves they patched themselves up as best as they could before following him down the gorge…

It took four days to get back to Garnir. Normally they could have covered the distance in half the time, but they were wounded and tired, and the pace was agonisingly slow.
Eventually however, just as the sun was setting below the distant horizon, they reached the Outer Watchtower.
It was a small keep manned by about fifty dwarven guardsmen, and was more a look out point than fortress. It was built right over the road and limited access to Garnir for those who were not welcome.
Garanth knew the captain there, he had been passing through this watch for hundreds of years, and the two had developed a working friendship.

When Daregon saw the state his friend was in, he had called for a healer immediately. But Garanth refused, all he wanted was to go home.
As he and his men were ferried to Garnir, he could not help but let his mind wander to that of the battle.
Who had sent those dwarves? And why?
He and his small force had set out to deal with an ogre incursion on the North Eastern border, it had been while they were making their way back that they had been attacked.
He had set out with four hundred strong warriors…he returned with thirteen. All of them he knew, they had fought at his side for varying amounts of decades. Gron was his oldest and most trusted of them all. He was one of the Steel Warriors and was built like a bear. His hair was a fiery red and was always put back in a neat plait down his back. His beard was larger and brighter than most, and was used both to frighten green human soldiers and set a group of Dwarven ladies giggling.
He wasn’t looking so good now however. His hair was matted with blood, and his chest was open and bleeding from two arrow wounds. The scabs had kept cracking open as they walked.
His wounds were a sign to Garanth. This would be a story that would be told for centuries, and would probably one say become a legend that was told to ambitious small beards before bedtime.
But to him this was another failure to his people and to his men. They had trusted him with their lives, and had paid that price. And all he was left with was shame and wounds.

An hour later and the band of near dead warriors stood outside the one place that Garanth felt truly safe.
He had not spoken to Ves in months, seeing as their last meeting had ended with a heated argument. But all he wanted now was the smell of his beloved as she held him to her, like a loving mother cradles her child.
Sounding as if every word was a struggle for him, Garanth bashed his fist into the large House door three times.