Vander's Pride, A Warhammer Tale, were written and performed by Owen Staton. For centuries, a silence older than the roots of the mountains had seeped into the soul of the caverns, an oppressive stillness that cloaked the forgotten dwarf hold of Karaksigar in shadow and memory. That eternal quiet shattered in an instant, sundered by war cries that roared like the fury of a waking dragon, fuelled by an enmity as ancient as the peaks themselves.
Two forces collided with a cataclysmic might that trembled the foundations of the Elder Mountains, dislodging slumbering snow from the towering slopes miles above in a cascading avalanche of white wrath. After aeons of stillness, the fate of a long abandoned bastion of dwarven glory hung in the balance. The greenskins surged forth like a pestilent tide, their vile essence poisoning the very air
of the caverns. Goblins of every twisted form, squat snotlings, wiry runts and hulking brutes swarmed with eyes ablaze with hatred and minds bent on slaughter. They scampered and shrieked, a cacophony of malice echoing off the fungal crusted walls. Yet the dwarves of Zafbah met them with unyielding valor, their numbers scant but their spirits forged in the fires of ancestral pride. The clash was thunderous, a Tempest of steel and blood.
Dwarven axes hewn from the forges of old cleaved through goblin flesh, spraying inky inkor across the rocks, while crude greenskin blades slithered through the rare chinks in dwarven armour, striking at their hated foes with desperate savagery. At the heart of the maelstrom stood Vander, second son of the Lord of Zafar, a colossus of dwarven might. His warhammer sang with a dirge of ruin, shattering the skull of a towering Great Goblin.
In a burst of bone and brain was his ironclad fist crushed a squealing snottling against the cavern wall with contemptuous ease. After centuries of simmering resentment, he was a storm unleashed, his voice arising in an ancient war hymn, soft as a whisper at first, then swelling into a resonant chorus as the warriors of Zafbah took up the song. It was a melody of defiance, a hymn to Grungy's glory, reverberating through the tunnels like the toiling of a great bell.
The greenskins faltered. The air thrummed with a dwarven song, a force as palpable as the blades, and the tide of battle shifted through the goblin numbers darkened the caverns like living shadow. Their great charge broke against the unyielding fury of the dwarven line. Smaller goblins and snotlings were trampled under foot by their own kin, their pitiful cries lost in the din, while larger brutes felt their fragile courage fracture, fleeing back
into the depths. Vander's heart swelled with the pride of battle, the intoxicating promise of victory cursing through his veins. Karek Cigar, the lost jewel of his people, lay mere moments away, its ancient gates within reach, its glory his to reclaim. Then, in a heartbeat, the world turned to chaos. As the dwarves pressed their advantage, the fleeing greenskins parted like the
rending of a great veil. Goblins scrambled up the tunnel walls or grovelled in the dirt, abandoning their pursuit to escape to reveal a new terror. The Triumphant Hymn of Zafbah reached a haunting crescendo, only to fall silent as a dread presence emerged from the gloom. The stagnant air of the caverns stirred, heavy with menace as a hooded figure lurched forth from the shadows. It spun with unnatural speed, a whirlwind of destruction, its cackling laughter a jagged blade
against the silence. The dwarfs froze, their blood running cold as they beheld the nightmare before them. A goblin fanatic, this was no mere greenskin, but a fungus crazed harbringer of doom, driven to madness by the intoxicating spores of the madcap mushroom that festered in the deep places of the earth. A whirling dervish of annihilation, it swung a massive ball and chain above its head with such ferocity that the air itself seemed to scream in
protest. The weapon, a crude orb of iron studded with jagged spikes, tore through the cavern towards Vander's warriors, an unstoppable force of ruin aimed at their very hearts. The dwarves, clad in mail, forged to withstand the mightiest blows, stood no chance against this relentless terror. Their stout legs, built for endurance rather than flight, faltered as they sought to evade the fanatics path. It struck their ranks like a Thunderbolt loosed from the heavens.
The tunnel erupted in chaos. Dwarves were held skyward, their armoured forms crashing against the stone like broken dolls. Bones thick as ancient oaks splintered like dry twigs. Shields crafted to defy Dragons shattered into shards of useless metal. The triumphant Song of Zafbah was drowned by the anguished screams of the fallen, the air thick with a copper Tang of blood and the stench of death. Vander's spirit plunged into an abyss of despair.
Victory, so tantalizingly close, had been snatched away by this grotesque fiend. Around him lay the wreckage of his kin, brothers he had known for centuries, their bodies broken and lifeless beneath the earth, far from the hearths of home. Guilt seared his soul like molten iron, a torment born of leading them to this doom. Yet from that pain rose a defiant roar, a bellow of rage and sorrow that shook the cavern as he faced the whirling fanatic
alone. Ducking beneath the deadly arc of its chain, Vander charged, his hammer raised like the first of a vengeful God. For a fleeting moment, his eyes burning with the fury of 1000 grudges, met the drooling, manic gaze of the fanatic. With a prayer to Grungy thundering in his chest, he swung. A sickening crunch resounded as the hammer met its mark, caving in the fanatic skull in a spray of gore and splintered bone. The whirling terror stilled, its ball and chain crashing to the
ground. With a final hollow clang, the battle ended as abruptly as it had erupted, leaving silence in its wake, a silence heavier than the mountains above. Vander sank to his knees, victorious yet hollow, surrounded by the carnage of his triumph. Time stretched into an eternity as he knelt upon the blood slick stone, the weight of loss pressing on him like the depths of the earth. At last he rose, his gaze
sweeping the devastation. Of the 50 warriors who had marched with him into the mines, scarce 20 remained exhausted, battered, bearing wounds that would have fell the mightiest beasts of the wild. The goblin dead. They were beyond counting, a carpet of twisted corpses strewn across the cavern, many slain by their own fanatics, reckless fury as by the dwarven steel. With a voice like breaking stone, Vander rallied his survivors.
Karaksagar loomed ahead, its ancient gates a beacon against the darkness, a prize forged in blood and sacrifice. The lost hold of his ancestors called to him, its shadowed halls promising either eternal glory or a final reckoning. Hammer in hand, he led his broken band onward, each step a testament to the unyielding will of the dwarves, each breath a vow to reclaim what was once theirs. Join me again for the next chapter in this saga.
But in the meantime, why not buymeakofi@ko-fi.com/owen Stayton for those gifts of gold? Allow me to carry on this quest for you and the Crown of Command. You can contact me at thewelshstoryteller.com or look for my podcast and give it a listen. It's called time between times. My name is Owen Stayton. Take care my friends. Nostalgia.