A Letter From Sundabar
Posted: Wed Jun 28, 2006 9:41 am
Captain Malakan,
I write you this missive to inform you of our situation, so that you may carry my wishes to your commanding officers. I will waste no time in this letter, as I do not know how long the messenger's window will be open.
Sergeant Trallin held a torch above the cot, and his other hand up in a futile attempt to prevent the light from ruining his night vision. The soldier lying beneath was bleeding badly, a torrent of red spilling from under his breastplate and pooling on the cobblestone beneath. Beside him the priest shook his head as he tried to pry the metal off. " 'tis crushed, I can't get it off him."
"So just use a spell. You don't have to get to him for that."
"I've no spells left that can mend a wound this grievous. There's nothing to be done." The Ilmateri stood up and frowned. "I need to get to the next patient."
"Fine, go." Trallin put the torch back in its bracket and kneeled next to his soldier. A catapult stone hit the man him square in the chest, throwing him backwards off the wall and crushing his armor. The blood from such a wound was odd, but he was used to Shadovar weapons not working as anticipated. Trallin drew the dagger from his boot and rested his palm on the soldier's forehead. "Kelemvor get you wherever you need to be," he whispered, as he plunged the dagger into the soldier's throat and yanked it sideways. He fell limp under the blade.
The sergeant stood and wiped his blade clean, then waved over two men standing guard nearby. "Salvage his equipment and get all these corpses on the bonfire." He turned and walked off, missing the salute they gave.
The situation is grim. Our men have fought a valiant holding action, and through their heroic sacrifice and the quality of Sundabar's dwarven defenses, we have held against the relentless horde besieging us. The orcs come less frequently--yesterday we went an entire day without an assault--but they still come, and their numbers seem limitless. In the gloom we cannot make out the rear of their lines, so I estimate their force is at least a million strong, perhaps two or three. We have killed perhaps a hundred thousand at best.
It didn't matter how much he protected his eyes from the glare of torches and lamps. The eternal night the Shadovar had cast over them made it nearly impossible to see more than a few hundred yards. He stood on the wall, in the same spot he had taken the last... how many days? He had lost count. Months to be sure, though it felt like longer. Trallin didn't sleep anymore. The wall shuddered with the force of an explosion, and he glanced over to see the fireball erupt on the parapet, setting two men ablaze. Their screams cut through the ever-present rumbling as they flailed about, and one dove over the wall into the city's moat. Months ago the sight might've bothered him. Now, it was just another two bodies that had to be disposed of before the Shadovar reanimated them to battle their former comrades. A nuisance.
There was nothing to be done on the wall tonight, or today, or whenever it was. He was out of ammunition anyway. The sergeant nodded slightly to another man standing watch and climbed down to ground level, to search out a box of crossbow bolts.
Our deaths continue to climb. I estimate our losses at thirty thousand fighting men, and perhaps ten thousand civilians. Another ten thousand lie wounded, mostly kept un the undercity where they will not get in the way. I estimate we have the capacity to properly care for five hundred. Our magic and medicine is exhausted, the priests have relegated themselves to providing minimal lifesaving care before moving on to the next patient. This has lowered the rate of death from injury, but has also significantly reduced the number of fighting men who are able to return to duty. Our crude body disposal facilities are functioning adequately, as there are enough corpses that we need little else for fuel. We have been able to almost totally eliminate Shadovar creation of undead from our own soldiers, and so far there have been no disease outbreaks from the dead. However, should disease arise--and the longer we remain here, the more likely it becomes--we will have no means to combat it. We could easily lose the city to plague alone.
The sergeant passed by the troll cages on his way across the city. One of the soldiers had the novel idea of using trolls to help relieve pressure on the rapidly dwindling food supplies. The meat was foul beyond compare, but it did the job and the trolls regenerated it quickly enough to provide a small boost to their food supplies. The trolls themselves were well-fed off the endless corpses of the orc horde. The elves found the whole thing distasteful and refused to participate, but the hungry men were willing.
He stopped at a group of soldiers cooking bits of troll in a large pot, their fire fueled by the remains of a nearby house. "Evening, gentlemen. Any of you have some bolts?"
One of the men looked up at him, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. His furs were ragged and singed, and there were several gaps where the cold air easily entered. "What's it to you?"
Trallin was used to this. These must be mercenaries, and while they followed orders well enough in battle to avoid being a danger to the rest of the men, they didn't show the same respect otherwise. "Quarter loaf of half-stale bread and a wedge of cheese, if it's a full box."
"You got yourself a gods damned deal." The mercenary stood and fished a box out of his pack, opening it to reveal the bolts within. "Where's your goods?"
Trallin opened a small sack tucked beneath his arm, and held out the food. "As I said. No worms in the bread even."
"Shit if I care about worms." He took the food and handed over the box, quickly sitting back down and stuffing the bread as far into his mouth as he could. "Gods."
The sergeant walked off, tucking a handful of bolts in a quiver on his arm and stashing the rest beneath his armor. He found it fit much looser since the famine struck.
What good news we have is limited at best. Shadovar have not been directly sighted in three weeks. The orc attacks have slacked off continuously since their first assault, and they gain no ground. The bombardment continues, but since most of the city lies in ruin anyway, it has become ineffective.
For the other bad news, we are nearly out of all types of rations, our ammunition stores are low, much of our armor and many of our weapons are badly damaged. The dwarves work tirelessly to repair that equipment, but there is only so much that can be done. I have seen many of the dwarven smiths work for twenty hours straight, taking only a few hours for sleep and food before returning to their anvils. Whatever happens here, the bravery and determination of the dwarven civilians and soldiers in this siege must be remembered, as I have never seen anything of the like before. Morale is extremely low, I believe the only reason we have had so few desertions is because there is nowhere for them to go. If they are found in the city they are executed and publically displayed, and if they leave the city they die at the hands of the Shadovar's orcish footsoldiers.
There hadn't been an attempt on the walls in nearly two days, the longest gap yet. Trallin was nervous. It was odd to be concerned about not being attacked, but he had quickly learned that anything unusual always meant something unpleasant was approaching. Perhaps the Shadovar troops were about to reappear and finish the job.
He climbed the inner wall as soon as he came to it. He was on the southern side of the city, a relatively unharassed plain that stretched the few miles to the Nether Mountains. It would be the only route of escape, but he was sure the Shadovar would fall on them from the east if they tried. The sergeant fell to the ground with a thump as the wall violently shook beneath him, and a badly damaged tower barely two hundred feet to the east collapsed from a direct catapult hit. An immense cloud of dust and debris rolled over him, and rocks rained down on his armor and the stone of the wall.
As for my other purpose in this letter. I humbly request that reinforcements, relief troops, and supplies are sent to Sundabar with all haste. I do not know how much longer we can hold out. This is a battle of attrition, and in this case the Shadovar have our backs to the wall and we are in a bad position. I fear the city will be lost soon.
I ask for twenty thousand relief troops, and ten thousand reinforcements. We must begin rotating men out of duty, many of them are ready to break. We cannot ask any more of them, nor can we expect it. I suspect there are not enough soldiers left to meet my requirements, but I ask for them in the hope that I am wrong. We also need any wizards, priests, or healers of any sort that you can find.
As for supplies, we need as much food as can be sent. I also request fifty thousand arrows, an equal number of bolts, a thousand suits of chain armor, three thousand suits of leather, as many metal plates, bolts, nails, and belts as can be found, five thousand longswords and an equal number of shields, and five thousand spearheads. Loose arrowheads would also be useful, as we can fashion some amount of ammunition from the buildings in the city.
Trallin took nearly an hour to get up and climb the ladder back down the wall, coughing all the way. He had inhaled too much of the dust. He wouldn't be useful again today, and he made his way carefully down the road to a squat stone building with metal sheeting on the walls. The walls were pitted, but the old dwarven smithy had held up well through the battle. It was empty inside, everyone either on duty or dead--he didn't care to wonder which. It'd become apparent enough in time.
Taking off the armor was too much trouble, so he simply wedged himself between a cot and the inside wall and coughed. He would rest a bit and clear his lungs, then get back into the fray. He didn't hold any hope of sleep.
In conclusion, you must make the council understand our situation and send aid. We have had nothing for so long that some of the men wonder if we have been forgotten. And beyond the morale problems, we are simply running out of the means to fight any longer. Any miracles that you can provide will be most welcome.
Just between the two of us, captain, I take back my previous advice. Put your family on the next boat, wagon, or gods damned donkey you can find out of here. Get them as far away as you can. I don't think we're going to win this one.
- Sergeant Trallin, Everlund 4th
I write you this missive to inform you of our situation, so that you may carry my wishes to your commanding officers. I will waste no time in this letter, as I do not know how long the messenger's window will be open.
Sergeant Trallin held a torch above the cot, and his other hand up in a futile attempt to prevent the light from ruining his night vision. The soldier lying beneath was bleeding badly, a torrent of red spilling from under his breastplate and pooling on the cobblestone beneath. Beside him the priest shook his head as he tried to pry the metal off. " 'tis crushed, I can't get it off him."
"So just use a spell. You don't have to get to him for that."
"I've no spells left that can mend a wound this grievous. There's nothing to be done." The Ilmateri stood up and frowned. "I need to get to the next patient."
"Fine, go." Trallin put the torch back in its bracket and kneeled next to his soldier. A catapult stone hit the man him square in the chest, throwing him backwards off the wall and crushing his armor. The blood from such a wound was odd, but he was used to Shadovar weapons not working as anticipated. Trallin drew the dagger from his boot and rested his palm on the soldier's forehead. "Kelemvor get you wherever you need to be," he whispered, as he plunged the dagger into the soldier's throat and yanked it sideways. He fell limp under the blade.
The sergeant stood and wiped his blade clean, then waved over two men standing guard nearby. "Salvage his equipment and get all these corpses on the bonfire." He turned and walked off, missing the salute they gave.
The situation is grim. Our men have fought a valiant holding action, and through their heroic sacrifice and the quality of Sundabar's dwarven defenses, we have held against the relentless horde besieging us. The orcs come less frequently--yesterday we went an entire day without an assault--but they still come, and their numbers seem limitless. In the gloom we cannot make out the rear of their lines, so I estimate their force is at least a million strong, perhaps two or three. We have killed perhaps a hundred thousand at best.
It didn't matter how much he protected his eyes from the glare of torches and lamps. The eternal night the Shadovar had cast over them made it nearly impossible to see more than a few hundred yards. He stood on the wall, in the same spot he had taken the last... how many days? He had lost count. Months to be sure, though it felt like longer. Trallin didn't sleep anymore. The wall shuddered with the force of an explosion, and he glanced over to see the fireball erupt on the parapet, setting two men ablaze. Their screams cut through the ever-present rumbling as they flailed about, and one dove over the wall into the city's moat. Months ago the sight might've bothered him. Now, it was just another two bodies that had to be disposed of before the Shadovar reanimated them to battle their former comrades. A nuisance.
There was nothing to be done on the wall tonight, or today, or whenever it was. He was out of ammunition anyway. The sergeant nodded slightly to another man standing watch and climbed down to ground level, to search out a box of crossbow bolts.
Our deaths continue to climb. I estimate our losses at thirty thousand fighting men, and perhaps ten thousand civilians. Another ten thousand lie wounded, mostly kept un the undercity where they will not get in the way. I estimate we have the capacity to properly care for five hundred. Our magic and medicine is exhausted, the priests have relegated themselves to providing minimal lifesaving care before moving on to the next patient. This has lowered the rate of death from injury, but has also significantly reduced the number of fighting men who are able to return to duty. Our crude body disposal facilities are functioning adequately, as there are enough corpses that we need little else for fuel. We have been able to almost totally eliminate Shadovar creation of undead from our own soldiers, and so far there have been no disease outbreaks from the dead. However, should disease arise--and the longer we remain here, the more likely it becomes--we will have no means to combat it. We could easily lose the city to plague alone.
The sergeant passed by the troll cages on his way across the city. One of the soldiers had the novel idea of using trolls to help relieve pressure on the rapidly dwindling food supplies. The meat was foul beyond compare, but it did the job and the trolls regenerated it quickly enough to provide a small boost to their food supplies. The trolls themselves were well-fed off the endless corpses of the orc horde. The elves found the whole thing distasteful and refused to participate, but the hungry men were willing.
He stopped at a group of soldiers cooking bits of troll in a large pot, their fire fueled by the remains of a nearby house. "Evening, gentlemen. Any of you have some bolts?"
One of the men looked up at him, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. His furs were ragged and singed, and there were several gaps where the cold air easily entered. "What's it to you?"
Trallin was used to this. These must be mercenaries, and while they followed orders well enough in battle to avoid being a danger to the rest of the men, they didn't show the same respect otherwise. "Quarter loaf of half-stale bread and a wedge of cheese, if it's a full box."
"You got yourself a gods damned deal." The mercenary stood and fished a box out of his pack, opening it to reveal the bolts within. "Where's your goods?"
Trallin opened a small sack tucked beneath his arm, and held out the food. "As I said. No worms in the bread even."
"Shit if I care about worms." He took the food and handed over the box, quickly sitting back down and stuffing the bread as far into his mouth as he could. "Gods."
The sergeant walked off, tucking a handful of bolts in a quiver on his arm and stashing the rest beneath his armor. He found it fit much looser since the famine struck.
What good news we have is limited at best. Shadovar have not been directly sighted in three weeks. The orc attacks have slacked off continuously since their first assault, and they gain no ground. The bombardment continues, but since most of the city lies in ruin anyway, it has become ineffective.
For the other bad news, we are nearly out of all types of rations, our ammunition stores are low, much of our armor and many of our weapons are badly damaged. The dwarves work tirelessly to repair that equipment, but there is only so much that can be done. I have seen many of the dwarven smiths work for twenty hours straight, taking only a few hours for sleep and food before returning to their anvils. Whatever happens here, the bravery and determination of the dwarven civilians and soldiers in this siege must be remembered, as I have never seen anything of the like before. Morale is extremely low, I believe the only reason we have had so few desertions is because there is nowhere for them to go. If they are found in the city they are executed and publically displayed, and if they leave the city they die at the hands of the Shadovar's orcish footsoldiers.
There hadn't been an attempt on the walls in nearly two days, the longest gap yet. Trallin was nervous. It was odd to be concerned about not being attacked, but he had quickly learned that anything unusual always meant something unpleasant was approaching. Perhaps the Shadovar troops were about to reappear and finish the job.
He climbed the inner wall as soon as he came to it. He was on the southern side of the city, a relatively unharassed plain that stretched the few miles to the Nether Mountains. It would be the only route of escape, but he was sure the Shadovar would fall on them from the east if they tried. The sergeant fell to the ground with a thump as the wall violently shook beneath him, and a badly damaged tower barely two hundred feet to the east collapsed from a direct catapult hit. An immense cloud of dust and debris rolled over him, and rocks rained down on his armor and the stone of the wall.
As for my other purpose in this letter. I humbly request that reinforcements, relief troops, and supplies are sent to Sundabar with all haste. I do not know how much longer we can hold out. This is a battle of attrition, and in this case the Shadovar have our backs to the wall and we are in a bad position. I fear the city will be lost soon.
I ask for twenty thousand relief troops, and ten thousand reinforcements. We must begin rotating men out of duty, many of them are ready to break. We cannot ask any more of them, nor can we expect it. I suspect there are not enough soldiers left to meet my requirements, but I ask for them in the hope that I am wrong. We also need any wizards, priests, or healers of any sort that you can find.
As for supplies, we need as much food as can be sent. I also request fifty thousand arrows, an equal number of bolts, a thousand suits of chain armor, three thousand suits of leather, as many metal plates, bolts, nails, and belts as can be found, five thousand longswords and an equal number of shields, and five thousand spearheads. Loose arrowheads would also be useful, as we can fashion some amount of ammunition from the buildings in the city.
Trallin took nearly an hour to get up and climb the ladder back down the wall, coughing all the way. He had inhaled too much of the dust. He wouldn't be useful again today, and he made his way carefully down the road to a squat stone building with metal sheeting on the walls. The walls were pitted, but the old dwarven smithy had held up well through the battle. It was empty inside, everyone either on duty or dead--he didn't care to wonder which. It'd become apparent enough in time.
Taking off the armor was too much trouble, so he simply wedged himself between a cot and the inside wall and coughed. He would rest a bit and clear his lungs, then get back into the fray. He didn't hold any hope of sleep.
In conclusion, you must make the council understand our situation and send aid. We have had nothing for so long that some of the men wonder if we have been forgotten. And beyond the morale problems, we are simply running out of the means to fight any longer. Any miracles that you can provide will be most welcome.
Just between the two of us, captain, I take back my previous advice. Put your family on the next boat, wagon, or gods damned donkey you can find out of here. Get them as far away as you can. I don't think we're going to win this one.
- Sergeant Trallin, Everlund 4th