Abyssal Dwarf army to come soon.

     The palace halls glowed red in the light of the fires outside. Flames of the eternal Abyss flickered and danced in the lampstands, the silence of unnatural magic as tortured souls writhed in agony in the shadows on the walls. Their twisted motions made to appear as a grim mockery of dancing courtiers at a dimly lit soirée. At the end of the darkened hall, on the balcony stood a solitary figure of diminutive stature. He gazed out over the factory floor, as machines of infernal design rolled cannon after cannon down a winding conveyor to the waiting hands of a team of wretched looking goblins to be loaded onto iron rail cars to be carried to the next station of the assembly process. Slaves toiled on a hundred different platforms in a twisted maze of machinery and fire as forges and smelters belched and roared as the demons trapped within screamed for release from their binding labors.

     If there was ever an apt description for hell, Zharr-Saddam, the Firey Mountain, would have been the illustration to use. A creature, a man once perhaps, but no longer could be considered such, hobbled on three limbs across the hall to his master. A slave since childhood, his village was swallowed up by the armies of the great mountain, he no longer walked upright, but hunched and heaving of breath, as if weighed by a great burden. Brass chains dangled from his neck collar and kept his limbs from straying too comfortably far. “My Lord!” He sniveled in fear, “Your sp-spies report that Lord Baalsharam of Zharr-Hattim makes his move against you at the Overking’s court. King Zerkzix demands an accounting for the yearly tax in slave soldiers three moons too early!” The dwarf lord’s hands gripped the stone balustrade tightly at this news, the granite beneath cracking under the strain. Yet still he remained silent in thought.

     The slave paused for a brief moment before stammering on, “H-His Majesty also demands your presence in his great hall at the new moon...” He winced for the impact as the dwarf backhanded him with a mailed fist throwing the slave back into a column, his skull completely smashed in. Normally he would have died but dark sorcery reconstructed his broken body back into its twisted form. A dark gift from his cruel master to keep him around as a form of amusement when his lord was angry and needed something to hit. “Rrrrraaaaghh!!! Damn that conniving son of a slave! Grandson of dogs! That he should plot against me! Berasharddu-Nasir II! King of Zharr-Saddam! Lord of the Fiery Plain! Commander of the Brass Legion! Iron Caster of the Line of Sardozz!” His rage was interrupted by the clatter of hooves on stone as a halfbreed warrior approached. 

     “My King, the banners of Lord Baalsharam have been sighted beyond the Fiery Plain! He has at least 10,000 slaves with him and numerous guns. What are your orders my King?” Berasharddu scowled in contempt, “So that upstart spawn of slaves dares to take my realm from under me while I have yet to answer Zerksix summons? Assemble the Brass Legion! We shall crush this worm beneath our iron boots! I will personally drown him in molten lead! Fetch the Brazen Throne! We march to war!”