The Orcs came to our lands, and we fought them hand to hand,
Sweat and blood, turned the ground to mud.
Dwarf and Orc in strife, sought to vanquish every life, when the hammer falls!
“Into them! Borri, take the left flank, strike them down! Baruk Khazâd!”
“Khazâd ai-mênu!”
Years after, he could still recall that moment in his mind. The innate urge that drove him forward, the wordless obeying of his father's words. The feeling of his feet sinking into mud, and the chaotic cacophony of battle.
It was at midday that their true enemy revealed its face. From the North, they came, clad in dark iron, bearing crude cleavers and jagged blades. Gundabad had awoken, and it thirsted for blood.
“"Ai-rusê! One head after another!” Borri’s voice rang clear amidst the slaughter. Heavy footsteps followed, the clanking of plate, as the company hunkered down, their shields locked in front, making way only for long, thick points of Dwarrow spears. “Hold! Hold the damned line, Dwarfs!”
The Orcs came unto them like a tide, crashing against the cliffside. Their strength beyond belief, their numbers too great to count. The foe dared to taunt, and the only answer was the thrust of spear.
The ground beneath Dalbran’s feet began to shift, his boots digging into the soft mud. With all his might, he lowered his stance, letting the soldier behind him cover the gap above. With every strike of Orcish blade, the Dwarf’s knees shook, yet he stood, undaunted. One thrust, a second, a third. The spear struck something, flesh, he assumed, then pulled back and joined its brethren in the porcupine. Once more, shields tightened, holding against the tide, spears reaping a crimson tally.
“Welcome to the Halls, you bastards! Show them hospitality, lads!” Borri’s voice came once more, loud and clear, and soon followed the sound of his horn. Deep, tumbling, roaring. Dalbran’s mind raced, his body following a maneuver they had trained hundreds of times. First line pushes, the second plugs the gaps. And so, they did as ordered. The Dwarfs sallied forth, blunting an oncoming wave of their foes, stopping ten paces beyond their shield-wall. They would hold for a moment, daring the Orcs to take the bait, before their brethren would follow, and the line advanced. And so, as trained, more Dwarfs rallied. Inch by inch, step by step, that is how they would take ground. And every one would be paid in Orc blood.
Once more, shield against cleaver, spear biting flesh. Punch, rip, tear, return. Once, twice, thrice. Boiling blood splattered on Dalbran’s face, be it his or theirs.
Something swelled in that mass of black iron. Some voice howled, enough to drown out the others. Some vile mouth let loose its black tongue, and it wanted more than to feast of the flesh and blood of Durin. Dalbran caught only a glimpse of it, a beast of an Orc, thrice his height, and twice in width. A battle-axe of Dwarrow-make in its claws, rusted and bound in chain. Nobility tarnished.
Whatever that beast was, it gave its kin new life. They pushed forward, pulling spears, yanking Dwarves out of their formation, before bearing down on the unfortunate souls, ripping throats, gauging eyes, piercing plate. The Beast joined the fray, bringing the stolen axe in a downward arc. His victim was a Vorin, one of the older veterans, and soon his head was split in twain, his corpse falling limp to be stomped by the tide. The Five Hundred joined in tighter, plugging gaps in their line, the corpses of their brethren and foe both strewn around them. Then, a voice, far too familiar to Dalbran.
“Yanâd Durinul! Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”
A bright axe shone in the gloom. One Orc fell, then another, then a third. And there, wielding Karak-Grim, the Foe-Feller, stood one Gurrni Ironhelm, Honoured at Kheled-Zaram. His proud helm, horned and wrought of tempered steel, crested above the rest, a beacon to rally his kindred. Taking no time to pause, Dalbran ran to his father side, ditching the spear and drawing Barak-Midhal instead.
“To the Captain! To the Captain! To Ironhelm!”
They strode into the Orcs like hot knife through butter, leaving a bloodied trail in their wake. There we few words exchanged, for they all knew what to do. Lord Dain had raised them, and he trained them well. Steel met steel, bone broke, flesh tore. With quickened step, Gurrni carved his way through the Orcs, dropping one after another, his axe swinging in long, smooth arcs. Dalbran thought, then, of how many times he saw his father at the Forge. How skilled and rhythmic his hammer-blows were, and this was no different. War was just another anvil, and his foe was the iron.
“Come, beast!” Gurrni’s voice resounded as he dashed up the slope. “Come, your doom is at hand!”
And then, with clatter and clang, Dwarf and Orc met, standing atop a rocky mound. A heavy swing, met by the heaving shaft of Gurrni’s battleaxe. A parry, a dodge, then the Dwarf caught an opening. Karak-Grim struck true, splitting armour at the side. For the axe, brone long ago by Grim Hall-Warden, He Who Dwelled In Khazad-Dûm, was wrathful, and its ire had been awoken. Gurrni dashed aside, dodging another fall of the cleaver, then brought the mighty axe across the beast’s wrists. Blade bit bone, and tore through flesh. Black blood seeped forth, followed by a painful cry as the huge Orc fell to his knees. Without any words, nor any great cry, the Ironhelm heaved the axe once more to fell his foe.
The corpse hit the ground. A Dwarrow charge, voices roaring like thunder upon the mountain.
Then, gleeful laughter, shrieks of small, green-skinned creatures that chittered along the hills surrounding them.
Dalbran’s eyes searched for his father. Something rolled down to his feet. A simple, crude flask, belching thick, black liquid. It slowly reached Dalbran’s feet. Once more, he looked to his father, seeking guidance, orders.
Where the young Dwarf expected to find proud zeal, he only found dread, and slow, blood-chilling realization on the stern features of his father. Soon, it dawned on him too.
Many more phials were thrown, bouncing against armour, against shields, coating his kindred in thick black.
Tar. The Goblins threw tar at them.
