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Xtra Stuff Members Stories Battle of Ironrock - conclusion
Xtra Stuff Members Stories Battle of Ironrock - conclusion
| Battle of Ironrock - conclusion |
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| Members Stories - Members Stories |
| Saturday, 19 April 2008 22:56 |
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{jcomments on}The compacted ranks of dwarven warriors held the tide of green skins as they smashed against their shields, their axes restricted in the tight formation, they thrust through their shields, the wicked spikes at the end of their axes piecing and stabbing, the ground was slick with green blood, but here and there a slain dwarf lay amongst the green pile of dead. Back and forth the dwarven line moved, each time it was forced back, the voice of Prince Barrowdon would be heard above the clashing of weapons and screams of the dying, driving the dwarven forces forward against the massed orc’s.
Each time a dwarf fell his place would be taken by another from the rank behind. For every one of Barrowdon’s warriors that fell, ten green skins met there doom, but unlike the orc’s, a fallen dwarf was a reason to lament. Long lived are the dwarves, but their great tragedy is their lack of young. Each pairing was fortunate if they gave life to two young during their lives together, though there backs were strong, the dwarven seed was weak and as the years passed the young grew less and less. This brought great heart ache to the rock diggers, no more joy could they know that the sight and sound of young dwarfs, there laughter echoing in the great carved cavern.
Barrowdon shield was held at shoulder height to stop the larger orc’s from reaching over with claw and blade, he hacked at the thighs and bellies of his foe, his double head axe slicing through tough green skin. As each orc fell, his body would be dragged from the line as fresh enemies took its place. Huge green heads leered over his shield, large brown stained incisors protruding from gapping jaws. Small eyes stared at him hungrily, their hairless heads bedecked with bones of previous victims, both animal and sentient.
His early weariness was catching up with him, muscles ached as they struggled to hold the shield in place and his axe grew heavier and heavier after each vicious cut. Clawed hands grabbed the edge of his shield pulling it down as the screaming foes sort to reach him. His arm bent under the weight of the hands as his shield started to drop; a razor sharp black blade appeared over his faltering defense. Lifting his axe he tried to block the blow as the scimitar swung down at his head, the black _meta_l clashed against his axe, the weight of the blow making his arm go numb. As his axe dropped to the ground, his numb fingers unable to hold his grip, the scimitar blow continued on, cutting into the chain mail that protected his shoulder. Both the axe and mail had taken enough of the force from the blow to prevent it from being fatal, the sharp blade still cut through the _meta_l links of his armour, slicing into the muscles and cutting into his collar bone. With a grunt of pain Barrowdon fell to his knees, the warriors on either side of him saw him fall, instinctively they moved over him, using their shields to protect him form further harm. Almost instantly the dwarf to his left was cut down, his body no long covered by his own shield, hands suddenly grabbed the Prince as he was dragged back from the front line. The slain dwarf, who had sacrificed himself to protect his liege, fell across Barrowdon’s legs, the dwarf’s unseeing eyes staring at him.
With blood streaming from his injured shoulder, rough hands manhandled him to the rear of the dwarven formation, clearing the packed ranks two warriors carried him to the caves entrance, laying him gentle against the inner wall. With a sigh he tried to stand.
“My brethren need me” he said, as he struggled to his feet.
Looking around he searched for his axe, determined to continue the fight. A hand rested on his uninjured shoulder.
“Sit, you will impede those who are whole of body” the deep throaty voice of his sire told him. A hand pushed him back to the ground firmly.
Barrowdon looked up at this father.
“They need me” he said again.
“No, they need you alive, dead you are useless” the Kings voice brokered no argument and Barrowdon slumped against the smooth rock of the wall.
“How go’s the battle” asked the king.
“We have lost few, but the green skins are too many”
“Then we will have to kill them all, dwarven axes will grow blunt, but we will sharpen them until no more Orc are left” The king spoke the words loud enough for all within earshot to hear, his words brought nods of agreement from the gathered warriors, each patiently waiting his turn to slay the green skins.
In a hushed voice Barrowdon asked.
“Any sign of the other scouting parties”
The King shook his head, his eyes sad at the loss of so many brave hearts, but he knew many more would follow in their path this day.
Ironrock was the most southerly of the dwarven great hall’s and no word had come from any of the hall to their north for nearly three months, they all feared their cousins lost, overwhelmed by the rampaging green skins. For ten thousand years dwarfs had dwelt upon the western continent, but their slowly diminishing numbers had allowed the orc and other sentient species to strengthen their foothold in the dwarven home land. Along the north coastline the creatures know as men were spreading inland and while they kept to the plains and low lands trading with the dwarfs as and when they met, all knew their numbers would soon be greater than that of dwarven kind. No one had heard from the Draxsilians for nearly five hundred years, leaving the dwarfs without their greatest ally.
So now the Ironrock stood alone, possibly the last stronghold of the dwarf.
The dwarven line suddenly buckled, the center forced back, two dwarf warriors were sent flying threw the air, landing heavily almost at the kings feet, both of them had one side of their bodies crushed, as if a great rock had fallen on them. The dwarfs at the center were retreating, looks of confusion on their normally hard gruff faces. The cause of their retreat became apparent, a single orc, standing nearly five times the height of the tallest dwarf appeared from the massed horde, a tree trunk clasped in one hand and the limp figure of a dwarf warrior in the other. The colossal orc roared at the dwarfs as they stared up at the monstrous image before them, with a great swipe, the tree trunk smashed into the closest dwarves sending them flying in ever direction. Pulling its arm back the apparition hurled the dead dwarf in its hand, the pathetic figure flew threw the air, smashing into the rock above the entrance, before falling broken to the ground.
“Axe throwers” bellowed the King, as he stared at the crumpled figure of the thrown dwarf. The stunned dwarfs responded instantly, those gathered around the entrance drew double headed axes from their belts, much smaller than their battle axe brothers, these weapons were no less deadly. Drawing their powerful arms back the dwarf throwers began to bombard the roaring orc. The first volley seemed to bounce off the creatures thick hide, as the second volley prepared to fire Barrowdon yelled out to the throwers.
“The legs, aim for the legs”
As one the axes flew towards the beast, burying themselves deep in the thighs of the huge orc. With nearly thirty throwing axes sticking from its legs, the creature fell to its knee, blood pouring from the wounds. The agony of its injuries drove the creature mad with rage, with a roar of pain it tried to stand, but the axes had sliced threw ligaments and tendons. With a cry of frustration the orc fell face forward, in an instant a dwarf stepped forward and stove the side of the creatures head in, silencing it forever.
With a great yell, the dwarfs charged forward to support their brethren and block the gap created by the beast. Inspired by the death of the giant orc, the dwarfs started to drive the orc’s back. Their shield wall forgotten, battle enraged dwarfs cleaved a path through the green horde. The orc fell back under the onslaught, falling over each other as they sort to escape the rampaging dwarfs. From the trees below the roar of the giant orc they had slain sounded, loud and clear it carried to the battling dwarf, trees fell, pushed aside as the dead giants kin strode from the forest. At least sixty of the great beasts charged towards the dwarfs, their rampage halted at the sight of the beasts.
The king stood watching his kin, his fist clenched tight at his side.
With great purpose in his stride, the king walked to the warning horn and placing his lips against it, he blew three times, each blast longer than the one before. Stepping away from the horn the king yelled his battle cry and charged towards the oncoming giants.
“Barrowhall, Barrowhall” he hollered, those around him took up the cry, until the mountain seemed to shake with the sound of their voices.
Barrowdon watched as his father charged the green mass. Tears of pride ran down his face as he picked up a discarded axe, his shouldered scream in protest, but nothing and no one were going to stop him from fighting by his father’s side. His right arm hung uselessly by his side as he staggered towards the battle, blood lust burning inside him, his chest bursting with pride. If this was to be the last stand of the dwarfs, then he would die at their side. As he swung the recovered axe over his head, the sound of horns filled the air. The sound grew as more and more horns sounded, until they formed into one deafening call. From the forest to the left of the lower entrance, throwing axes flew threw the air at the massed host. Two of the giant orc, fell to the ground axe heads buried in their legs as they flayed around. As one a thousands voices yelled their individual battle cry, as from the cover of the trees hundreds of dwarven warriors flung themselves at the orc’s before them.
Barrowdon could hear the war cries of various halls, as dwarfish voices yelled the names of their homes.
The shouts of “Deephall” and “Cavernrock” reverberated off the mountain side, as the dwarfs slammed into the Orc’s left flank. Confusion broke out within the green ranks unsure which way to turn. The dwarfs of Ironrock filled with renewed vigor at the sight of their brethren fell upon the stunted orc’s ahead of them, cutting them down as they stood staring aghast at the sight of the dwarven reinforcements. The dwarfish forces drove the panicking orc before them, slaughtering them as they sort escape, green blood filled the air. Only the giant orc’s did not flee, they swung wildly about them killing more of the escaping orc as they tired to reach the advancing dwarfs. Throwing axes pulled from the bodies of the two giant orc who had been felled earlier, once again cut the into orc flesh, as one by one the giants fell. Each one was slain as they lay helpless on the ground, dwarven battle axes crushing their skulls as they struggled to stand.
The slaughter continued until the sun started to set, large numbers of orc had escaped into the darkness of the forest, but the open ground between the forest and mountain were covered with orc, either dead or dying.
Barrowdor, sat propped up against an isolated rock, the stench from the thousands of dead orc was disgusting, causing him to cover his nose and mouth with one hand. A single dwarf was walking towards him, covered from head to foot in green blood. The dwarf slumped down next to him, leaning back with a grateful sigh. The two stocky warriors sat in silence as they watched their kin collect the bodies of their fallen brethren.
“This will make a great tale to tell, when our beards are long and grey” said the new comer as he passed Barrowdon a skin of dwarven beer.
Closing his eyes he drank the warm beer gratefully as it washed the dust form his throat.
Removing his hand from his face, he turned to the dwarf beside him.
“Suppose I should get used to there stench, I think we will be smelling it for some time”
A deep grunt escaped the dwarf, the closest a sober dwarf came to laughing.
“I am Tralore, son of Tralan, son of Trason” said the dwarf “From the hall of cavernrock, or at least what remains of it”
Barrowdon replied to the dwarfs greeting.
“Barrowdon, son of Barrowdor, son of Barrowday, from the hall of Ironrock”
“Was Cravernrock also attacked” asked Barrowdon.
“Cavernrock is no more, all the halls have been destroyed save Ironrock, and we are the survivors. As each Hall was destroyed the survivors tried to reach the next hall to warn them……..each time we failed. But as we traveled more and more survivors joined us, until today you see all that remains of the great halls other than the women and children who hide not far from here” They sat in silence, the reality of what was left of the dwarf nation cut Barrowdon to the core, he knew they would never recover, to many had died. Nearly two thirds of all dwarfs were now dead, their corpse scattered amongst the ruins of the once great halls.
“How did you stay clear of the orc’s” asked Barrowdor, scratching his beard.
“We traveled far to the east, moving in a parallel line with them, our numbers to few to challenge them, our only hope was to reach a hall before they attacked, or to come upon a hall like yours prepared enough to put up a defense”
“We must rebuild the other halls” said Barrowdon
“No” replied Tralore as he stood picking up the remains of the skin of beer.
“We are now all of Ironrock, Brother” said Tralore sadly.
“We are the last of the dwarfs”
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