Worthy of Song
When the hammer falls, back our enemy crawls! When the hammer quakes, Orcish cowards’ bones will break! When the hammer cracks, and it beats their armies back! When the hammer’s boom, sends the monsters to their doom! When the hammer falls, when the hammer falls!
“Ye won’t make it.”
He turned to look upon the Noldo, gripping his axes tightly. The dwarf knew it, they all knew it. There was little chance they could slip by unnoticed. Not unless he gave them the opening he needed.
“Go, find Amathlan! I’ll see ye on the other side! Go on, drengbarazi!”
And then, he was off, thundering alone towards the foe. The Gundabad Orcs turned and licked their wicked blackened lips. In that moment, Dalbran was content. If he was to go to the Halls of Waiting, then, he could imagine few better ways than defending his friends. In a mighty voice, he sounded at the foul-skins. “A worthy doom! Remember the name, wretch! Dalbran Gurnisson! For the Fallen! For The Burned! For the Five Hundred! Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!” And then, like a smith’s hammer striking against the anvil, the dwarf struck into his foe. In that moment. Dalbran was wrath made manifest. They all turned to him, the Orcs, bearing their heavy swords and wicked spears. Not knowing if his companions had made it or not, he swung at the nearest foe. Barak-Midhal struck true, biting through the rusted mail and spilling the Orc’s gut onto the ground. The beast fell forwards, in time for Dalbran’s boot to come thundering down across its skull. Bone cracked, the head caving in, and the thing twitched as if drew a last, foul breath. Rearing backwards, the veteran lifted his axes to parry another blow, then retaliated. This time, Barak-Drengi was the one to draw blood. The axe struck in a fell arc, driving deep into the next Orc. Flesh was hewed, spine broken, and the bloodied end of the weapon tore through neck and bone, and out through the other side, a long streak of crimson drawn across it. Dalbran could barely feel pain, he was not entirely sure if he had been wounded or not. There and then, his eyes were a raging flame, his mind focused on only one thing. Rip and tear. Wrath and Vengeance. He fought for Ithilwe, Amathlan , Mallossel, and Envandame. He fought for Gurrni, Valaya, and Bini. Most of all, he fought for Galtharian.
Caught in the frenzy, he drove the hooked end of his axes into one of the foes, then pulled, bringing the beast down. “Imrid amrad ursul!” He twisted, cutting at its knees, then split its head straight down. Dalbran was thinning the horde now, the bodies of seven or so slumped around him. Weariness dared to rear its head, burning his muscle, yet he shook it off and continued his crimson tally. Fifteen Orcs had laid slain before his feet, and the dwarf had been at the end of the line. A dozen cuts and gashes had been opened, bleeding, aching, hurting. He lifted his gaze, to watch the final five as they circled around him, like cravens. “Come on then, Uruki! Do it! I am ready! The Halls await!”
Yet none lifted their swords. Instead, they looked to the far gate, as a shining star came riding into that evil hold. He was searing heat, flaring light, the point of his bright lance punching through the thick armour of the Gundabad Yrch, then recoiling, like a snake, snapping and whipping to cut through flesh and bone.
“What in Durin’s Name?” Dalbran winced and rose from his kneel. He looked to his saviour, eyes squinting, judging the arms and armour of the rider to be of... poor quality. Surely, a dwarf such as himself could make a thicker breastplate with only a rock and a few scraps of iron. Then, the memory of the bearer came to the dwarf.
“You! What in Durin’s Bead are ye doin’ here!?”
