Tears of Mirrormere RPG

[Groin Redbeard]

“I am Kór, my lord.”

"I thank you Nali for bringing him to me," Trór turned to Kór, "Do you know why you are here?"

"Because you summoned me, my lord." There was a hint of amusement in the young dwarf's voice. Trór's eyes flashed with annoyment.

"Simpleton! you have seen war, this is no laughing matter! Take your place by Grór. We are defending the front."

There was a din of horns on the outer steps. Loni immediately dashed towards the doors and peered outside.

"They have come!"

[Groin Redbeard]

The darkness in the night sky began to wain. The blizzard abated with great reluctants; yet, the howls of high Caradhras persisted in haunting the dale. The warriors were fully gathered and they silently awaited the din of a thousand tramping feet. Nearly four hundred strong they stood, not nearly enough to contest the might of the Orcs; yet, for the shortcoming of the Dwarf's numbers they stood ready to defy 'till the last. Dwarven courage never was stronger!

Behold! the mighty hands that firmly grasp their axes; wrought out of stone, in the beginning of their existance, by their Creator. See how their stern faces pierce the darkness as an arrow, at flight, pierces the air. Hark! the cruel sound of the horn afar. The awaited tramping of feet give evidence that the Orcs have come in great force. Two thousand strong, the Orcs gather and gaze in anger at the defences and array of magnificintly armed Dwarves before them. For all the urgency of their haste the Orcs were foiled in an easy victory.

See how the mighty Óin and Frar are cheif in the task of encouraging the Dwarves. The brothers Loni and Nali give proof of the loyalty of their race--see how they embrace their soldiers as brothers in arms. Indeed, even the great Ori humbly walks amongst the warriors as a common Dwarf to inspire great pride. See! the warriors take heart and raise their voices at the sight of their proud new lord. Grór and Kór follow him to the stairs carrying his great shield and spear.

Standing tall and proud, the Lord Trór descended the steps into the chief host of the warriors greeting and shaking hands as if on the eve of some great festivity. Trór knew many of the Dwarves and spoke to them of their worth as he passed. There was Bain the smith; his hand was as firm as his spirit. Vitr: optimistically cheerful and admirably steady. There was Dalin and Svior; even Kénan stood ready for battle. It was not until Trór was out of the First Hall and at the bottom of East Stairs (at the vanguard of his host) that he halted.

Out of Trór's darkest nightmares they appeared. Ranks of black armored Goblins and wargs; large revolving siege machines--all arrayed in powerful dread before his eyes. Trór could hear them jeering at him as he stood upon the stone defenses.

"Soldiers, you are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have been driven these many hours. The eyes of the heavens are upon you. History will record your valor. The hopes and prayers of your women and children stand with you. You will bring about the destruction of this last great Goblin army. Remember Balin: slain unjustly and without honor--it is he we must avenge. May his just leadership be with us today.

"Our task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely.

"But this is the year 2994 of the Third Age! Much has happened since the triumphs of darkness in the south and in Mirkwood. The united forces of the Dwarves long ago have inflicted upon the Orcs great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our offensive has seriously reduced their strength in these mountains and their capacity to wage war on our cities. Our forefathers have given us an overwhelming superiority in weapons and armor of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of these same weapons--dangerous in your trained fighting hands. The tide has turned! The line of Durin is marching together to Victory!

"See now they come at last! Our last great challenge is upon us. Let us rid our new home of the threat of destruction and let it thrive as it once did. I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full victory! May Balin look upon us and bless our noble undertaking. Let his name be our battle cry!"

Long may the remembrance of that day remain in our race's lore. What infinant glory there was for the House of Durin that day! Now may it please you, gentle reader, to hear of the recantation of the Second Battle of Azanulbizar.

[Thinlómien]

Vigdis

The roof was just as dark as her dreams had been. She got up slowly. A headache was thundering against her skull. Was it the rum? she wondered. But she had drunk so much more so many time with so much less headache... it had to be something else. It had to be... no, not that thought again. Soon, when she'd have the stone in her hands. But not now. She made her way to the table carefully and lit the candle. She changed her clothes, picked up her favourite tools, extinguished the flame and went out.

The corridor was just as dark as her room had been before she had lit the candle. She wondered why the lanterns weren't lit. She knew her way to the masonry well enough in the dark, but some passers-by would have problems.

"Ouch!" said a voice.

Vigdis stopped. She had run to somebody in the dark. "Who is it? Can I help you?" she asked.

~*~

Ori

He stood there, among the common fighters. Some of the younger ones were giving him curious glances, but most of his comrades in arms welcomed him in silent approving nods. In Balin's time, he had either stayed away from the battles or stood closely by the Lord as his friend and companion. Now it was different, the battles were on their doorstep, there was no "away" to hide in, and Balin was dead, and despite their friendship, Ori was not the companion to Trór like he had been to Balin. He felt his place was where were the others like him: the artesans and sages who had managed to gather a little knowledge of the arts of war during their years.

"Move a bit to the left," growled old Brambor, the commander of ori's regiment. They obeyed him in silence. The words of Trór rang in Ori's mind: we will accept nothing less than full victory! May Balin look upon us and bless our noble undertaking. Let his name be our battle cry! "Balin," he whispered, thinking what his old friend would have thought of such hot-headed and pompous speech. He smiled wryly. "Poor old Balin." The soldier standing beside him heard him mutter the name and shouted it out loud: "Balin!" Soon his voice was echoed by a dozen others, then hundreds of voices shouted the battle cry. "Balin! Balin! Balin!" They watched the black hordes of goblins roll forwards but fear was no more.

[Groin Redbeard]

He had arrived at the scene, breathless, a few minutes before Trór started to speak. Kenan was behind him: stern and magnificent in his armor. Nali thought of what Kenan might have told his grandchildren before he left—Kenan would fight for those children despite his feeling for Trór. Nali moved into the ranks of soldiers with Kenan; eventually they both clasped hands and said what might be their final farewell.

Nali did his best to encourage the soldiers as he walked to and fro. His lips were curled up in a wide grin, depicting a carefree expression. “Take heart my friends! See how yonder force swaggers so, after their long and hasty march. Morning will scatter their ranks. Hold fast until then!”

The attention of Nali’s listeners was suddenly stolen as Trór emerged from the hall. His voice was like the thunder which precedes the piercing lightning of his gaze. Nali was swept up in the excitement of the moment: this speech would have great affect on the warriors that night. If he could remember it all he would write it down after the battle to be recorded in the book of Marzubul—if fate would allow Nali to do so.

Suddenly, as Trór ceased his speech, cruel shrieks arose from the Goblins. Nali could catch the movement of dark swarms. A thumping of bow strings and the whining of arrows was presently heard; Nali could hear the metallic clink of incoming arrows bouncing off the hauberks of the dwarves—their craft was too skillful to be cheated by an arrow. Nali ran as fast as his legs allowed him through the lanes between the divided columns of the dwarves. Nothing but the noise of bowstrings and arrows could be heard for a long time. Then he heard it: the thud of armor colliding with armor; the shouts and shrieks of the warriors; the sound that had sounded so good to him in younger days: the screeching of an axe penetrating a helm or perhaps a shield. Nali was composed, but it felt as if a cold knife had been twisted in his gut.

“Brother,” Nali called as he saw Loni from afar. Loni commanded one of the columns in the second line to back up the vanguard shortly after the battle ensued. “I am on my way to the utter most right of the battle. How goes the battle here?”

“That I cannot tell. All seems to be overrun by the goblins for the moment. I am going in now.”

“Take care of thy other eye—I would feign have thee see me when victory is won.”

“For Balin then! Farewell.”

Nali set off again as fast as he could go. He slipped his mace into his right hand as the right hand of the mountain grow larger. “Blast! Where is Onli? If I find that he hath shirked from battle I will…” The threat was cut short by an arrow cutting dangerously close to him; more followed in rapid succession. A large shield was thrust between him and the arrows.

“You have come! I thought the worst.” Nali was welcomed by a middle aged dwarf. He was shorter than Nali and very scruffy looking. Not the sort of face that was pleasant to look upon. “A miner,” Nali thought.

“My liege, can you fight?”

“Aye, that I can and more. How goes the battle here.”

“Time will tell. The goblins haven’t been putting up much of a fight yet, but it has just begun.”

“Quick, to it then!”

The fray was desperate when Nali arrived. Not many dwarves had, as of yet, been killed, but the growing number of the goblins was evidently proving the better. Nali descended with a heavy deliverance of blows.

“Hold fast, warriors of Durin’s Halls! Balin, for Balin!”

Again the battle cry of Balin was taken up and for a while the goblins were hurled back over the defenses. Nali fought in the thick of the battle and came dangerously close to getting crushed several times, but always the axe of some dwarf would save him in time. Nali’s mace hard hard and swift until the last orc was hurled back across the bulwarks. However, the goblins regrouped and returned with double the original vigor.

[Groin Redbeard]

Crash! came the first surge of goblins. An even louder crash befell the goblins: down came the mattocks and axes of the dwarves upon the initial attackers. Then, followed by Frar, Trór plunged his spear forward into his first goblin and the dwarves sprang forward.

Trór soon stood the bulwarks, slashing his huge spear back and forth. The goblins, as tired as they were from their long march all day and night, fought ferociously to gain the defenses. Their scimitars glinted with a cruel light and they shrieked so terribly that they drowned the sounds of the battle. Again Trór slashed with his spear onto the shield of an oncoming hobgoblin. Twice Trór stabbed with his spear and twice he repelled the hobgoblin with the brunt of his shield. Trór raised his spear in a majestic pose and snapped his whole body forward releasing the spear through the hobgoblin and into another so closely were they pressing at the breastworks.

Suddenly, as Trór straightened himself (slinging his shield on his back and retrieving his axe from there with one smooth motion), a spasm of paralyzing pain brought Trór reeling forward off the breastworks. He felt the hard resistance of iron and guessed that he had fallen on several goblins. His shield was still fixed to his arm and offered protection from several hard blows that he was quick to block. Many strong hands clasped the shield and ripped it from his hands. Instinctively, Trór rolled to miss the strikes; some dented on the rock surface some found their mark in Trór’s side, but slid of his chainmail (if the orcs had thrust instead of struck it might have been a different story for Trór).

“My lord!” Trór’s ears faintly heard someone yell, but he couldn’t tell who it was; he didn’t care. His side was throbbing with burning pain from his initial wound and bruised by the many blows he was receiving; he could not deflect them fast enough. Another blow and another, each one pushing him further back until Trór was almost flat on his face; Trór’s mind was screaming at him: “get up! Don’t lie there—fight!” With great effort, Trór grabbed his axe and with a great heave swung it upright. His pain was now swimming upstream against his anger. To think that he virtually graveled before the enemy he swore to destroy.

Despite the immense pain in his side Trór stood his ground best he could. The bulwarks were to his back and for a long time he cleft, stabbed, smashed, and crunched anything that came near him. His beard was stiff with sweat his arms were bruised and it is said that his axe turned black and never again from that day shone its true metallic color.

[Durelin]

Kór stood surrounded by vaguely familiar faces, but he could not put a name to a single one – except Grór, to whom he had just been indirectly introduced. It was a strange feeling to Kór, the apparent calm around him, as Trór made his speech. He only half listened to the words, finding it hard to concentrate enough even for such a simple thing. He felt like he was trying to think from behind a cloud, staring idly at various dwarves around him. Many of them had already drawn their weapons – suddenly he felt he should have his axe in hand. He knew it was absurd, especially since he felt conscientious about drawing out his axe all of a sudden, wondering if now that he had waited until mid-speech he should wait until the battle began.

It was very strange indeed, that he had been standing here for so long, that there was this much preparation involved for what seemed to him to be a simple thing. It felt ceremonial, so plain and structured that it only frightened him more. Suddenly a great exploded from all around him, smothering him. He jumped, startled, and now was truly embarrassed so that for several moments he did not register what was being shouted.

Kór had trouble finding his voice, as if he had forgotten how to use it. The power of all the other voices was overwhelming. He remembered the face of the dwarf woman from behind her mug, and the depth of the grief she felt. He felt guilty, guilty for not grieving deeply, for not displaying ingrained loyalty in a battle cry. But there were other ways to demonstrate one’s character…

Kór found his voice the best way he knew how. It was weak at first, but it grew stronger, encouraged by others as it took root.

“Under the Mountain dark and tall
The King has come unto his hall!
His foe is dead, the Worm of Dread,
And ever so his foes shall fall.

The sword is sharp, the spear is long,
The arrow swift, the Gate is strong;
The heart is bold that looks on gold;
The dwarves no more shall suffer wrong…”

Kór wished dearly he was back home in Erebor, holding his harp as his father bellowed the song of victory.


It seemed a slow and drawn out process, all that lead up to the moment when the two walls collided, but the battle began abruptly and then it was all too fast for Kór. The dwarven ranks pushed forward as the goblins did, each side trying to hold their ground and cause the other to lose their hold. The few ranks ahead of him pushed forward no matter what, and every gap was filled in, with no thought for how that gap in the ranks came to be there.

Soon he was even closer to the front ranks. He found himself pushing forward, stepping over the body of one of his own comrades. He had not used a shield outside of training, but he found it natural to cover his body, and not to expose himself for a moment. As he found himself in the front ranks, he reached around and underneath his shield to strike, chopping at whatever he could reach. He struggled to hold his footing, until finally he pushed – or was pushed – forward over a fallen goblin, his boot falling directly on its head. He was glad he could not see a great deal in the night.

Thus it took him a moment to realize that there was a dwarf exposed ahead of the bulwarks, stranded amidst a sea of goblins though he was not far in. Kór pushed forward with greater strength, driven by an amount of desperation. “My lord!” he heard a shout from beside him, and he recognized the dwarf beside him as Grór and the endangered dwarf as Trór, one after the other. He was surprised Grór was still beside him, but pleased. Kór and Grór and the dwarves closest to them pushed their way slowly to their lord, as if they were forcing a wedge into the goblin ranks, hoping blindly that the rest of the line would follow them forward. Kór wanted dearly to look behind him, to make sure they were still protected and were not exposed themselves, but he knew he could not take his eyes off the enemy before him, lest he lose his footing and his life.

[Groin Redbeard]

It was a fight for his life. Trór's side hurt every time his axe brought swift death to an Orc. His axe was like a wave that blunged its cold height down onto flimsy, wavering, weeds. Yet, as the formidable surf, his powerful arms descended and then receded to fall again, but were slowly being choked by the carnage it wrought. Trór could hear nothing, his body was stricken so that he could not speak.

"If I die here, then I die well, indeed!"

Once again he raised his axe and directed it onto the shield of the largest Orc charging at him. As the blow glanced off the shield the Orc gave a dreadful yell; Trór thought that it might have been a victory shout, but all words sounded terrible in Orc language. Trór was quick to retaliate. Again his axe fell on the Orc's shield and continued until the shield was bent beyond use. The shield left the Orc's arm and came flying at Trór, who dodged it with great difficulty. Flinging itself with reckless rage, the Orc bore down merciless blows until Trór felt the full effects of his wound and fell.

The Orcs drew back to await the final blow that would seal their victory. Trór heard shouting, deep throated shouts: the dwarves had swarmed to his protection as they saw him fall. Trór took heart and with the last summoning of strength he struck his would be executer with the broad side of his axe, sending it hurdling back into its own ranks. Then Trór felt the presence of Grór and the coward Kór and lost all thought and knowledge of the moment.

~~~~~~~

Nali

The battle cry of Balin was still strong on the right flank. Nali’s arms grew tireless. Unharmed and jubilant, Nali helped drive the second wave of Orcs back across the ramparts with heavy loss. All was well with his warriors but rumors had reached them that the fight was strongest in the center and that Trór was dead. Nali persuaded the warriors to keep their thoughts focused on their own predicament, but now that a lull had reached his front all of their thoughts went were at the center.

“Find a runner and bring word of the fight in the center.” A runner was speedily sent on his way.

The Orcs charged again. The Orcs clawed to gain a footing but they were steadily checked by the dwarves. The carcasses of the dead Orcs were piled high on the ramparts and slipped as the Orcs groped for anything that they could use to pull themselves up. Nali put himself between a gap in the line and defended it with a tenacity that would surprise many of his age. Though Nali was a proud fighter, he wished that Onli would come soon. It would give him proof of the young dwarf’s loyalty and health: he hoped that Onli had not been killed.

Suddenly, Nali realized he made a mistake. His blow had been to hasty and fell harmlessly on a shield. Nali saw it coming: the shield was withdrawn and revealed a gleaming spear thrust at his chest. Instinctively, Nali sought to deflect the blow, but only half succeeded. A strong arm held the spear and it cleaved through his chainmail and into his arm propelling him backwards.

Nali did not scream or cry out for help; for a moment he wondered if he was dead. His eyes opened to see concerned faces kneeling over him.

“Do not move!” came a voice. Nali looked at his arm, alarmed at what he might see. The arm was bent in an unnatural manner and almost cut off. The sight of it made the pain come alive. He heard a sound like the strike of a hammer on an anvil and felt a sharp spasm of pain in his arm.

“Quickly, bear him to the halls!” Nali saw the officer who had greeted him at his arrival; his axe was red at the edge.

Strong arms picked him up and pressure put on his arm. The sky was dark, without a trace of dawn. Nali wondered if he would ever see the dawn; he wondered how Lóni and Trór were faring, and if his warriors could hold without him. Callous to what he might see, Nali twisted his head to see his arm. Red cloth now wrapped the stump which moments before had been his right arm.