Chapter 9: In the shadow of a mighty gate
Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief when the hidden stone door opened for them, the ancient dwarven road that had once linked Ost-in-Edhil and Moria had been too dark and dank a tunnel for comfort, in his opinion. Walking under the heavy stone ceiling, in the narrow tunnel with the walls pressing down on him was nothing he liked to repeat any time soon. Even the grey winter skies and the soft snowflakes dancing over the stark Hollin landscape were welcome in this moment. Looking around he was surprised to find himself standing on a high rock buckle half a mile above the rugged hills of Eregion. This certainly was not the gate of Moria. "Did you not say the dwarven road led to Moria?" he asked, turning around to see Kíli step out of the dark tunnel, the stone closing behind him.
"To the walls of Moria," Kíli replied, casting a swift glance around. "no dwarven road would come out too close to the main gate, because it creates a risk in defense. We are at the Draghûn ná khal, the Hill of the Watchers, about two miles North of the main gate. If we march hard we can be past the gate and at the southern watchhill before the sun is up again."
"If that were our path," Gandalf interjected, free of the city's draining influence the old wizard had recovered quickly and now stood at the edge of the escarpment and peered down on the landscape below. "even if we manage to cross Dunland undetected – and you should remember what kind of land it is – we would come too close to Isengard to risk the gap of Rohan."
"We could sneak past the gap," Boromir had helped Sam to repack the pony which had disliked the passage through the tunnel greatly. "once we come close to the gap, we split up. I take the dwarves with me, Saruman will know I went North, let him think what he will of my return with them, Aragorn goes with you, Gandalf and Elrohir, let Saruman wonder what errand for Elrond you are on, and Aelin takes the Hobbits, to sneak past Isengard while Saruman is still focused on us – we meet up once we are out of his reach and continue on. It might fool him."
Gandalf came around, his thick eyebrows furrowed. "No one fools the White Wizard easily, Boromir, he would see through your plan before you could finish executing it. No, the gap of Rohan is closed to us as long as we are with the Ringbearer."
Elrohir arched an eyebrow at Gandalf. "And the pass roads will not open until late spring, if at all. The ice has all but swallowed up several passages already. With both ways blocked what remains?" The elven warrior's words were thoughtful.
The Wizard sighed. "One road remains – a dark and dangerous road that I would avoid if I could, Elrohir. I am loath to venture into the deeps of the world, for I was once forced to pass through the long darkness – but all other paths are barred to us."
"What path is he speaking of?" Boromir's question cut into Aragorn's own musings, the Gondorian had eyed the wizard critically, his gaze reminding Aragorn that neither Denethor nor his sons were known to trust Gandalf – or any wizard for that matter.
"He speaks of Moria – the great kingdom of the dwarves, which fell under the shadow more than a millennium ago," Aragorn replied, a shiver running down his spine as he recalled his own captivity in the deeps. "it is a dark place, Boromir, the grave of thousands of defenders who fell before the hordes of Orcs, haunted by a terror that has no name."
Suddenly he felt a strong hand on his shoulder, a gesture of support and maybe of silent understanding. "You know these deeps, do you?" Boromir asked. "Do you think there is even a chance to pass through them?"
"Knowing is too great a word for any Man to claim when it comes to the deeps of Moria," Aragorn replied after a moment. "I was once captured down there… had it not been for Kíli I doubt I would have escaped." He straightened up, pushing past the dark memories and stepped back to look for the dwarf. "Kíli – what do you think? Back then you seemed to know more about Moria than any of us."
The dwarf joined them, eyes assessing the group as he passed. "Khazad-dûm is not a place to enter lightly, Aragorn, I do not need to tell you that. Back then the deeps were empty, because the Orcs had not yet recovered from their losses in the Battle of the Five Armies. By now I expect them to be as strong again as they were when King Thrór tried to reclaim the kingdom." The dwarf's deep voice had taken a grim edge. "That said, I believe that we might slip past them if we are careful and hide well. Orcs we can evade, the odd cave troll we can fool… but there is one danger that we might have to outrun at the end. You know of what I speak – you saw him."
A deep cold seemed to lock Aragorn's heart when Kíli mentioned Durin's Bane, he well remembered the fear, the horror as they had run up the long stairs towards the watchtowers of Zirak-Zigil, the howls of the creature ringing out in the darkness and… had it not been for one brave elf Kíli might not have made it out in the end. "Durin's Bane," Aragorn had to force himself to name the fear he felt. "how long do you think until he senses your presence?"
"I do not know, but if experience serves as an indicator than it might take him a few days. Bilbo was even of the opinion that it was not my presence that woke him up, as he had not reacted to Thirán's presence in all those years." The dwarf crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Rú later said a few – very few – things about the creature that might of use now."
Boromir looked from one to the other. "What kind of beast is haunting these mines?" his question was asked in utter calm, a Captain assessing a threat, and a warrior well used to the Shadow having a wide arsenal of monsters at its disposal.
"Moria… Khazad-dûm," Aragorn amended, remembering the dwarven name of the great kingdom, "is haunted by an ancient, nameless terror, a creature of fire and shadow that has no name nor compare. For its deeds it is often called Durin's Bane and it is said to sense the presence of Durin's blood inside the halls of Moria."
"Which might be a much legend as many other things," Gandalf's discussion with Elrohir had long come to an end. "but there is hope our presence might go undetected, if we take the shortest way it is a four day's march to the other side."
Kíli craned his neck to stare up at the wizard challengingly. "The shortest way is not very safe, Tharkûn, nor especially advisable, leading through too many great halls where the Orcs could swarm us. But there are hidden ways we can use, if you are willing to trust me."
For a moment Aragorn could feel tension mount between the two very unlike comrades, with the wizard's temper rising and Kíli not willing to give ground, but surprisingly Gandalf chuckled, his laugh evaporating his anger. "You are entirely too much like your father, Kíli, but I do trust you – I do indeed."
Aragorn watched Kíli take point to lead them down towards the gate of the Moria, the dwarf moved across the grounds with the familiarity of a being standing on the soil of his homeland. In the swiftly waning light of the day he was glad to have someone so easily familiar with the grounds on top of the group. Gandalf followed and Aragorn fell into step with him. "I did not know you ever entered Moria yourself," he observed. "you did not even mention it, when you warned me about the deeps." His own journey down into the bowels of the Earth was not one he liked to remember – he had been foolish to try in the first place, and yet he knew that he could not have lived with himself had he not at least tried.
"I went in search of an individual that I thought might be inside those walls – a person from which I hoped to gain an answer on something that was deeply worrying me at the time. Though my search for Thráin proved fruitless in the end and I was forced to retreat from the fallen kingdom."
"Thráin?" Aragorn's eyes widened slightly. "You searched for Kíli's grandfather? Why? I thought he fell in the battle of Azanulbizar."
Kíli peered back, letting Anvari and the Hobbits pass by him and down to the valley ground. "That is a kind assumption, Aragorn," the dwarf said. "but Thraín's mind broke in the battle, when he saw his father die and he fled the field. His fate after that was a strange and lonely one, though one might hope he found a measure of peace in the end." He turned to walk on, addressing Gandalf at the same time. "Frérin knew about every dwarf who was captive in the deeps and he was sure that Thráin was never among them."
The old wizard sighed, his gaze going back to Aragorn. "I had many reasons to search for Thráin, some vague, some unrealistic as it was later proven, some out of concern for Eriador… in the end it was meaningless."
Aragorn could sense that the old wizard did not share all his reasons, nor could he begin to guess what worries might have driven him to that decision. As neither Gandalf nor Kíli seemed inclined to discuss the topic further he shrugged and let it go. Looking ahead he saw Kíli at the top of the column, he had stopped for a moment, letting the others pass by him. A bird had landed on his hand, a Raven though Aragorn though the bird's plumage was too light, to be one. He was almost grateful when Boromir, who had helped Sam to bring the pony over a particular steep hillside, caught up with him again. The Gondorian also brought a torch because with full nightfall close at hand their sight would soon be reduced to little more than few steps, as much as the moonlight allowed. "I have heard only mentions of King Thrór and his battle for Dwarrowdelf before," the Captain said. "aside of a ballad Coming Home from Dimril Dale there is little known of this war amongst my people."
"I wouldn't mention that ballad in front of any dwarf," Aragorn said with a smile, unsurprised that Boromir would take interest in the story of an ancient battle. "for it is a badly translated version of Children of Blood. None of them came home after Azanulbizar, for they had nowhere to go…" in short words he summed up what he knew about the great battle the dwarves had fought more than one hundred and fifty years ago. "no one can tell the story like a dwarf, though," he said in the end. "ask Kíli one day when he gets into the mood, he was raised amongst the survivors and will know how to tell the story properly."
He saw Boromir open his mouth to reply, but sharp words at the top of the column interrupted them. "I do not think it wise to try a hole that the Orcs will most likely have found long ago." Gandalf's voice was edged and sharp, he stood opposite of Kíli ahead of the group at something of a crossroads. Straight ahead ran the path they had been following, while left a small path wound uphill again.
"No you'd prefer using the front gate – which will force us to follow the great halls for half a day at the least," Kíli snapped back, his deep voice grumbling with anger. There was another edge to that voice too, something strained and tense that Aragorn could not quite identify. "why don't we just knock politely and demand an audience with his Malevolence?"
"I have seen maps of the city in Rivendell, there are only two entrances to the deeps, you would do well to remember that, Master Dwarf." Gandalf's beard quivered in anger and his eyes shone in barely restrained temper.
"And what makes you think that they ever knew the full map of Khazad-dûm?" Kíli shook his head. "But if you insist on running your head against the front door – do it without me."
Aragorn's heart sank – for two supremely stubborn beings Gandalf and Kíli easily sparked shouting matches. He strode up to them raising his hands. "Maybe we should not alert all Orcs of Eregion of our plans?" he asked, a sharp glance going to both of them. "Now – you were arguing the way again?" He hated having to assume authority in front of both of them, for he respected them highly, but it was the only way to dissolve the quarrel.
"Aye," Kíli pointed up the small path. "two hours further up is a hidden tunnel, part of the ventilation shafts that keep Dwarrowdelf's air clean, it reaches deep down to the waterworks. If we climb down we will be able to follow the waterworks for most of our journey and should attract little attention."
Gandalf shook his head. "The Orcs must be using these open shafts already, they are easy for them to scale and entering the waterworks means entering the deeps that are under the shadow. We must keep away from them and closer to the higher levels where the shadow is weaker if we wish to survive this journey."
Inwardly Aragorn sighed, both of them were used to take the lead, to be in charge and both naturally assumed that their knowledge of Moria qualified them to decide on the course they were to take. And both of them were stubborn enough to clash over it. "You both are right and you are both wrong," he said, hoping to calm them a little. "Gandalf is right about avoiding the great deeps – Kíli, I fear the deeper we come the greater our danger will be, sticking to the upper halls might be better for us. And Mithrandir…" Aragorn softened his speech, he could not tell the wizard off, no matter what. "Kíli might know other entrances into the deeps than the great gate. You said you trusted him."
"I do trust him, I am not a fool," Gandalf's eyes were still ablaze with anger. "but charting a course through the darkest parts of Moria will not help us." He turned around and walked off to the head of the column.
Aragorn saw Kíli cross his arms in front of his chest and he could almost guess that the dwarf was contemplating to leave and find his own way. But then the dwarrow relaxed slowly. "I guess he's had enough of dwarves for one day," he said grimly.
Shaking his head Aragorn eyes his friend. "What is it between you and him? You trust each other but are more prone to argue than anyone else in the group." He walked slowly, glad when Kíli fell into step beside him.
"I inherited part of the conflict from my father I guess," the dwarf replied after a while. "he and Gandalf clashed a number of times in the past. And I…" he broke off. "It is all useless now, we will try his way and hope it works."
Aragorn could see how much Kíli simply retreated behind the mask of the warrior, brushing aside the conflict. "Why is it that you do not trust Gandalf?" he asked, hoping that Kíli would not brush him aside too.
"I do trust him," Kíli said slowly. "I do trust him to oppose the Shadow and to act as his consciousness demands of him… what the consequences for others might be is an entirely different issue." He walked a few steps past Aragorn so his back was to the human warrior.
Aragorn saw the bowed head and how Kíli's hands shot up to his temples, he tried to hide it but the healer's quick eyes saw it either way.
"Are you sure that it is only you having an issue with Gandalf, and not something else spurring the conflict?" Aragorn asked gently, not trying to push his friend. But he sensed something else at work here, something that would try to rip them apart if it could.
Kíli took a slow breath, exhaling as slowly, like to release a tension deep inside him. "You think that it is… the Shadow? That I am falling to the lure?"
"We all feel the pressure, Kíli," Aragorn pointed out. "I doubt there is anyone unaffected by it, it is the trust we have in each other that keeps us from being easy targets."
The dwarf inclined his head, the long braids falling forward. "Maybe you are right." He said softly. "Maybe it is this shadow that I feel… and not something else."
TRB
The hour was approaching Midnight when they path became narrower running along the side of a steep rockface and aside of a dark lake on the other hand. Aragorn walked in a sharp stride when he approached the top of the column, they were passing a few barren trees and then stood before a rockface much like any other here. The pale light of the moon touched the wall and revealed the silvery glowing lines of a gate, inscribed in flowing elven script.
"Ennyn Durin Aran Moria. Pedo Mellon a Minno. Im Narvi hain echant. Celebrimbor o Eregion teithant i thiw hin. - The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter. I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs." Gandalf had raised his staff to trace the writings at the door.
Aragorn silently echoed the translation of the elven words, he could not read the dwarven runes written beneath the band, though he guessed they said something similar. "Do you know the word for the door?" he asked Gandalf.
"No, like you I entered through the broken Eastern Gate," Gandalf replied, leaning on his staff, his anger had evaporated and peered at Aragorn thoughtfully. "You think me a fool to argue with Kíli."
"Not a fool," Aragorn smiled slightly. "he must be remarkably like his famous father to vex you so easily." He knew his old friend, the wizard often was easily angered but he was also quick to laugh, his anger rarely lasted long.
The grey wizard's eyes sparkled. "Worse, he reminds me of Thrór in his young years, before the Grey Mountains fell." He shook his head. "His dynasty did not get any less stubborn in the passing years." His eyes went to the side where Kíli stood with Anvari and Frodo. The dwarf was talking to the Hobbit, placing something small into Frodo's hand.
"Bilbo taught you how to read this, Frodo," Kíli's voice was firm if still tense, "and you know how our halls are marked – the same marking system you saw in Erebor was used in Moria. If you get separated from us, this is your best chance to find your way out again."
"Bilbo told me of your adventures in Moria," Frodo said with a small smile. "I… I better hope to not get lost in the deeps of Khazad-Dûm." Sam came over, bringing them the additional packs they would have to take now that they pony was left behind.
Leaving the two Hobbits alone for a moment, the two dwarves approached the door. "Arûk Durin drár Khazad-Dûm, ugrûz ragim scorcáz, thardûn khazad. Ti Narvi dór norim, Celebrimbor vár Eregion ulgein ragun." Anvari read out the dwarven inscription, his eyes tracing over the seven stars, the anvil and the single star engraved on the door. "Narvi… as in Narvi of Dwenderholm Passage?" he asked softly.
"Narvi of Dwenderholm passage and ancestor to Narvi of Deepsilver crossing," Kíli replied his voice warm at the words, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "and ancestor to you, Anvari. Through your mother blood ties you to these very gates. Like all our lines lead back to the deeps of Dwarrowdelf."
The dwarf tilted his head and looked up to the wizard standing beside him. "The old problem about dwarf doors?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
Gandalf smiled slightly. "I could imagine easier ways to open doors than through easily forgotten riddles," he said, his eyes worried at the dwarf. "Something is haunting you, Kíli… and I doubt it is the burden Frodo carries." There was genuine concern in his words now, as he stepped closer to the dwarf.
Kíli shook his head, averting his gaze swiftly. "It is nothing… nothing we can do anything about." He said softly. "and we better get going as long as we are undiscovered. Tell the others to stay away from the water."
"Kíli," Aragorn approached their friend, hoping the dwarf would listen. "if there is something burdening you… sharing might help. If it something threatening us, or something that happened in the city…"
The dwarf looked up to him and to his surprise Aragorn saw Kíli's eyes shine with a great sadness. "They said that King Thrór saw a White Raven the Night before he died," he said his voice hushed. "and they say that another saw the Raven too, because it landed on his hand but the White Raven had not come for him yet."
Remembering the strangely light feathered bird he had seen on Kíli's hand earlier Aragorn shook his head. "It is a legend, Kíli, if any pale bird was a death omen…"
The dwarf's eyes darkened a little. "And what if I told you that the White Raven came to a really small dwarf child back then – that night before King Thrór died?" He sighed. "I am sorry, Aragorn, I shouldn't worry you with all this. We need to leave this place swiftly, the swifter the better." With that he turned towards the doors of dwarrowdelf.
When the door opened before them, Aragorn made sure that none of the others tarried, much as he disliked the thought of entering Moria again – he knew that they better hurried before they were discovered. They passed the ancient stone threshold, the gate closing behind them. The long silence of Moria lying ahead of them.
TRB
The very same day on the other side of the world Thrakaine inspected the outlying formations of the siege camp, beside him walked Diralmon, Khan of the Vargians. "I am telling you Thrakaine, my boys have shown often enough how to die in that accursed bottleneck of a gate. Their fortifications are strong and their morale is impeccable. Make of that what you want, Easterling. Three months of Siege and what do we have to show for it?"
Silently Thrakaine agreed, the dwarven fortress had little in terms of attackable structures and those were well defended. Most of the Mountain was closed and the one structure they could attack was the main gate – a veritable fortress unto itself, which had seen the blood of many of his troops already. He had sent word back East that he needed masses – legions of Orcs to wear down the defenders, if this Siege was to go anywhere. But they had not yet an answer to that – the Siege of Erebor was a minor theater of the greater war that was breaking out South. "You are right, Diralmon," he said. "we need to weaken their morale, if we do not break their spirit, this will end like the great siege to Moria back in the great war."
"And how do you suppose we do that?" The Varigian grumbled. "For I see little use in storming the gates for the thirtieth time, and they will hardly let us inside to wreak havoc."
"No, but they will let others inside – they are too noble not to," Thrakaine smiled coldly, patience was a virtue and while it had taken Moricai longer than expected to break the Iron Hills, he had done what he was supposed to do eventually. "This night an entire trek of dwarves will try to make it past our siege ring… I have retracted most of our Eastern camp to let them through believing they spotted a weakness in our formations."
The Varigian Khan looked up grinning. "And you think the dwarves will have to let them in…"
"Exactly." Thrakaine confirmed the thought. "they will have to open the gate and once they do we will storm with all we have. Bloodbanner and Fist of the Skies will carry the main storm – your men will do mop up action and pick off all that flees from the field once the trap closes."
The Varigian saluted him. "Will do, Thrakaine. The Night give you wings."
TRB
The Night was quiet, an icy wind drove the snow down from the North so hard that Thrakaine shivered under his heavy fur-lined cloak. The Eastern camp had been emptied and it was easy to see that the fleeing dwarves from the Iron Hills were making use of the gap they had found. Standing atop the height of Raven Hill Thrakaine could watch as they scrambled through the snow – they were a pitiful bunch, many wounded, many hardly able to stand or walk, some carrying injured or even children with them. He looked to the side were a rider came galloping up the hill. "Moricai?" he asked, expecting the commander of the Eastern campaign.
"No, Legat, he is dead," the rider dismounted and took his helm off, revealing a youthful but somewhat familiar face framed by light hair. "his second in command was slain by Dáin when we broke the gates of the Iron city and his seconds in turn fell in the battle in the city. I took over from there. Shantar of the Eternal Banner."
So the dwarves from the Iron Hills had extracted heavy losses on Moricai – how had the idiot managed to get himself killed? Thrakaine thought angrily. Though he did not let his annoyance at Moricai's untimely death cloud his mien. "I should have known that one of Shakurán's boys would make it through," he said jovially. "how many refugees are you driving against these gates?"
"No more than three thousand – the rest lies dying the snows behind us," Shantar reported calmly, though there was some grim edge in his voice. "I ordered my men to leave those alone and keep pushing on those who were still running as per your orders. The cold will finish off the rest without our help."
Thrakaine noticed the grim tension in the voice but did not mark it for disloyalty. Shantar was young and in spite of having a Dorvinión mother he was an Easterling through his father and more through his training. He had performed well. "Good work on that – we need those desperate creatures under the gates. Gather your men, you will push hard at them in pursuit, once the gates open we will support you with our forces."
"I did not have my men ride five days through snow and storm to play forlorn hope to your little Siege," Shantar squared his shoulders, gazing at Thrakaine coldly. "if you need some beasts for slaughter, have your Varigians mount and meet their befitting end."
Thrakaine lauged, Shantar was the son of his father through and through, and he took his responsibility serious, which was a good sign. Many young commanders who inherited their post from those fallen were all too glad to hand responsibility back to their elders, those who didn't were the material the legions needed. "I need someone competent down there – someone who will push so hard that the dwarves cannot leave the gates closed. I hope you did leave someone of the Iron Hill's Dynasty alive to slay effectively under the gates?"
"I think so," Shantar replied. "but your troops better support my men swiftly, most of my riders are exhausted." He remounted his horse to return to his troops and lead the final push into the blood trap.
"They will be there, be assured." Thrakaine looked at him. "and Shantar – the dwarven King slew Idramar – if you wish to free his soul, show him what blood vengeance is." He knew that his words had hit home in the gleam of Shantar's eyes – nothing but a bit of rage to inspire a true battle. Idramar's sacrifice would prove useful this night.
Shantar did not push his horse hard as he followed the fleeing dwarves within range of the walls, the animal was tired and pushing it was not necessary. He had taken his short bow and aimed at the first fleeing dwarf, the arrow flew and hit true, dropping the stumbling figure into the snow, a black shadow in the white field under a cold, uncaring moon. His shot was the signal for the entire Eternal banner to not hold back any longer. Up till now they had not killed the fleeing dwarves even as they could – now the time of dying had begun. His next arrow felled a fleeing warrior, who dropped a smaller figure that scrambled on alone – it had to be dwarf child. Shantar took the next arrow aiming carefully, then averting his aim a little more down and released. The feather shaft shot through the darkness and impaled the fleeing child's leg. The shrill scream of pain heralding the child's plight. Shantar did not waste a second arrow on the youth, but turned on the next dwarf in range, most of them were close to the gates now, and the riders closing in behind them. The defenders would have to make their decision any moment – either they watched a massacre before their walls or they came out.
He could already see the dark mass of dwarves under the battlements, right in front of the heavy gates of the Mountain, their strongest had corralled the weak ones against the gate and built a circle of defense against the riders. A brave, honorable gesture – but a useless one. His riders were on one line with him, waiting for his command. He took the last of his spears – he had used most of them up in the last days, and raised it, the formation spread out, when he threw the spear at the dwarf he perceived as the leader of the defenders, his riders charged, a galloping formation of death down on the ragged dwarves. His own horse picked up speed, heavy hooves galloping on the icy grounds, the impacting with the dwarven formation deathly for the animal, but it broke into the circle of steel their warriors had formed. Shantar dismounted, his two curved swords cutting through the first opponents. The dwarven formation shattered within moments, some of them began to flee again, only to run into the Varigian formations that sprung up in their flanks. He stabbed another dwarf. Death! Death was upon them and only now they understood that they were trapped.
A horn rang out into the icy night, one single deep bronze horn cutting through the silence. Shantar came around and he saw it – the great gates of the Mountain were opening, behind them the clarions of the banners rang like an answer, commanding the Easterlings to attack.
Pulling his frayed formation closer together Shantar led his men under the gate of the Mountain. They spared little time on the refuges from the Iron Hills – it was bigger game that they were hunting for now. Their storm was met halfway outside the gates by a dwarven force moving outward – an entire dwarven banner, maybe two or three even, pushing outside and at them. The first impact of both forces was horrible, axes cleaving through warriors left and right, Shantar's men faltering, he had to fight off three dwarves at once, stabbing one he felt a blade eat through his armor and cut into his flesh, he pulled back and brought his blade down on the dwarf wielding that axe, another came close and he stabbed him with the blade in his left hand.
Behind them fresh forces came in, pouring down on the dwarves – Thrakaine himself leading his men into the storm. Shantar saw him and others coil up in fights under the gate itself. He looked around – at least half of the dwarven force was outside the gate range – they were trying to bring their people into the Mountain, while Thrakaine's storm was stunted in the gauntlet behind the gate. Shantar raised his sword, signaling his formation and all close to turn and cut the dwarves off from their own gate. Block them from retreating and getting into Thrakaine's back.
Attacking the first group of dwarves Shantar thought how strange it was to fight with his back to the gate, but he had no time to think about that, because the dwarves outside began to realize their mistake – they began to understand that they were cut off from getting back into their own fortress and threw themselves at them with all rage and anger. Shantar had his hands full in fighting them off, Darkness above, dwarven rage was nothing he had ever expected to be so fierce. He ducked under a new attack, running his blade through the dwarf once he was exposed, kicking away the weapon of the next.
Shrieks rose behind him, Thrakaine was losing ground at the gate, but was still blocking the bottleneck for the dwarves, but the numbers of the dwarves trying to break back through the gate was dwindling. Hastily Shantar looked around – higher up on the hill heavy fighting ensued – the noise of clashing weapons and the screams of wounded fighters echoing through the icy night. Cutting through several attackers, Shantar raced away from the gate and uphill with his remaining troops, realizing that something was going wrong at their own flank.
When he came outside the range of the gate he saw it – the dwarves had opened another door into the Mountain, a postern of sorts, using it to retract their troops. The Varigians had engaged the dwarves there, but were held off by a dwarven formation on a hill right before the postern. The dwarves there were led by one old warrior – one mighty fighter. Shantar saw him cut down the Varigan Khan and several Varigans without so much as a break, the mighty two handed sword the dwarf wielded was unrelenting, each hit took another attacker, with each new swing another body fell into the snow, piling up at the hill beneath the dwarf's feet.
"That dwarf needs to die," Ryvan, Shantar's second in command panted. "Great Lord – he is cutting through our people like they are leaves in the wind." His eyes fell to Shantar. "You still have arrows – shoot him."
Shantar's hand sank to his quiver, he had indeed some arrows left. But it would be an Orc's prank to kill a valiant fighter like that – shooting him until he died. It was one of the more successful Orc tactics and utterly dishonorable. "No," he said softly. "he is fighting valiantly – and we will face him the same way. The Great Lord is recruiting a legion of souls tonight – us among them."
They stormed the hill, the defenders were thinned out by the heavy fighting, but the retreat of the dwarves was almost complete and the old warrior began to send part of his fighters back to the postern, holding their way open, with the few remaining with him. Ryvan was the first to reach him, cut down almost effortlessly in the first bout, the old fighter came around and advanced into Shantar's formation, killing three more before retreating two steps and doing the same to the left flank again. Shantar's heard pounded against his ribcage. What a warrior! He must be older than all of them, but he reaped their lives like they were ears in summer.
Only there was no summer – only the blood and snow and an icy winter moon illuminating the hill of the battle. The old dwarf stood tall, his sword in both hands, his hair shone like silver in the cold light of the skies. Shantar advanced dropping one of his two blades, as he fell into attack position, he had not consciously chosen to do so – but he could not do anything else but face this warrior honorably.
Their blades clashed, Shantar used his taller stature to bring his blade about and break free, but he found his next attack already parried with a casual ease that belied the old fighter's years. He had only just the time to parry the next attacks, each hit was powerful, and shaking his blade that he feared it would shatter. Ducking away from one more attack he advanced and broke through the dwarf's cover, his blade grazing along the heavy armor, metal shrieking loudly, but his sword had more scratches than the shoulder armor of the dwarf. Darkness above – how much steel did this dwarf carry?
Again their blades met, more fiercely this time and Shantar felt a fierce pain stab through his side when the dwarf's sword cut through his armor, warm blood tickled through the layers of leather and chainmail, freezing in the icy air. Their eyes met and in the light of the winter moon Shantar saw a pair of cold blue eyes, determined and superior – moments before a furious storm of attacks was aimed at him. He blocked swiftly, his sword whirling in a deathly dance to catch the enemy blade before it could reach him.
Nearly all dwarves had retreated past them and Thrakaine was being pushed out of the gate – Shantar could hear a loud thunderous noise – the dwarves were bringing down their heavy stone doors again. The Mountain was closing. The old warrior grinned at him. "I won't dishonor you by asking for you surrender, young one," he growled in the common tongue. "but your life will be spared if you give yourself up, on that you have my word."
He was a man of honor, Shantar thought, and a warrior like none other – maybe the best there was left in the world. Though, he had a weakness, after the fifth bout of deathly attacks Shantar had begun to see it. He was almost tempted to retreat and keep that flaw to himself – maybe legends should not die. Only he had his duty, and an oath to uphold. "I will not dishonor you by asking for your surrender either, brave one," he replied in the same tongue, falling into attack stance anew.
Again he broke through the cover, his blade uselessly grazing on the armor and again came the defense, the same, brutal, swift attacks that were supposed to push him back. This time Shantar stepped into the blade, letting it hit home, embracing the pain, the hot blood that flooded from his side down his leg, it was necessary, because in this moment that the blade was buried into his side, the dwarf was defenseless. Marshalling all his strength Shantar brought up his curved sword, ramming it down, tip first into the tiny crack where hauberk and chainmail coif met, through the shoulder into the dwarf's chest. The dwarf stumbled, collapsing, the bloodied blade slipped form Shantar's hands, he broke down to his knees, the pain from his side shooting into his chest. The dwarf had landed on his back, half still sitting. He coughed hard, his breath rattling in his throat. Still one strong hand grasped Shantar's wrist, forcing him down beside the dwarf.
"Your name?" The dwarf rasped, his breath ragged, while his lifeblood ran from his armor and colored the snow red.
"Shantar, why… why do you want to know?" The young Easterling felt the snow touch his wounded side, but there was no cold, not even a numb feeling, just nothing.
"Because you will walk into the death beside me and I want to know my companion," the dwarf's voice was strained, his body convulsing and the end came swiftly. Shantar sank into the snow, not breaking the grip of the dead warrior's hand on his wrist. His strength was rapidly waning, and suddenly he was cold, shivering with weakness. Looking up he saw the moon in the skies above them and the heavy snow flakes dancing down, like they wanted to cover the corpses. Shantar knew he should relinquish his soul to the void, to join all those who were dedicated to the Great Lord… but he couldn't. If this was the end, he wanted to die alone and in silence, beside the legend he had helped kill. Heavy snowflakes touched his face, melting to water, like the tears he did not have. A shadow fell over him, blocking his view only moments before a heavy hit turned his world black.
Author's Note
I guess I should not write with my head pounding… but it's happened and here it is. The battle took a bit of an odd perspective… maybe my own emotions refused to write it any other way. Bad me.
