Morur Embershield

[Daewath]

This is the initial part of Morur's prequel; i hope you guys like the short story!

I'm still working on Daewath, Coryander and Aikanar's bio, as i envisioned their story arcs a bit more complex and intertwined. So, Work in progress. =)

Now the story!

-x-

Together, we marched.

"Khazâd ai-menu!", we shout. "The Dwarves are upon you!"

The ancient language is spoken as it was during the Dwarf Father's times - the languages of the Elves change like melting snow, they say, while ours receives the gentle polishing of a stone that lies in the bottom of a river coming down from the mountains.

"Khazâd ai-menu!" we shout.

Shields on our backs, we climb the hills of Erebor, answering the Call. Promises and vendettas aren't forgotten until the appropriate time presents itself.

"Thorin Thráinul, uzbad Khazad-dûmu!"

The message was almost unbelievable. Thorin II, son of Thráin II - King under the Mountain! And the damned dragon dead. Now, to defend the King and his domains against invading marauders - seduced by the Arkenstone's fabled beauty, for sure!

"Khazâd ai-menu!", we shout.

The heavy steel axes clashing and announcing their presence, the clang of metal forged by the Iron Hills of Dain's master weaponsmiths. It's been many years since such an army of Dwarves was last seen, drawn together by blood and family, duty and honor. I have only 22 years - a child compared to these hardened veterans of 200 and more. The faces around me express the deepest thirst for revenge for the defeat imposed by the necromancer's servants.

"Khazâd ai-menu! HAH!", we shout - and then silence.

After 3 days of continuous running, we finally stop. In front of us, the servants of the Dark Tower, a solid mass of terror and claws. Their howling swiftly invades the hearts of the gathered Elves and Men with fear.

But not ours.

Thus, Inbar sings, and we lift our axes, clashing them against our shields - to the battle we lauch ourselves with complete abandon.

-x-

The struggle continues to no foreseeable end, and then turns unfavorably against us. Wargs attack ahead, and orcs archers, having conquered the mountain's rear flank, rain their ignited arrows on us. Our axes fall silent, our shields break. Men and Elves withdraw from the main gate; only we remain. Only we prevent them from climbing the cliff, thus gaining access to the Halls.

A large Orc, mounted on a warg as black as night, charges against us. His two massive steel clubs, covered with a black liquid on fire, already determined the fate of many of us. The squad, reduced to four dwarves from the House of Dáin, gathered together, ready to fight to the bitter end - for the King under the Mountain!

Dâr and Târ, the two brothers, fall side by side. The first, crushed between two precise swings, bringing him to his knees. The second, desperation and grief in his eyes, runs with blind fury towards his brother's assassin - only to be hit by a dozen arrows sent by watchful eyes lying in the darkness around.

'You shall not pass through us, Servant of the Necromancer! " Dûr screams, the eldest of us, a Captain. In his eyes I see no fear, only determination. The answer from the Orc Warrior is a mocked version of a smile. Then he charges in our direction.

'Kid, listen. We do this not only by the Fathers and Thorin, but also for our pride and revenge. We can not let them pass. Can I count on you?! "

I nod, eyes wide. 'Good,' he says. "Now to battle."

Just the two of us. We hear the laughter. They mock us.

The giant orc approaches. Dûr rushes, his two swords held high. My tall metal shield held high and my warhammer at the ready, I try to protect him - and myself. We resist, for endless seconds. The giant's thigh bleeds profusely while his arm hangs limply, proof of Dûr's ability.

In a flash, I hear metal ripping and bones breaking amidst a giant's laughter while I watch the old warrior crumple to his knees, his helmet crushed.

Only I stand between my brothers and the war's desolation.

The orc doesn't bother to block my attacks -there is only blood lust in his eyes for the kill. Blow after blow, each one stronger than the last, resounds on my shield.

*Boooum! Booooum! BOOOOOUM!*

Bright red dots appear on the shield's internal side. The heat is unbearable. I do not know how much longer I can hold out.

*BOOOOOOOOM!*

I fall to the ground, exhausted. He laughs, sure of his victory. The shadows around me scream - an evil crowd's ovation. Laying there, engulfed within the warm and silent mists of near unconsciousness, suddenly, I remember the reason why I'm here.

Turning around with extreme difficulty I grab my red-hot shield. With the last of my strength I hoist my hefty shield up to dash against his grotesquely barren back. I am rewarded by a pain filled astonished throaty roar.

His eyes glowing orange he turns to me focusing his desire only on my death. Temporarily forgetting his climb up the mountain.

Furious attacks begin. Within seconds my shield become as useless as the now shattered arm wearing it has become. It's... the end.

Laying there, I know I did my duty.

The clubs rise ...

Suddenly the earth shakes and trembles. Loose pebbles and debris starts to fall. Then, with a huge roar, an explosion of shattered stone and dust erupts to our left. The Wall falls! It's Thorim, and the Twelve!

The distraction buys me precious few seconds and with re-newed strength I force my shattered arm to raise shield once again throwing it towards the monsters face. The hiss of the red metal against it's greasy skin is terrible.

In his agony, the Orc turns to see one of the Twelve bearing down on his body with a war axe. I do not recognize the warrior, but I know it is a faithful kinsman as he smiles to me and shouts - "Khazâd ai-menu!" The fleeting glance passes, and his axe sinks deeply into putrid Orc flesh bringing forth an unearthly gush of black liquid.

I smile with renewed hope and get up with difficulty.

The night will be long.