The mob of trolls receded down the hill, sliding back into the bog and mist to lick their wounds, and a great cheer went up along the line of warriors both dwarf and human. They had held their ground again, for the third time that day, stubbornly refusing to be pushed back into the tunnels that loomed as black holes on the hillside behind them.
Torgar Hammerstriker watched the retreat with less excitement than his fellows, and certainly with less enthusiasm than the almost-giddy humans. Galen Firth ran along the human lines, proclaiming yet another victory in the name of Nesme.
That was true, Torgar supposed, but could victory really be measured in terms of temporary advances and retreats? They had held, all three fights, because they had washed the leading trolls with a barrage of fiery logs. Looking back at their supply of kindling, Torgar hoped they had enough fuel to hold a fourth time. Victory? They were surrounded, with only the tunnels offering them any chance of retreat. They couldn't get any more fuel for their fires, and couldn't hope to break out through the ranks and ranks of powerful trolls.
"They're grabbing at every reason to scream and punch their fists in the air," Shingles McRuff remarked, coming up to stand beside his friend. "Can't say I blame 'em, but I'm not seeing how many victory punches we got left."
"Without the fires, we can no hold," Torgar agreed quietly, so that only Shingles could hear.
"A stubborn bunch o' trolls we got here," the old dwarf added. "They're taking their time. They know we got nowhere to run except the holes."
"Any scouts come back dragging logs?" Torgar asked, for he had sent several runners out along side tunnels, hoping to find an out of the way exit in an area not patrolled by their enemies, in the hope that they might be able to sneak in some more wood.
"Most're back, but none with any word that we've got trees to drag through. We got what we got now, and nothing more."
"We'll hold them as long as we can," Torgar said, "but if we don't break them in the next fight it'll be our last battle out here in the open."
"The boys're already practicing their retreat formations," Shingles assured him.
Torgar looked across his defensive line, to their partners in the struggle. He watched Galen Firth rousing his men once more, the tall man's seemingly endless supply of energy flowing out in one prompting cheer after another.
"I'm not thinking our boys to be the trouble," Torgar said.
"That Galen's no less stubborn than the trolls," Shingles agreed. "Might be a bit harder in convincing."
"So Dagna learned."
The two watched Galen's antics a bit longer, then Torgar added, "When we get the last line o' fires out at the trolls, and they're not breaking, then we're breaking ourselves, back into the tunnels. Galen and his boys can come if they want, or they can stay out here and get swallowed. No arguing on this. I'm not giving another o' Bruenor's war bands to Moradin to defend a human too stubborn or too stupid to see what's plain afore him. He runs with us or he stands alone."
It was a sobering order, and one that Torgar issued in a raised voice. There was no compromise to be found, all those dwarves around him understood. They would not make a gallant and futile last stand for the sake of Galen Firth and the Nesmians.
"Ye telled that all to Galen, did ye?"
"Three times," said Torgar.
"He hearing ye?"
"Dumathoin knows," Torgar answered, invoking to the dwarf god known as the Keeper of Secrets under the Mountains. "And Dumathoin ain't for telling. But don't ye misunderstand our place here in the least. We're Bruenor's southern line, and we're holding for Mithral Hall, not for Nesme. Them folks want to come, we'll get them home to the halls or die trying. Them folks choose to stay, and they're dying alone."
It couldn't be more clear than that. But neither Torgar nor Shingles believed for a moment that even such a definitive stand would ring clearly enough in the thick head of Galen Firth.
The trolls wasted little time in regrouping and coming on once more as soon as the fires from the previous battle had died away. Their eagerness only confirmed to Torgar that which he had suspected: they were not a stupid bunch. They knew they had the dwarves on the edge of defeat, and knew well that the fiery barrage could not continue indefinitely.
They charged up the hill, their long legs propelling them swiftly across the sloping ground. They kept their lines loose and scattered - an obvious attempt to present less of an opportunity for targeting fiery missiles.
"Ready yer throws!" Shingles ordered, and torches were put to brands across the dwarven line.
"Not yet," Torgar whispered to his friend. "That's what they're expecting."
"And that's all we're giving."
But Torgar shook his head. "Not this time," he said. "Not yet."
The trolls closed ground. Down at the human end of the defensive line, fiery brands went flying out.
But Torgar held his missiles. The trolls closed.
"Running wedge!" Torgar shouted, surprising all those around him, even Shingles, who had fought so many times beside his fellow Mirabarran.
"Running wedge?" he asked.
"Send 'em out! All of 'em!" Torgar shouted. He lifted his warhammer high and yelled, "With me, boys!"
Torgar leaped out from behind the stony barricade, Shingles at his side. Without even bothering to look left or right, the dwarf charged down the hill, confident that his boys would not let him down.
And that confidence was well placed. The dwarves poured out like water, tumbling and rolling right back to their feet. In a few short strides, they were already forming their running wedge and by the time they hit the leading trolls, their formations were tight and well supported.
Torgar was, fittingly, first to engage. He led with a great sweep of his hammer, and the troll standing before him hopped back out of range, then came in fast behind the swipe. Apparently thinking it had the aggressive little creature vulnerable, the troll opened wide its mouth and lunged forward to bite at the dwarf.
Just as Torgar had hoped, for as his hammer cut the air before the beast, the dwarf, who hadn't put half the weight behind that swing as he had made it appear, yanked against the momentum and reversed the flow of the weapon, bringing it in close. He slid one hand up the shaft of the hammer as he moved one foot forward, turning almost sidelong to the troll, then thrust weapon's head straight out into the diving mouth of the troll. Teeth splintered and Torgar heard the crack of the troll's jawbone.
Not one to sit on his laurels, the dwarf yanked his hammer back, snapping it into a roll over his trailing right shoulder and letting go with his left hand. He caught the weapon down low with his left hand again as it came spinning up over his head, then chopped down with all his strength, every muscle in his body snapping, driving the hammerhead into the troll's brain.
The creature fell straight to the ground, squirming wildly, and Torgar just kicked it in the face as he barreled by.
"Clever dwarves," Kaer'lic Suun Wett remarked.
With Tos'un beside her, the drow priestess stood on a high, tree-covered bluff off to the side of the main action.
"They saw that the trolls were coming up widespread and gradually, trying to draw out their flaming brands," Tos'un agreed.
"And now they've sent those leading decoys running or to the ground, and not a brand have they thrown," said Kaer'lic.
The contrast between the dwarves' tactics and those of the humans standing beside them came crystal clear. While the dwarves had come out in a wild charge, the humans held their ground, and had indeed launched many of their fiery brands against the leading troll line.
"Proffit will exploit the human line and drive around to flank the dwarves," Kaer'lic said, pointing up that way.
Lower on the field, the disciplined dwarves had already turned around, having scattered the leading trolls. Their wedge retreated without a pivot, so that the dwarves at the trailing, widespread edges were the first back over the wall, and those dwarves wasted no time in stoking the fires and readying the barrage.
Kaer'lic growled and punched her fist into her open palm when she noted Proffit's forces closing in on the dwarves' retreat. The trolls had been clearly enraged by the brash charge of the bearded folk, and were rolling up the hill behind the retreating point of the wedge, grouped tightly.
Before those running dwarves even got over the wall, the barrage began, with dozens and dozens of burning logs spinning over the wall and out over the dwarves. So closely grouped, the trolls took hit after hit, and when the flames stuck on one, sending it up in a burst of fire, its close-standing comrades, too, felt the fiery bite.
"Fools," Kaer'lic grunted, and the priestess began muttering the words of a spell.
A moment later, a small geyser of water appeared among the trolls, dousing fires and buying them some freedom from the dwarves' volley. Kaer'lic finished her spell, muttered under her breath, and began to conjure some more water. How much easier it all would have been, she thought, had Proffit not allowed the pursuit and had instead sent the bulk of his minions at the western, human end of the defensive line....
Even with the magical interference of an unexpected burst of water, the firestorm proved considerable and highly effective, sending troll after troll up in a blaze. But Torgar saw the truth of the situation before him. They had stung their enemies again, but their time of advantage was over. Their fuel was exhausted.
Torgar looked past the flames and flaming trolls, to the horde of enemies behind, lurking down the hill, patiently waiting for the fires to diminish.
"Ye hold 'em here as long as ye can, but not a moment longer," Torgar instructed Shingles.
"Where're ye going, then?" the old dwarf asked.
"Galen Firth's needing to hear this from me again, so that there's no misunderstanding. We're going when we're going, and if they're not going, then they're on their own."
"Tell him, and let him see yer eyes when ye tell him," Shingles said. "He's a stubborn one."
"He'll be a dead one, then, and so be it."
Torgar patted his old friend on the shoulder and trotted along to the west, moving behind his boys and encouraging them with every step. He soon came to the human warriors, all readying their weapons, for their fires were burning low out on the hill before them. The dwarf had little trouble finding Galen Firth, for the man was up on a stone, shouting encouragement and pumping his fist.
"Well fought!" he said to Torgar when he spotted the approaching dwarf. "A brilliant move to go out and attack."
"Aye, and a smarter move's coming soon," Torgar replied. "The one that's putting us back in the tunnels, not to come out again."
Galen's smile remained as he digested those words, coming down from the stone. By the time he was standing before Torgar, that smile had been replaced by a frown.
"They have not breached our line, nor shall they!"
"Strong words, well spoken," said Torgar. "And true in the first and hopeful in the second. But if we're waiting to see if ye're right or wrong on what's to come, and ye're wrong, then we're all dead."
"I long ago pledged my life to the defense of Nesme."
"Then stand yer ground if that's yer choice. I'm here to tell ye that me and me boys're heading into the tunnels, and there we're to stay." Torgar was well aware of the many frightened looks coming in at him from all around at that proclamation.
"Ye'll want to tighten yer line, then," said Torgar. "If ye're that stubborn. Me thinking's that ye should be going into the tunnels with us - yer old ones and young afore us, and yer fighters beside us. That's me thinking, Galen Firth. Take it as ye will."
The dwarf bowed and turned to leave.
"I beg you to stay," Galen surprised him by saying. "As General Dagna decided to fight for Nesme."
Torgar turned on him sharply, his heavy eyebrows furrowing and shadowing his dark eyes. "Dagna gave his life and his boys gave theirs because ye were too stubborn to know when to run," he corrected. "It's not a mistake I'm planning on making. Ye been told that we're going. Ye been invited to come. Choice is yer own, and not mine."
The dwarf was quick in moving off, and when Galen called to him again, he just continued on his way, muttering, "Durn fool," under his breath with every step.
"Wait! Wait!" came a cry from behind, one that did turn Torgar around. He saw another of the Nesme warriors, Rannek, running along the line toward Galen Firth and pointing up at the sky. "Good dwarf, wait! It is Alustriel! Alustriel has come again!"
Torgar followed his finger skyward, and there in the dark sky the dwarf saw the streaking chariot of fire, coming in hard and fast.
At the same time, drumbeats filled the air, booming in from the southeast, and horns began to blow.
"The Silver Guard!" one man cried. "The Silver Guard of Silverymoon is come!"
Torgar looked at Galen Firth, who seemed as surprised as any, though he had been saying that such help would arrive from the beginning.
"Our salvation is at hand, good dwarf," Galen said to him. "Stay, then, and join in our great victory this night!"
"Lady Lolth, she's back," Tos'un groaned when he saw the telltale flash of fire sweeping out of the night sky.
"Obould's worst nightmare," Kaer'lic replied. "Alustriel of Silverymoon. A most formidable foe, so we have been told."
Tos'un glanced at Kaer'lic, the tone of her words showing him that she had taken that reputation as a challenge. She was staring up at the chariot, eyes sparkling, mouthing the words of a spell, her fingers tracing runes in the empty air.
She timed her delivery perfectly, casting just as Alustriel soared past, not so far overhead. The very air seemed to distort and crack around the flying cart, a resonating, thunderous boom that shook the ground beneath Tos'un's feet. Alustriel's disorientation manifested itself to the watching drow through the erratic movements of the chariot, banking left and right, back and forth, even veering sharply so that it seemed as if it might skid out of control in the empty air.
Kaer'lic quickly cast a second spell, and a burst of conjured water intercepted Alustriel's shaky path.
The chariot dipped, its flight disturbed. For a moment, the flames on the magical horse team winked out, and down they all went.
"To the glory of Lolth," Tos'un said with a grin as the chariot plummeted.
The two anticipated a glorious wreckage, the enjoyable screams of horses and driver alike, and indeed, when the flying carriage first hit, they realized more disaster than even they could imagine.
But not in the manner they had expected.
The flames came alive again when Alustriel's chariot touched down, bursting from the carriage and horses alike, and leaping out in a fireball that swept out to the sides, then rolled up over the chariot as it charged along.
Both drow had their mouths hanging open as they watched the driver regain control, as her chariot - rolling along instead of flying - cut a swath of destruction and death through Proffit's ranks. Alustriel banked to the south, a wide sweep that both drow understood was intended to turn her around so that she could find her magical attackers.
"She should be dead," Kaer'lic said, and she licked her suddenly dry lips.
"But she's not," said Tos'un.
The chariot went up in the air, then continued its turn, completing a circuit. The dark elves heard the sound of a larger battle to the east, and the sound of horns and drums.
"She brought friends," said Kaer'lic.
"Many friends," Tos'un presumed. "We should leave."
The dark elves looked at each other and nodded.
"Get the prisoner," Kaer'lic instructed, and she didn't even wait as Tos'un moved off toward the small hole where they had concealed poor Fender.
The two dark elves and their captive started away quickly to the west, wanting to put as much ground as possible between themselves and the fierce woman in the flying chariot.
From the joyous cries among the line of dwarves and humans in the north, to the gathering sounds of a great battle erupting in the east, to the sheer power and control of the woman in the chariot up above, they knew that the end had come for Proffit.
Lady Alustriel and Silverymoon had come.
The Silver Guard of Silverymoon charged into the troll ranks in tight formation, spears leveled, bows firing flaming arrows from behind their ranks. Watching from the higher ground, Torgar could only think of the initial engagement as a wave washing over a beach, so fully did the Silver Guard seem to engulf the eastern end of the troll ranks.
But then that wave seemed to break apart on many large rocks. They were trolls, after all, strong and powerful and more physically resilient than any creature in all the world. The roar of the charge became the screams of the dying. The tight formations became a dance of smaller groups, pockets of warriors working hard to fend off the huge, ugly trolls.
Fireballs erupted beyond the leading edge of the Silver Guard, as Silvery-moon's battle wizards joined in the fray.
But the trolls did not break and run. They met the attack with savagery, plowing into the human ranks, crushing warriors to the ground and stomping them flat.
"Now, boys!" Torgar yelled to his dwarves. "They came to help us, and it's our turn to repay the favor!"
From on high came the dwarven charge, down the barren, rocky slope at full run. To their right, the west, came Galen and the humans, sweeping in behind the trolls as the monsters pressed eastward to do battle with the new threat.
Blood ran - troll, dwarf, and human. Troll roars, human screams, and dwarven grunts mingled in the air in a symphony of horror and pain. The drama played out, minute by minute, a hundred personal struggles within the greater overall conflict.
It was the end for so many that day, lives cut short on a bloody, rocky slope under a pre-dawn sky.
As the lines tightened, the wizards became less effective and it became a contest of steel against claw, of troll savagery against dwarf stubbornness.
In the end, it wasn't the weapons or the superior tactics that won the day for the dwarves and humans. It was the care for each other and the sense that those around each warrior would stand there in support, the confidence of community and sacrifice. The willingness to stand and die before abandoning a friend. The dwarves had it most of all, but so did the humans of Nesme and Silverymoon, while the trolls fought singly, self-preservation or bloodlust alone keeping them in battle.
Dawn broke an hour later to reveal a field of blood and body parts, of dead men, dead dwarves, and burned trolls, of troll body pieces squirming and writhing until the finishing crews could put them to the torch.
Battered and torn, half his face gouged by filthy troll claws, Torgar Hammerstriker walked the lines of his wounded, patting each dwarf on the shoulder as he passed. His companions had come out from Mirabar behind him, and had known nothing but battle after vicious battle by the end of the first tenday. Yet not a dwarf was complaining, and not one had muttered a single thought about going back. They were Battlehammers now, one and all, loyal to kin and king.
The fights, to a dwarf, were worth it.
As he moved past the line of his fighters, Torgar spotted Shingles talking excitedly to several of the Silverymoon militia.
"What do ye know?" Torgar asked when he came up beside his old friend.
"I know that Alustriel's not thinking to move north against Obould," came the surprising answer.
Torgar snapped his gaze over the two soldiers, who remained unshaken and impassive, and seemed in no hurry to explain the surprising news.
"She here?" Torgar asked.
"Lady Alustriel is with Galen Firth of Nesme," one of the soldiers asked.
"Then ye best be taking us there."
The soldier nodded and led them on through the encampment, past the piled bodies of Silverymoon dead, past the lines of horribly wounded men, where priests were hard at work in tending the many garish wounds. In a tent near the middle of the camp, they found Alustriel and Galen Firth, and the man from Nesme seemed in as fine spirits as Torgar had known.
The two dwarves allowed the soldiers to announce them, then walked up to the table where Lady Alustriel and Galen stood. The sight of Alustriel did give stubborn Torgar pause, for all that he had heard of the impressive woman surely paled in comparison to the reality of her presence. Tall and shapely, she stood with an air of dignity and competence beyond anything Torgar had ever seen. She wore a flowing gown of the finest materials, white and trimmed in purple, and upon her head was a circlet of gold and diamonds that could not shine with enough intensity to match her eyes. Torgar could hardly believe the thought, but it seemed to him that next to Alustriel, even Shoudra Stargleam would be diminished.
"L-lady," the dwarf stuttered, bowing so low his black beard brushed the ground.
"Well met, Torgar Hammerstriker," Alustriel said in a voice that was like a cool north wind. "I was hoping to speak with you, here or in the inevitable meetings I will have with King Bruenor of Mithral Hall. Your actions in Mirabar have sent quite an unsettling ripple throughout the region, you must know."
"If that ripple slaps Marchion Elastul upside his thick skull, then it's more than worth it," the dwarf answered, regaining his composure and taciturn facade.
"Fair enough," Alustriel conceded.
"What am I hearing now, Lady?" Torgar asked. "Some nonsense that ye're thinking the battle done?"
"The land is full of orcs and giants, good dwarf," said Alustriel. "The battle is far from finished, I am certain."
"I was just told ye weren't marching north to Mithral Hall."
"That is true."
"But ye just said - "
"This is not the time to take the fight to King Obould," Alustriel explained. "Winter will fast come on. There is little we can do."
"Bah, ye can have yer army - armies, for where's Everlund and Sundabar? - to Keeper's Dale in a tenday's time!"
"The other cities are watching, from afar," said Alustriel. "You do not understand the scope of what has befallen the region, I fear."
"Don't understand it?" Torgar said, eyes wide. "I been fighting in the middle of it for tendays now! I was on the ridge with Banak Brawnanvil, holding back the hordes. Was me and me boys that stole back the tunnels so that damned fool gnome could blow the top off the mountain spur!"
"Yes, I wish to hear all of that tale, in full, but another time," Alustriel said.
"So how can ye be saying I'm not knowing? I'm knowing better than anyone!"
"You saw the front waves of an ocean of enemies," Alustriel said. "Tens of thousands of orcs have crawled out of their holes to Obould's call. I have seen this. I have flown the length and breadth of the battlefield. There is nothing the combined armies can do at this time to be rid of the vermin. We cannot send thousands to die in such an effort, when it is better to secure a defensive line that will hold back the orc ocean."
"Ye came out to help Galen here!"
"Yes, against a manageable enemy - and one that still tore deeply into my ranks. The trolls have been pushed back, and we will drive them into the moors where they belong. Nesme," - she indicated the map on the table - "will be raised and fortified, because that alone is our best defense against the creatures of the Trollmoors."
"So ye come to the aid of Nesme, but not of Mithral Hall?" said Torgar, never one to hold his thoughts private.
"We aid where we can," Alustriel answered, remaining calm and relaxed. "If the orcs begin to loosen their grip, if an opportunity presents itself, then Silverymoon will march to Mithral Hall and beyond, gladly beside King Bruenor Battlehammer and his fine clan. I suspect that Everlund will march with us, and surely Citadels Felbarr and Adbar will not forsake their Delzoun kin."
"But not now?"
Alustriel held her hands out wide.
"Nothing ye can do?"
"Emissaries will connect with King Battlehammer," the woman replied. "We will do what we can."
Torgar felt himself trembling, felt his fists clenching at his sides, and it was all he could do to not launch himself at Alustriel, or at Galen, standing smugly beside her, the man seeming as if all the world had been set aright, since Nesme would soon be reclaimed.
"There is nothing more, good dwarf," Alustriel added. "I can not march my armies into the coming snow against so formidable an enemy as has brought war against Mithral Hall."
"It's just orcs," said Torgar.
No answer came back at him, and he knew he would get none.
"Will you march with us to Nesme?" Galen Firth asked, and Torgar felt himself trembling anew. "Will you celebrate in the glory of our victory as Nesme is freed?"
The dwarf stared hard at the man.
Then Torgar turned and walked out of the tent. He soon made it back to his kinfolk, Shingles at his side. Within an hour, they were gone, into the tunnels and marching at double-pace back to King Bruenor.