Chapter One - Attack of the Vorak
The door flew open and Rurian appeared in the door frame, with one hand leaning against it, gasping heavily.
>>Brother!<<, he brought out, before he sank to his knees.
Rongar sprang to his feet and rushed towards him, supported him, held him in his arms.
>>What happened, Rurian?<<, he asked jittery, giving the four arrows in Rurian's back a horrified glance.
>>They...<<, Rurian began before he coughed and swallowed up his own blood. >>They are coming, brother. The Vorak Tribe, they are coming. We are at war!<<
>>Calm down, brother.<<, Rongar replied after a moment, trying to let his voice sound firm. He tried hard, but his heart was palpitating, and a certain weakness has come over him when he caught Rurian's words. They had touched him to the quick. >>Where? Where are they?<<
>>In the RolĂ³ra passage.<<, Rurian answered wearily. >>They have overrun our outposts, burnt down the watchtowers while we were still inside. They came under the cover of darkness, brother, hundreds of them, and they surprised us.<<
>>Who else got away?<< Rongar dreaded the answer to this question, he didn't raise his hopes of getting a positive one. And he should be proved right, Rurian looked him deep in the eyes, then shook his head. A tear ran down his cheek and Rongar pressed him to his chest, staring into a far distance. His throat felt like corded up.
>>You,<<, Rurian continued after a while and Rongar released him. >>You must organize a counterstrike, brother. Mobilize every dwarf who can hold a weapon and give notice to our allied tribes.<<
>>The other tribes would need days before they arrived us.<<, Rongar opposed. >>We cannot count on them, brother. We should flee.<<
>>No!<< Rurian's voice sounded as solid as a rock and Rongar appalled by the anger that met him all of a sudden. He felt like being hit by an invisible fist. >>We must fight back, brother! Or else we will be on the run forevermore. If we are to be defeated, so be it, but as long as there is a little chance of victory, we must fight. We shall not bend before our enemies. Never!<<
'
Live by the Hammer and the Blade'. This ancient saying suddenly came to Rongar's mind, as if Rurian whispered it into his ears. It was known to him ever since he was but a little fellow,
every young dwarf from the Clan did, since they were nurtured with it, held to live by it. It demanded every Hammerwielder to seek honour in battle, regardless of the rules of the tribe, or the mentality of the individual. Honour, the highest goal to be achieved by a Hammerwielder, battle, the highest way to achieve honour.
>>But our numbers are limited, brother...<<, Rongar said lost in thought. He still considered fleeing for the best, even though this would bring discredit upon his family, for they lived by the code of
Sha'y'ta, the code of honour and disgrace, just like most other dwarfs from the Hammerwielder Clan lived by it. But the time to prepare for the attack was simply too short, in Rongar's opinion anyway.
>>And so are the Vorak's.<< Rurian answered and coughed up blood again. Rongar gently wiped it off Rurian's mouth. >>Once their units are thinning, they will abort the attack. We are speaking of the Vorak, brother, they won't fight unless they are outnumbering the enemy. They have no honour, not even in battle.<<
That wasn't entirely true. Rongar remembered the day when he ran into one of the Vorak. They met in the woods, and both of them stopped dead when they did. Keeping their eyes on one another, they did not move for quite some time, a long time it was, or so Rongar conceived it. If someone would have passed by, he would have seen the statues of two dwarfs.
So they stood there in the middle of the woods and didn't move at all, until a Juloo let its incredibly loud cry from one of the branches above their heads. In that very moment they both reached for their axes, as if they had just been waiting for a signal, and with a warcry they were rushing towards eachother like there was no tomorrow.
The Vorak fought well, Rongar had trouble to bear up against him at first, but slowly he accomplished to drive back his opponent, until he finally had to surrender, which he did. He was down to his knees and looked up to Rongar, awaiting his fate while keeping a straight face. He was prepared to die.
>>Has your father returned by now?<<, Rurian asked and jolted Rongar out of his thoughts.
>>Not yet.<<, he answered and cleared his throat. >>I expected him already yesterday.<<
>>Elder Garumir would know what to do. And you as Garumir's son should do as well. As long as he is not present, you are the head of the tribe. Do what he would expect you to do.<<
>>I will, brother.<<, Rongar answered casually. Once again his eyes wandered to the arrows that stuck deep in Rurians back.
>>Forget about them.<<, Rurian whispered knowingly. >>You know as good as I that they are poisened. It's long running through my veins, brother. I feel cold and queasy. Death is near me, extending its hand, and I am tempted to grasp it. But before I am to meet our ancestors in the Great Halls of AngerĂ³l, you must promise me to stand your dwarf and fight. Promise it, brother, I please you.<<
>>I... I promise, brother.<<
Rurian nodded and his lips started to form a smile, his eyelids seemed to become heavier and the body in Rongar's arms slowly flagged. Carefully he laid him down, and with tears in his eyes he stood up to get a blanket to cover the dead body. They had grown up together, and spent a lot of time in the wilderness playing, hunting, gathering firewood, or later doing combat training. A piece of his heart felt like it was torn out, when he laid the blanket upon his closest brother.
*>>R'yi tokka Keves o sa Kris Anivar, brogga.<<, he whispered, before he went to the window and stared into the darkness.
The village was yet quiet. Of course so, since it was night and most people were sleeping. Tomorrow would have been the great festivities, every house had been decorated days ago, and in the middle of the village square there stood a large, sprawling green tree, decorated with countless multicolored ribbons. Those ribbons were meant to be plaited in a dance performed by the maids of the tribe who were of age. With this dance they symbolically illustrated their converting from girl to woman.
The festivities were held every year to celebrate fecundity, the start of something new and the regeneration of something old. Other races probably wouldn't associate
Hammerwielders with such a rite, since they are known to be destructive rather than constructive, which often leads to the asssumption that they do not appreciate continuity. A wrong assumption. Two days and two nights the whole village would have celebrated, with a giant feast and lots of ale, naturally. But this year, it wouldn't be happening.
Time was running out.
Live by the Hammer and the BladeRongar breathed a deep sigh and took his axes from the wall.
*May you find salvation in the circle of our forefathers, brother - Hammerwielder language
[The start of a longer story; hope you find it not too shabby. Comments are welcome, but please bear with me as I am not used to storywriting in english.
Also note that some time might pass between one post and the next.]
