The charging army of Draggard was twenty feet away when the dwarves began their own charge to match the momentum of the oncoming beasts. The two armies came together like colliding waves. Spears found dwarf flesh; axes hewed Draggard heads. The final battle had begun.
The king and his sons cut through the beasts with a ferocity never seen before within the great mountain. Their prowess in battle was unmatched by any of the dwarves of their clan, and the very sight of the great warriors brought forth screeches of fear from any they faced. The lines of the dwarves held steady as one beast after another fell to their fury.
Still the Draggard poured through the chamber door to aid in the attack; now more than two thousand of the beasts waited to reinforce the ranks. But the dwarves fought with such ferocity that they actually began to force the attacking army back. Draggard upon the walls jumped into the midst of the dwarf army only to be lost within a sea of blades and hammers. Few of the dwarves fell, and even those who were mortally wounded did not relent.
Roakore had killed twelve already and eagerly engaged another beast. The monster lunged forward with its spear, which Roakore easily parried, and he smashed the center of his axe into the face of the beast. As it flailed back from the crushing force, Roakore advanced and cut through its shoulder, burying the blade deep into the Draggard’s chest. With a growl he dislodged his blade and cut down another. Then one of the beasts was upon his back. Claws raked across his face as teeth bit fiercely, trying to get through the armor to the tough flesh. The beast suddenly went limp as the king’s two axes found its back. Roakore threw the beast off and nodded to his father.
The king returned the gesture and with a growl engaged another beast. Roakore watched with admiration as his father masterfully whirled his twin axes, cutting down the unfortunate beast before him.
The battle raged on for more than an hour and the dwarves held their ground. Cutting down these beasts was no more tiresome than pounding rock all day, and they did not tire easily. Thousands of Draggard bodies littered the great chamber, but still they came. More than one hundred dwarves had fallen, which only intensified the rage within the dwarf army. But the Draggard numbers were far too great. Although the enraged dwarves fought with great ferocity, they had no reinforcements, and as they fell they were not replaced with fresh fighters as the Draggard were. Another hour passed and the battle began to take its toll on the weary dwarves. The Draggard came by the hundreds across the chamber, and the wall-climbers had started to become effective in their attack. The dwarves soon found themselves being attacked from all sides, and their numbers had been cut in half. The warriors fought side by side, even atop the heaps of dead bodies. Roakore claimed his one hundredth kill by chopping the head of one of the beasts clean off its shoulders. He then claimed another kill as his axe found the ribcage of another Draggard. Beside him his youngest brother was hit in the chest with a Draggard spear. He looked down at the protruding spear with a look of surprise that soon turned to rage. With a great swing his brother smashed the head of his attacker with his double-headed war hammer. Roakore watched in horror as his brother’s gaze caught his and he dropped to his knees and fell dead. Roakore stood frozen in his brother’s dead stare, oblivious to all around him.
A sudden thud to his shoulder jolted him from his trance: a spear had found him. He then realized that he was surrounded by the growling monsters. He quickly pulled the spear from his shoulder but he felt no pain, for his rage fully engulfed every aspect of his mind and body. His mind became bent on one purpose; his body became an instrument of death. He threw the spear to the floor and met an attacking Draggard with an axe to the head. A great growl escaped him, a roar so fierce and full of rage that it brought looks of terror from the surrounding beasts. Roakore cut into them where they stood. He chopped the arm off one and the leg off another; he parried spear after spear and cut down his aggressors mercilessly. One beast jumped upon his back, knocking off his helm even as he cut down another. The Draggard then bit at his head, and sharp teeth scraped his skull as he tried to throw the monster from him. One of the beasts before him lunged forward with its spear and Roakore turned. The beast upon his back shrieked and let go as the spear sank deep into its back. Roakore turned again and threw a hatchet at the spear-wielder; it sunk deep in the monster’s forehead. In came the tail of another Draggard, whipping across his stomach and cutting through the chainmail, leaving a large gash. Roakore moved in on the attacker as it reared its tail for another strike. Avoiding the pointed end Roakore grabbed the thicker middle of the tail with both hands. With one powerful motion he lifted the beast off its feet and smashed it to the floor with all his strength, and it moved no more.
No longer cornered, he found himself again in the midst of his kin. He retrieved his great axe and downed another beast, but then he heard a sound that tore at his heart and made him turn in horror. It was the pained cry of his father. Ten feet away he saw him, a spear imbedded in his back and two severed tails protruding from his chest. But the king fought on; his two axes chopped and slashed, and even as another spear found his belly he did not relent.
Roakore screamed in horror and fought his way towards his father as he fell. With his axe he plowed a path to him. “The king has fallen!” he cried, and all surrounding dwarves came to his aid, blocking off any further attack. Roakore carried his dying father to the door of the Chamber of Hiding and set him down beside it.
The king’s grey eyes met Roakore’s, and through labored gasps and bloodied teeth he spoke. “My son, yer all that remains. Yer brothers have all fallen.” He coughed, and blood spattered Roakore’s armor. The king fought back death to utter his final words. “I be damned, me son, fer I’ll not see the Mountain o’ the Gods this day. I’ve failed. The mountain be lost.”
Roakore started to protest, but his father quieted him with a raised hand. “Ye must go, me son; ye must lead the remaining fighters an’ the women an’ children to Ky’Dren. Swear to me that ye’ll avenge this day. Swear to me that ye’ll take back this mountain someday.”
Tears fell from Roakore’s eyes as he looked upon his dying father. “I will, Father, ye have me word. I’ll free ye from yer limbo, and this mountain will again be ours. I swear it.”
A smile was his father’s only response as his head fell back and his eyes closed, never to open again.
Roakore shook uncontrollably. He wanted nothing more than to rejoin the fight, to kill every last one of the damned dragon half-breeds. But he did not. He had given his father his word; he knew what he had to do. He went to the door and knocked upon it in code. “It be Roakore, son o’ the king. I command ye to open this door.”
A muffled voice came from the other side. “I’ve orders from the king not to open this door til I hear the song o’ victory! I’ll not disobey!”
Roakore slammed the door with his fists. “The king is dead! I be all that remains o’ his sons, and so ye now answer to me! I order ye now, boy, to open this door! It is the wish o’ the fallen king himself that we flee! Now!”
Roakore waited for what seemed like an eternity; the dwarves’ line of defense was weakening with every passing second. Finally the door opened a crack, and a young armored dwarf peeked out. Roakore looked at him sternly. “When the retreat be completed close this door, but not a moment sooner, or ye will answer to me. Understood?”
The young dwarf only nodded. He had caught sight of the battle raging behind Roakore. Terror filled his eyes as he looked upon the Draggard army.