"Raise your shields! Hold your ground! The enemy is about to emerge from the darkness! Watch every shadow!" Officers ran through the ranks, shouting commands.
"Children! Hold the line! Split their skulls with your axes! No one can stop us from returning home! Heirs of Durin, for Khazad-dûm! Fight! Fight!"
Balin, his beard streaked with white, donned the heavy armor of the dwarves. His twin-bladed axe gleamed coldly in the firelight. At this moment, the future King of Moria walked at the front of the formation, axe in hand, shield at the ready.
"Clang!" The sharp Dragon-Slaying Sword was drawn from its sheath as Rynar took a deep breath, lifting Elrial and striding toward the shield wall formed by the Zaltarion Royal Guards.
"People of Zaltarion! For our homeland! For our allies! For our future! Tear them apart! No force can stop the resurgence of the Empire! Any enemy that stands in the way of Zaltarion's army shall be trampled into dust! Follow the dragon banner and crush them!" Rynar's blood boiled with battle fervor, and he had barely taken two steps forward before Caslow grabbed him and dragged him back.
"Let me go! The King of Zaltarion will fight alongside his people!" Rynar was clearly too fired up to think straight.
"Calm yourself, Your Highness! If you do not want Zaltarion to lose its last king, I strongly advise you to stay behind! Besides, your injuries do not permit you to engage in reckless combat!" Caslow furiously dragged Rynar back toward the command tent, yelling as he did.
"Loyal Royal Guards of Zaltarion! Form a squad of ten! Protect the King! Remember, His Highness's safety is above all else! Guard him with your lives! And keep an eye on him—I do not want to see him on the battlefield!" After tossing Rynar behind the tent, Caslow barked orders at the soldiers forming up in the front ranks.
Immediately, ten fully armed royal guards—like human war machines—formed a tight perimeter around the tent, sealing Rynar in an impenetrable defensive formation. Unless a large enemy force attacked, no stray foe would break through their line.
"Thank the heavens, I was wondering how to convince His Highness to stay back. But you, my friend, are ruthless! Aren't you afraid he'll hold a grudge later?" Omsk said admiringly. Dragging the king away like a sack of grain—Caslow was the boldest man he had ever seen.
"No matter, he will forgive me. Right now, we just need to bring him victory!" Caslow calmly donned his helmet and lowered the visor. As one of Rynar's earliest followers, he knew that his king was somewhat out of sync with this era—especially in his approach to leadership. Unlike other rulers, Rynar lacked the aloofness that separated kings from their subjects.
"Then let's win this battle for His Highness!" Omsk nodded in agreement.
"Protect yourselves! I don't want to see any of you trading your lives with these damn blackskins! That is also His Highness's order! Your lives are far more valuable than theirs!" Caslow commanded, knowing how much Rynar valued the lives of his soldiers.
…
"Covering fire! Damn it! Fall back to camp! Let the tin cans handle them!" Rangers shouted to each other.
"Firelight! The camp is just ahead! Keep pushing, brothers! His Highness is waiting! Don't fall behind! Stay together!" The captains of the Lordaeron Rangers bellowed with hoarse voices.
"Oh! Durin's beard! Look! Look! That's a lot of enemies!" Balin gripped the haft of his axe tightly.
"They're behind us! Watch out—their javelins are deadly accurate!" Suddenly, figures burst through the forest. The dwarves, axes raised, were shocked to see that the ones tumbling out were not orcs, but half-elves! Several Lordaeron Rangers, dragging their wounded comrades, rushed past the dwarves through the gaps in their formation.
"Hey! Friends! What's the situation in there?" Balin turned to the bloodied rangers.
"Too many enemies. We couldn't see how many. We tried to hold them off, but… you can see the result." A ranger captain gestured to his wounded men. Though none had fallen, many bore javelin wounds. Only their elven blood and agility had saved them—had they been the heavily armored rangers of Zaltarion, the casualties would have been far worse.
"You've done well. Leave the rest to us!" Balin patted his heavy chestplate. The polished silver armor gleamed with a metallic luster in the night.
"To battle! Heirs of Durin! Take up our honor! We reclaimed the Lonely Mountain! We crushed Azog! Now we return to our homeland! And these vermin dare stand in our way! Tell me, lads, do you accept this?!" Balin rallied his warriors one last time before the fight.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!" The rhythmic pounding of axe hafts against shields resounded through the air. Even the Zaltarion soldiers turned their heads in awe.
"This might be better than I expected… This dwarven force has an iron will. As expected of Durin's heirs—the Longbeards." Caslow listened to the sound of axes striking shields and sighed.
"This battle will be easier than I thought! These dwarves are just as you said—unyielding warriors. It seems we won't have to worry about them. I'll take command at the rear!" Omsk nodded. Having joined later, he had missed the bloody battle at the Lonely Mountain during Zaltarion's restoration, but he had heard stories of how this dwarven clan fought fearlessly to the death. Now, he saw those tales were true.
"Whoosh!" The unmistakable sound of javelins slicing through the air came from the darkness.
"Defend!" Balin's eyes widened as he roared.
Before his words even faded, the shields of the dwarves glowed a faint crimson—this was the Longbeard clan's unique skill: Durin's Iron Wall!
(Upon activation, consumes a portion of battle energy to increase resistance, endurance, defense, and strength by 50% until battle energy is depleted!)
As a long-lived race, dwarves had ample time to train and become skilled warriors. Although Thorin couldn't provide Balin with elite forces, a company of 500 first- and second-tier warriors was more than enough. Now, this force would show the trolls why the dwarves had stood unshaken on Middle-earth for so many centuries!
"Clang! Clang! Clang!" Javelins rained down like a storm, but the dwarves' short stature proved an advantage—their shields, held at a 45-degree angle, covered them completely. Beneath the iron barrier, they listened to the dull thuds of javelins bouncing harmlessly off.
"Crack!" With a single chop, Balin split a wooden spear embedded in a shield and spat.
"These fools think they can stop us with this garbage? Laughable! Heirs of Durin—advance!" Balin sounded the horn of counterattack.
…
"The dwarves are engaging! Lord Balin's forces have clashed with the trolls… Stay alert!" Caslow furrowed his brow.
"Looks like the dwarves got the first strike." Omsk rested his greatsword against the ground, standing tall among the Dunwenian Heavy Swordsmen, exuding an imposing presence.
"Oin! It's Balin! He's in the fight!" Óin turned his head anxiously.
"Trust him! He has more experience than us! He's our leader! Focus on our own task! As an old warrior, he knows what he's doing!" Óin responded calmly.
…
"Guards! What's happening?!" Even within his protected space, Rynar heard the battle cries and rushed out of his tent.
"Your Highness, it's dangerous outside. I advise you to stay put. It seems Lord Balin's forces have engaged the trolls," a royal guard explained, blocking his path.
"No! I must check on our men… Soldiers, with me!" Rynar frowned.
"Apologies, Your Highness, but I cannot obey. Your safety is paramount. We have no other king, and you have no heir." The royal guards stood firm.
"…Fine, you win…" Rynar sighed, shrugging as he retreated.
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