From Library of the Randirim

~~by Elessar of Coffee Crew

((Originally posted here!))

For the first time ever, he was of like mind with the Orcs. He should not have survived the night.

The Orcs were finding Slamfist surprisingly hard to kill. The last wave had just about overwhelmed them. He and Keegan, his soldier ally, had fought desperately in the last attack. But now, Keegan was wounded, probably dying, maybe dead already, knowing the poisons those damned Orcs used on their blades.

Another wave would end it. Slamfist ran his stone against the blade of his axe, sharpening the edge, honing the steel, removing the black ichor stains. The dwarven steel gleamed. His smile was grim, but at least he could smile at that. The steel had stayed true. “Well done my pet” he whispered.

The night was dark, deepest black, the black of nightmare. Slamfist hoped again for the lightening of dawn, but the only thing that broke through the night was the scream of the Orcs. They were massing for another attack. The bash of spear on shield shook the night, the fury of the enemy ramped up. The furor of the Orcs was unabated, and they wanted blood. Dwarven blood. And danishes. Or a blintz. Yes, blood and blintzes. Their howls raked the sky like claws shaking the coffeehouse to the stone foundation.

The attack came. Under the banner of the white hand came the demon Orcs. Spawn from the depths of hell. Slamfist flexed and hefted his axe. “Worry not” he placed a hand on the shoulder of Keegan, “I’ve got this.” Keegan stirred and moaned in barely a whisper. His strength was gone, and he feared for the dwarf but was beyond helping, as he was seemingly beyond help himself.

A bolt thudded into the timber of the coffeehouse, flaming pitch dripping to the stone floor. “Not on my watch” Slamfist grabbed the flaming arrow and pulled it away from the wooden structure. “That was uncalled for. Drykkr Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!” The dwarven cry came from deep within, unbidden, but a natural response to the attack on the coffee house. “The Drinks of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are Among you!”

He turned and slammed the still flaming arrow into the first Orc, returning it to it’s owner as his axe swung in a truncated arc stopping the next two Orcs as they came up behind the archer. The entry to the coffee house worked to aid the defense, only two or three could enter the path at one time, and Slamfist hewed them down as they came through.

“HAAARRR!! 19!” he yelled as another head was removed from shoulders, but as his fury ebbed, he knew he was tiring. The night had been too long, and the Orcs were too many. This was the end. The darkness overwhelmed all, and as Slamfist swung one last time, his axe stuck, embedded in bone and steel… He struggled to pull free, but it was too late. This skirmish at the coffeehouse was about to end.

“The coffeehouse has never fallen. Yet our defenses are all but swept away.” He pulled his battle horn, and blew! The resounding blast echoed against timber and stone, steel and mithril, blood and bone. But still the Orcs came on. Slamfist grabbed Keegan’s shield and held it against the swords and hatchets that tore and hacked at them.

Whence came an answering horn! “The Chinchillas! The Chinchillas!” The cry went up around the coffeehouse! “Behold the Chinchillas! They ride to war!” The horn sounded again and the light of the dawn broke the night, shattering the darkness. The Orcs stumbled in terror and confusion! The steel of the chinchillas pierced their ankles and they fell on each other, reeling and afraid, mad with ankle injuries (that are really quite painful!) and they screamed and fled driven like leaves before an unstoppable wind.

The dawn had come. The skirmish at the coffeehouse was over. The chinchillas had prevailed.