The sound of gobling war drums bounded off the vaulted corridors of the dwarven citadel and into the clan hall.  It surged through the tight corridors like the frenetic heartbeat of a wild animal, pulsing with dark life.  The sounds of the gobling armies on the march were marked by their distinct drumming, frantic and arrhythmic.  It created a wave of fear and panic among any that could hear.  It was a reputation well earned.  Tales abounded of the black horde and their atrocities on the defenseless and the innocent.  To the ears of the Volkyn dwarrow, armed with axes and hammers and armored in arcane Osmiril steel, it instead created grim resolve.

Under the groan of a dozen, broad-backed dwarven warriors, the massive iron doors of the inner bulwark slowly sealed the clan hall from the outer citadel, muting the noise of the advancing invaders.  The enemy had breached the mountain.  Their extensive stonework defenses and massive Aekynnar juggernauts were now useless, but the dwarrow held firm as they always did.  Weapons were readied, oaths were upon their lips, and fire burned in the hearts.

Thousands of gobling raiders and their ilk poured through ancient Orodun, the jewel of the Volkyn.  From where they came and how they had breached the impenetrable walls of the Balkur was unknown in the chaos of battle.  All who could be saved were gathered behind the iron doors of the clan hall, known among their people as the Lithallin.  They were ready to fight to the last in the defense of their mountain home.  The eyes of the surviving dwarrow were as hard as the stone in which they lived, fixed upon the iron gates of the inner bulwark.

From an arched corridor leading to the Aflangan, the magnificent forge for which all Volkyn were known, a small party of steeled warriors entered the hall.  They had seen battle with the foe and carried wounded among them, but yet their gait was purposeful and fearless.  A chorus of praise rose from the dwarven crowd as they made their way to the middle of the room.  Their red-bearded leader climbed the short stair to the central dais to overlook the gathered.  His advisor and rune mage, Nyrath the Dweomag, joined him on the platform, remaining a respectful distance behind.  The white amulet around his neck, the legendary Menaráth, glistened with unnatural light.  Over the din of guttural orders and fearful whispers, their king’s powerful voice, rich and deep in its timbre, silenced all.

“Orodun!  Heed my words.”

The powerfully built dwarf surveyed the room in his full battle dress, armor as old and as glorious as their golden citadel.  His presence bolstered their hearts and their courage, his eyes as sharp as crystal.  It was their king, Magnir ór Angnir, the Fylkir of Orodun.

“Brothers, the old foe is among us, the ancient enemy.  They are deep within our mountain.  Their numbers are without end and they know nothing of honor or mercy.  Many of our number already lie dead.”

The reaction of the dwarrow was mixed.  There were flashes of fear and sorrow from the growing danger on the other side of the great gates and the endless roar of the black drums, but something else lurked in the swell of emotions, as well.  It was righteous anger, a blossoming courage that fueled their determination to fight, to defend every inch of their home stone.  Warriors held their axes aloft and unleashed curses against the enemy within the walls.  Magnir held his hands high to calm the room once again.

“I call upon your courage, brothers, not your wrath.  We are the Volkyn.  We are Orodun.  As much as I wish to unleash the fury of our warriors and spill gobling blood, it is a battle that we cannot win.  Instead, we will call upon the greatest defense of the Balkur.  I have raised the inner bulwark, sealing us from the rest of the citadel.  I have extinguished the fires of the Aflangan.  All is prepared.”

Gasps and worried glances flittered across the room.  The clan forge had been darkened.  It was the surest sign that the citadel had been lost.  The Fylkir did not soften his words.  It was not their way.  Dwarven speech was as blunt and forceful as their hammers.  The silence of the chamber was interrupted by a heavy crash on the opposite side of the great iron doors, resounding throughout the hall like the toll of a bell.  The goblings had arrived at the inner bulwark.  They were attacking the gates of the Lithallin with battering rams tempered with diabolical magic.  Sparks cascaded from the arcane framework holding the doors in place.  The Fylkir continued undaunted and with greater volume.

“And even with such dire words, know in your hearts we will never know defeat.  Not as long as I possess the Horn of Sounding.  Let the mountain come down, destroying our enemies, while we sleep, while we dream.  Other dwarrow will come and they will free us from the stone long after our enemies’ bones crumble into dust.  I swear to you the forge fires of Orodun will burn brightly once again!”

He held aloft the signal horn held upon his neck by a golden chain, deeply carved in ancient runes, to the cheers of his armored soldiers.  The pounding upon the iron gates increased in its intensity and stone debris fell from their framework.  Behind Magnir, the Dweomag nodded in agreement upon his words, affirming for all to see the lattice of magical runes that extended to every room, corridor, and chamber, etched in the stone, prepared and ready for the Sounding.

“Waste no time then.  Make your way to the Meithmar, all of you.”  Magnir pointed to the corridor leading to their hall of treasures with a mailed fist.  “It is at the center of our mountain with wards and protections that no gobling pick could master.  Mothers and kindir, my fearless warriors, elders, it is there that you will wait for the mountain’s call.  Remember the Volkyn are wise and they will hearken to the whispers of our great horde, to the call of our resting spirits.  And when their hammers and picks free our gold and jewels, you will be awakened and Orodun shall return to life.  Do not fear the sleep of stone.  Know that you are safe with your families in the protective womb of our eternal mountain.”

A procession of dwarven women and their younglings set forth towards the arch of the Meithmar with sad eyes lingering upon the storied walls and murals of the ancient Lithallin.  All relics and artifacts that could be carried were gathered from stone friezes and pedestals to be preserved in the treasure hall.  The warriors gathered around their king with heavy hearts and vows of courage, pleading to stand with their Fylkir.  But he refused their offers.

“No, my brothers.  Go with the clan.  Allay their fears, stand by them.  Protect them in this life and the next.  I will stand in the Lithallin to face the enemy.  You will need time to seal the Meithmar, time that I will guarantee.  Fear not for your Fylkir.  In this Osmiril armor, the holy armor of Aignir Áthr our founder, their blades cannot cut my flesh.  And when it is time, I shall sound the horn and bring down the mountain.”

“As your Dweomag, my Fylkir, I request only to stand by you in battle,” Nyrath beseeched him on behalf of all that listened.  “If ever you have valued my words of counsel, then heed my wish.  My king you may be, but to leave you now is a command my ears will not hear and my legs can not obey.  I stand by you as your shield-brother while your axe cleaves through gobling flesh.  And as sure as my word, the full might of my Dweomercræft will blast them into embers.  My rune words will burn the goblings by the score before the horn is ever sounded.”

“Your courage is well received, Nyrath.  You are a true friend not only to me, but also to my father.  Join me then.”

“The honor is mine.”  The arcane Dweomag responded from behind a heavy, black beard, his white, unnatural eyes alight with mystery.

“Friends, I envy not those goblings when they finally defeat our iron doors only to find the might of the Fylkir of Orodun and the magic of his Dweomag.  So my friends, it is done.  Go to the Meithmar and stand firm.  Let us deal with this rabble.”

A line of seasoned soldiers, trusted friends and comrades of many years, each said their farewells to their Fylkir and the Dweomag.  Few words were shared between the taciturn warriors other than promises made for the next life and boasts for the battle waiting for their king.  Instead, their affection and concern were expressed with eyes brimming with admiration or simply a respectful nod.  It was the way of the warrior.  Their years of duty and service spoke far more than any words could have at that moment.

Waiting at the end of the column of well wishers was a final dwarf, Areith.  Magnir knew him as his brother, adopted by his father from another citadel long ago.  He had once served as Magnir’s war marshal, the Hilmir of Orodun, but his volatile temper proved poorly suited to the role and Magnir had been forced to strip him of the honor.  Unlike the rest of Orodun who were Volkyn dwarrow, Areith was Dreng blood, the berserkers.  While it made Areith one of the most fearsome warriors in the clan, his mood was a poor fit for the role of War Master.  Their relationship had soured since the passing of Angnir, their father, and the dismissal had only made it worse.

They exchanged a long stare before finally speaking.  The Volkyn king paused to share several private words in a low whisper with his adopted brother.  Their exchange was lost to the rest of the room under the pounding fray on the other side of the gates.  With a silent nod, the heavily tattooed Dreng quickly followed the last of the warriors out of the clan hall.  And with that the final line of dwarrow disappeared in the sacred archway, which was quickly sealed by a sliding stone portal.  Magnir and Nyrath were left alone in the massive Lithallin as the strikes upon the iron gates grew in power and ferocity.

The walls were strong and the massive doors forged in dwarven steel, but they would not hold forever.  The pair of them would halt the advance long enough for the dwarrow to reach the Meithmar and activate the final defenses within the hall of treasures.  When the goblings filled the room and there was no longer any advantage in battle, Magnir would sound the horn, activating the magical runes that marked every room in the citadel.  All of Orodun would collapse under the rock of the mountain above.  Their own survival was not guaranteed before the sheer numbers of the goblings, but the rest of the clan would survive.

“Let us fight with our backs to the arch of Aflangan, old friend.  If some manage to slip by us for sheer numbers it will lead them into halls far away from the Meithmar.”

Magnir dropped to a single knee with his eyes closed, lowering his head.  He rested his shield on the stone floor and pulled his axe to his chest.  The king knelt in silent prayer even as the gobling horde struck their finishing blows on the inner bulwark of the dwarven citadel.  The iron gate fell into the clan chamber with a thunderous crash followed quickly by a horde of ravenous goblings in twisted black armor and fanged weapons surging around the smoking bore of their battering ram.  In their war lust, they feared nothing, moving as a single swarm without thought or hesitation.

The Fylkir rose to his feet and joined the battle cry of the horde with his axe held high.  The first wave of spears and arrows scattered across his armor and shield harmlessly.  The gobling war drums returned and the horde pushed forward in a dark tide.  War banners marked with demonic symbols and bearing the heads of Orodun’s fallen crowded past the fallen gates as the black horde arrived.  Their yellow eyes were rabid with fury, mindlessly throwing themselves towards their doom.

“Come, Nyrath, let us slick our weapons with their blood!”