Galen yanked himself free of Rannek's grasp. He stared at the man a while longer, then turned around and started shouting orders to those around him. He was cut short, though, almost immediately, for somewhere among the lines of refugees, a man shouted, "The Axe! The Axe of Mirabar is come!"
"All praise Mirabar!" another shouted, and the cheer was taken up across the gathering.
Rannek and Galen Firth charged through the throng, crossing the crowd to get a view of the source of the commotion.
Dwarves, dozens and dozens of dwarves, marched toward them, many of them bearing the black axe of Mirabar on their shields. They moved in tight and disciplined formation, their ranks holding steady as they crossed the broken ground in their determined advance.
"Not of Mirabar," one scout explained to Galen, huffing and puffing with every word, for he had run all the way back to precede the newcomers. "More of Clan Battlehammer, they claim to be."
"They wear the emblem of Mirabar's famed Axe," said Galen.
"And so they once were," the scout explained. He stopped and stepped aside, watching with the others as the dwarves closed.
A pair of battle-worn dwarves approached, one with a thick black beard and the other ancient and one of the ugliest dwarves either man had ever seen. He was shorter and wider than his companion, with half his black beard torn away and one eye missing. His ruddy, weathered face had seen the birth and death of centuries, the humans easily surmised. The pair approached Galen's position, guided by yet another of the scouts the Nesmians had sent forth. They walked up before the man and the younger dwarf dropped the head of his heavy warhammer on the stone before him, then leaned on it heavily.
"Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker of Clan Battlehammer at yer service," he said. "And me friend Shingles."
"You wear the symbol of Mirabar, good Torgar," said Galen. "And glad we are to have your service."
"We were of Mirabar," Shingles offered. "We left to serve a king of more generous heart. And so ye see the end of that, for here we are, to support ye and support General Dagna, who came out here with ye."
Several of the nearby humans looked to each other with concern, expressions that were not lost on the dwarves.
"I will tell you of Dagna's fall when the time permits a tale that would do him justice," Galen Firth said, straightening his shoulders. "For now, our enemies close fast from behind. Trolls - many trolls."
Most of the dwarves mumbled to each other about "Dagna's fall," but Torgar and Shingles kept their expressions stoic.
"Then let's get to the tunnels," Torgar decided. "Me and me boys'll do better against the gangly brutes when they're bending low so as not to bump their ugly heads on the ceiling."
"We fight them there and push them back," Galen agreed. "Perhaps we can break them and gain a path through their lines."
"Through?" asked Torgar. "Mithral Hall's at the other end of them tunnels, and that's where we're for."
"We have word that Silverymoon will soon join in the fight," Galen explained, and no one around him dared point out that he was stretching the truth quite a bit. "Now is the day of our victory, when Nesme will be restored and the region secured!"
The dwarves both looked at him curiously for a moment, then looked to each other and just shrugged.
"Not to matter," Shingles said to Torgar. "Either choice we're to make, we're to make it from the tunnels."
"So to the tunnels we go," the other dwarf agreed.
* * * * *
"Side run's open!" came a relayed shout along the dwarven line.
"Torch 'em!" Shingles cried.
Twenty dwarves from the second rank rushed forward, flaming torches in hand, and as one they threw the fiery brands over Shingles and the first line of fighters, who were engaged heavily with the leading lines of troll pursuit.
They had run down a long tunnel that spread into a wider chamber, and had made their stand at the funnel-like opening, allowing a score of dwarves to stand abreast, where only a few trolls could come through to battle them. The torchbearers aimed their flaming missiles at the narrower tunnel entrance, where several pieces of seasoned kindling, soaked with lamp oil, had been strategically placed.
The fires roared to life.
Trolls weren't afraid of much, but fire, which defeated their incredible regenerative powers, ranked foremost among that short list.
The torches loosened the pursuit considerably, and Shingles