in terms of temporary advances and retreats? They had held, all three fights, because they had washed the leading trolls with a barrage of fiery logs. Looking back at their supply of kindling, Torgar hoped they had enough fuel to hold a fourth time. Victory? They were surrounded, with only the tunnels offering them any chance of retreat. They couldn't get any more fuel for their fires, and couldn't hope to break out through the ranks and ranks of powerful trolls.
"They're grabbing at every reason to scream and punch their fists in the air," Shingles McRuff remarked, coming up to stand beside his friend. "Can't say I blame 'em, but I'm not seeing how many victory punches we got left."
"Without the fires, we can no hold," Torgar agreed quietly, so that only Shingles could hear.
"A stubborn bunch o' trolls we got here," the old dwarf added. "They're taking their time. They know we got nowhere to run except the holes."
"Any scouts come back dragging logs?" Torgar asked, for he had sent several runners out along side tunnels, hoping to find an out of the way exit in an area not patrolled by their enemies, in the hope that they might be able to sneak in some more wood.
"Most're back, but none with any word that we've got trees to drag through. We got what we got now, and nothing more."
"We'll hold them as long as we can," Torgar said, "but if we don't break them in the next fight it'll be our last battle out here in the open."
"The boys're already practicing their retreat formations," Shingles assured him.
Torgar looked across his defensive line, to their partners in the struggle. He watched Galen Firth rousing his men once more, the tall man's seemingly endless supply of energy flowing out in one prompting cheer after another.
"I'm not thinking our boys to be the trouble," Torgar said.
"That Galen's no less stubborn than the trolls," Shingles agreed. "Might be a bit harder in convincing."
"So Dagna learned."
The two watched Galen's antics a bit longer, then Torgar added, "When we get the last line o' fires out at the trolls, and they're not breaking, then we're breaking ourselves, back into the tunnels. Galen and his boys can come if they want, or they can stay out here and get swallowed. No arguing on this. I'm not giving another o' Bruenor's war bands to Moradin to defend a human too stubborn or too stupid to see what's plain afore him. He runs with us or he stands alone."
It was a sobering order, and one that Torgar issued in a raised voice. There was no compromise to be found, all those dwarves around him understood. They would not make a gallant and futile last stand for the sake of Galen Firth and the Nesmians.
"Ye telled that all to Galen, did ye?"
"Three times," said Torgar.
"He hearing ye?"
"Dumathoin knows," Torgar answered, invoking to the dwarf god known as the Keeper of Secrets under the Mountains. "And Dumathoin ain't for telling. But don't ye misunderstand our place here in the least. We're Bruenor's southern line, and we're holding for Mithral Hall, not for Nesme. Them folks want to come, we'll get them home to the halls or die trying. Them folks choose to stay, and they're dying alone."
It couldn't be more clear than that. But neither Torgar nor Shingles believed for a moment that even such a definitive stand would ring clearly enough in the thick head of Galen Firth.
The trolls wasted little time in regrouping and coming on once more as soon as the fires from the previous battle had died away. Their eagerness only confirmed to Torgar that which he had suspected: they were not a stupid bunch. They knew they had the dwarves on the edge of defeat, and knew well that the fiery barrage could not continue indefinitely.
They charged up the hill, their long legs propelling them swiftly across the sloping ground. They kept their lines loose and scattered - an obvious attempt to present less of an opportunity for targeting fiery missiles.
"Ready yer throws!" Shingles ordered, and torches were put to brands across the dwarven line.
"Not yet," Torgar whispered to his friend. "That's what they're expecting."
"And that's all we're giving."
But Torgar shook his head. "Not this time," he said. "Not yet."
The trolls closed ground. Down at the human end of the defensive line, fiery brands went flying out.
But Torgar held his missiles. The trolls closed.
"Running wedge!" Torgar shouted, surprising all those around him, even Shingles, who