Fall of the North RPG

[alaklondewen]

Nilpaurion Felagund's post

While her body laid motionless on the frigid ground, Bethiril’s mind was in a place of violent turmoil.

Barely a month ago, the decision would have been easy. Erenor and Angóre meant nothing to her, and she would have betrayed them, despite their kinship, to fulfil what she had hoped to do. But now, despite the feebleness of the bond between them, the act of treachery needed she needed to do could not now be done without a great struggle.

She did not want any of them to be freed by force. She wanted this crisis resolved peacefully. Surely, the Orc chief’s plan made sense—with a land to call their own, the Glamhoth would, perhaps, no longer need to take up arms. Then the Firimar, seeing that the Orcs are no longer a threat, would follow suit. A lasting peace—all she had to do was make sure that none of them escaped. All she had to do was bring to their captors knowledge of Erenor’s concealed weapon. All she had to do was warn the Orcs of a plan to assault their camp.

But her heart, which she had kept under control for so long, now rebelled against her mind. Bethiril had begun to love her fellow emissary, the love of an older, wiser sister for a younger sibling with wisdom of her own, but who too often moved impetuously. She had sometimes thought of trying to win Erenor over to her cause, yet realised that in stifling the free spirit within, she would destroy her.

And in betraying your friend, you would destroy yourself.

She was roused from her thoughts by Ereglin, who wanted to know whether she was fine or not. There must be other ways of fulfilling my mission, she said to herself, as she set all thoughts of treachery aside.

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alaklondewen's post

The flickering of a nearby fire seared Ereglin’s opening eyes, worsening his already excruciatingly aching head. A groan slipped from his dry, rasping throat as his hands instinctively pressed his temples, trying to relieve the throbbing pain that clouded his mind. After a moment, the elf attempted to open his eyes again, but he only managed to squint at his surroundings. He took in a deep breath of the chill wind that swirled around him and lifted his hair from his shoulders. As he let the breath go, an overwhelming nausea surged through his body and he retched into the grass beside him. Once his body purged whatever was left of the poison the foul creatures had fed him, his mind became clearer and he was able to take in the components of his environment.

Berethil lay crumpled nearby in a fitful unconsciousness. Behind the Counselor a handful of orcs bickered in their abrasive tones. The elf assumed that these were their guards as none were closer, and the other orcs, beyond their fire, were paying no attention to the captives. Ereglin slowly turned his eyes around to the other emissary, Erenor. The lady did not appear to suffer the illness he felt, but with her eyes closed, she displayed peace and control.

Ereglin laid his head back against the cold ground again as tried to contact his young guard. Rôsgollo… The lord let his thought carry in the wind hoping he crossed the mind of one of his guards. He called again after several moments of silence and was greeted this time by the hopeful voice of his guard’s thought. Lord Ereglin! How do you fare?

I am well enough…weak from poison, but I will survive. Ereglin opened his eyes and studied the stars overhead. It seems I am several miles west and north since I was last awake.

Yes, my lord. We have tracked the orcs’ progress and are just outside the camp now. Rôsgollo answered quickly.

That is good, my friend. Ereglin paused as the throbbing in his head returned and he grimaced with pain. After several breaths, the aching began to lessen again, and the Counselor spoke again with his guard. How many soldiers strong are you?

Several moments passed before the young guard answered the question. We are four strong, my lord…my brother and I along with the Elven guard, Angóre, and a Dúnedan youth have come for you.

And what of the Dúnedain army?

[Arry]

The Dunedain . . . Rôsgollo’s thoughts were hesitant at Lord Ereglin’s question. He sought a way to frame his answer in a better light.

Come, Rôsgollo. I am no child to need your words couched in softer phrasings. Speak plainly. They did not come for us. Ereglin’s piercing statement unleashed a flood of words . . . the hesitancy of the Captain from the first . . . his excuses . . .

But we have come, my lord. Along with Angóre and a young Dunedan soldier who offered his aid. We three must serve, and it must be enough with your aid and what information Lady Erenor has given us. Rôsgollo regretted his lapse as soon as he had thought it. Lord Ereglin picked up on the number three, saying he thought there were mention of four.

And so there are . . . said another voice, breaking in on the conversation. Gaeredhel came softly up on foot behind his brother. I stayed behind for a moment to see that no Orc followed after us as we approached their camp. There were none. Nor did I see any sign of Dunedain troops approaching. Gaeredhel smiled grimly at his brother. Though, I left signs of our way that they might read should they come.

Rôsgollo’s eyes played over his brother’s advancing form. He seemed fit enough, though he noted he held his right arm close to his chest, and led his horse with his left. He would not be able to use his bow and his blade work would be weaker with his left arm. But then, he thought, he need only whack roughly at the Orcs; they were not known for their skillful moves, only their brute strength.

A hurried conference was held between the three Elves, and Lady Erenor contacted. She was, it seemed, less drowsy from the Orc’s potion. It was her that had first shown the outlay of the camp, bringing the would be rescuers near to where the prisoners were held. And she was the only one with a weapon still available to her. What of Bethiril? And the woman and child? Rôsgollo asked.

Bethiril had feigned drowsiness as had the other two Elven prisoners. She was as awake as either of them. The woman and child had not been drugged at all. There had been no need. The Orcs had made it plain they would kill the child should the woman give any trouble. To her they had given the task of ministering to any needs the Elves had. The child was kept close by her.

Let us speak with Angóre and Faerim; they are the ones closest to you at the moment. We will devise some diversion and then let you know of it. Can you ready yourselves? Near the back of your tent, I think. Wait for our instruction. Rôsgollo motioned for Gaeredhel to come hold the horses, saying he should be ready to ride quickly with them in tow when he was called. He was going forward to find their other two companions and give them word of what he had learned. Once a plan was in place he would let everyone know of it . . .

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In the end, the three decided a simple diversion would be the best. Angóre was left to keep watch on the prisoners’ tent. Faerim and Rôsgollo circled around to the opposite side of the camp, staying low and out of sight as they gave the near perimeter a wide berth. Dried, fallen limbs were hastily gathered into a pile about a tall evergreen tree with low growing branches; while among the gathered limbs were stashed a great number of pitchy cones. Retreating a distance away, Rôsgollo let Angóre know what they had done and told the Elves within the tent to gather now at the back of it and await his signal. Fixing a large pitchy cone to an arrow with strips from his tunic, he lit it, and sent it flying toward the mass of gathered limbs. The piling caught fire, the flames flashing quickly from one pitchy cone to another, until the mass was ablaze.

Faerim and Rôsgollo sped quickly away from the blaze which now whooshed up behind them, catching onto the cones growing in clusters among the living branches. The flames licked hungrily upward seeking to consume the tree. The Orcs caught sight of the blaze and scrambled in disarray to stop the spread of the flames from the tree over the dried grasses toward their camp.

Now! called Rôsgollo. And Erenor cut the rough cloth of the tent, as Bethiril and Ereglin handed out the woman and the child. Gaeredhel had mounted his horse and now moved forward with the others in tow. Ereglin exited from the tent next, followed by Bethiril. Erenor stood guard, her knife in her hand. And well she did as one of the Orc guards was sent in to check in on the prisoners during the melee. She dispatched him before he could raise the alarm, then left the tent herself.

Rôsgollo and Faerim made it to where the others were gathered, now mounted on horse. It would not be long before the Orcs would suspect that this suspect blaze had something to do with their hostages. And in fact, they had barely mounted when from a short distance away, an Orc voice rang out, calling his fellows to give chase . . . the prisoners had escaped!

The Elves and Faerim rode hard away from the Orcs . . . their only thought now to reach the safety of the Dunedain encampment . . .

[Kransha]

The sight of a veiled blaze on the horizon and the singing scent of fire’s smoke was barely recognizable to Hírvegil as he wobbled uneasily on his horse, sweaty fingers clasped around an ice-like metal hilt that swung at his left flank, rapping fitfully against the battered haunches of his steed. He barely heard the ceremonious gasps and sounds of recognition that rippled through the Rearguard, but few could have. The Rearguard’s entire mass was surging, at almost break-neck speed, across snowy plains ands through icy ponds and puddles, kicking up a gargantuan cloud of white dust in its wake.

Some men who rode behind their captain wondered if they even knew where they were going. Those at the front who could see the many skewed tracks left by galumphing orc feet, subtle Elven treads, and heavy Dúnedain horseshoes steered the line chaotically in one direction and the next, trying to keep them all together. The horses rushed madly at times, with no steady orders to abide by. Soon enough, though, they were forced to slow a rein themselves in when they encountered sight of the first group of Dúnedain to be dispatched, which was slowly riding towards the distant blaze as well. When they collided, no words were exchanged, or given by Hírvegil, who continued to lead on like a drunken hero. As the confused trackers were absorbed into the quick-moving cavalry host, it was left to their comrades to explain to them what was going on. Though all was anarchy and disorganization, the columns surged on like a wave of spearing flame.

They were borne over ridges, through iced over marshlands, and every which way, no longer following tracks but simply heading onward to the fire. Belegorn was now generally in the lead, and was doing his best to keep Hírvegil himself from charging off in a more divergent direction and leading the troops astray. He wheeled about Hírvegil’s steed every few moments, pulling the mount forward and riding his swiftest so that he and his captain would not be overwhelmed by the unbridled force behind, which was having its own troubles. Hírvegil sat, quietly oblivious but caught up in the grandiose cacophony and the fueling noise of riders and the dun of battle to come. His eyes were glazed over and he looked to some oaf with armor slapped on him who’d been feebly superimposed on a horse, but his mind was working with great speed, reliving its glory days. The dreams were becoming reality, even though he had no control over his thoughts or movements in the chaos. He smiled to himself, then grimaced, then wretched, then smiled again, and laughed, and guffawed, and reeled, and did many things which had nothing to do with the thing that came before. His hands, weakly gripping the reins of his mount, swung madly from side to side. Belegorn kept shooting his hand in expertly to try and manage the horse if it became to unsteady, but Hírvegil ignored him, or didn’t notice. He was too caught up in the glory of the charge – which was quickly spiraling more and more out of control.

Hírvegil’s eyes only saw dim, multicolored blurs galloping towards him over the nearest hill as yells of “Elves!” and “Riders!” echoed behind him. “What’re those?” mumbled Hírvegil, leaning over towards Belegorn as he bounced up and down, “Orcs?” He had obviously not heard the cries, or horribly misinterpreted them. Belegorn managed to hear his faint mutterings because of the short distance between him and the captain, so he could respond. “No, Captain,” he yelled over the din into Hírvegil’s ear, jogging his senses a little, “It is the Elves! They seem to have succeeded!”

“Good,” grumbled the Captain, “kill ‘em.” He didn’t see the look of bewildered horror on his lieutenant’s whitened face. “No, sir,” cried Belegorn, “Elves.” As the riders thundered behind them, Hírvegil considered, his head bobbing like a fisherman’s baubles. “Oh, right. Well, don’t kill them.” Belegorn’s loud groan could be heard at Hírvegil’s side, but it was cut off with another sharp breath and gasp of recognition as Belegorn peered forward. “Captain,” he said very urgently after a moment, “I think the orcs are behind them!”

“Ah,” murmured the dreary Captain of the Rearguard, “Kill them then.”

Belegorn nodded curtly and maneuvered to the side, turning his head as much as possibly. As the Rearguard closed the distance between it and the Elven riders, who had seen them long before, it was more and more becoming evident that the cavalry had reached a momentum in could not brake in an instant. It was going so fast, so hard, that it could not be stopped except by some great obstacle. In order not to hit the Elves, they could only turn and amass together. At the top of his ragged lungs, Belegorn cried out. “TO THE LEFT!” his voice thundered terrifically, “RIDE LEFT!”

Slowly, the huge troop began easing left frantically. The Elven riders also pulled their horses right. Since the Elves were in a more convenient position to do so, they maneuvered their horses hard right, but still they could barely turn fast enough. The Rearguard rode on, thundering, booming onward; trying to steer, to turn, or do anything. As the distance between the horde and the few Elven steeds became mere meters, there was still a chance the Elves would be trampled by the uncontrolled cavalry. The distance closed, further and further until at last it disappeared.

The two forces missed each other by less than an arm’s length. The cavalry of the Rearguard, like a colossus, swept past the four horses, who were met with a sonic blast from the moving wave of sound and a plate of dust that fell atop them. As they at last passed the Rearguard, another force appeared – the orcs.

This time, no attempt was made to steer out of the way, even though it would’ve been much safer to stop and then attack. The grand host of a hundred, magnified by some divine imagination to look like a thousand, continued towards the orcs. Some tried to stop, and were pushed on by those behind them or sucked backward and spit out of the guard’s rear. Others spun off to one side or the other and swiveled to gain balance. The core group, though, with Hírvegil and Belegorn at its head, quickly lanced over the next lump of a hill, veering madly, towards the goblins sprinting towards them. When the orcs realized what was happening, they made every attempt to turn or get out of the way, but to no avail.

With no recourse, the two forces collided, the Rearguard overwhelming the small band of orcs who’d caused them so much trouble.

Of course, Hírvegil saw none of this, since he blacked out a moment before the collision and was hurled from his horse when it was bodily thrust against a routed orc.

[Garen LiLorian]

The rescue had gone smoothly, though Angóre still held fears about the pursuing Orcs. Though they were not mounted, and the Elves' train could easily outpace them, Orcs were notoriously unshakeable and the Dúnedain encampment lay less than a days ride away. He had no wish to bring a hundred orcs down on the civilians in that camp.

And now they were fleeing those very Orcs. Angóre held tight the mane of Carthor's stallion, feeling the very unusual weight of another person with him. His horse had been lost in the ambush and there had been no time to recover it, which had left the party one short. The ancient war-horse was the strongest of the beasts brought by Faerim and so Angóre had in front of him lady Bethiril, seemingly much the worse for wear from her captivity. Her eyes were strangely unfocused and it was all Angóre could do to keep her from sliding off to the side as the big war-horse galloped on, flying before the orcish host. In truth, the orcs were still grouping, scurrying about by the light of their burning camp like an anthill exposed to the sun. But Angóre knew better than to trust that sight. He could sense, away and to the left, a group of small fast goblins very nearly keeping pace with the horses of the Elven train and horses tire before the soldiers of the Enemy. Before him, Bethiril shifted again, and slouched heavily against Angóre's arm, causing Carthor's horse to veer left before he could respond.

It was Faerim, in this group of keen-eyed Elves, who first spotted the Dúnedain host, and he cried aloud. The darkness hid the sloppyness of the rearguard's movements, and to the eyes of the rescuers they looked proud and mighty. "We are safe! Hírvigil! Hírvigil and the Dúnedain!" The lad cried, standing in his stirrups and raising his sword, and a seemingly echoing roar came from the host of Men as the plunged forward, spears lowered.

Angóre's joy turned to shock. "They cannot see us!" He cried. "They will ride us down! Ride left, and may the Valar turn them aside!" He did not wait for a response before wheeling his horse. But the sudden movement caused Bethiril to shift again, and she would have fallen had not Angóre's arm been there. His arm buckled with the unexpected weight, pulling on the horse's mane, and Carthor's well trained stallion turned obediently back to his right as Angóre fought with the weight in his arms. It took him long seconds; seconds he could ill afford to lose, but he got the emissary upright again, groaning softly, and turned his attention back to the horse.

Carthor's stallion was a veteran and had stood his ground in many combats. He trusted implicitly the warrior he carried, and this is perhaps why he stood his ground in the face of the Dúnedain charge while around him the horses of the others fled madly to the left. It very nearly cost him all he had to give. Angóre's eyes were wide as he urged the warhorse to a dead run. The Dúnedain charge was nearly upon them, and it seemed impossible that he should make the edge of the charge before it overwhelmed him.

The last spear actually passed over his head as he cleared the line, the spearman wide-eyed and sawing frantically at the reins of his enraged beast to try to avoid this lone Elf. The stallion's tail flickered briefly in the breeze of the passing host, and then he was past; the host thundered past him towards the Orcish camp.

[Saurreg]

The ground itself trembled with awe as the multitude of heavy cavalry hooves thundered across the open plain towards the enemy, producing a colossal white plume within its wake that could be seen for miles around. Emerald green cloaks fluttered wildly in the draft, numerous mail rings clattered sharply and the immense chargers neighed and snorted in anticipation. The winds swept pass the ears of each man and intoned an air of invincibility. War cries of “Oromë!” and “For Fornost!” greeted the sky.

Onwards the mounted guardsmen charged, as each pounding hoof step brought them closer to their enemy, their quarry. As the fiery host approached the mass of terror-struck orcs, shaking lances were lowered and the cavalry galloped forward into the last lap with reckless abandonment. Faced by the terrible spectacle before them, the orcs lost their nerves, broke rank and rout. The slaughter began.

Belegorn of the Rearguard felt the hooves of his mount pound the ground, felt its power and felt the irresistible allure of the battle. There was always something special in horseback fighting, an indescribable rush that would made even the most battle weary cavalier grin with excitement. The first lieutenant had not felt this “alive” for a while, not since the chaotic retreat from the old city where his and the lives of his men stood at the edge.

The Dúnedain spotted his opponent – a large imposing goblin clad in black fur and mail, armed with a crude halberd. Pulling the reins of his charger with a loud and reassuring ho, he turned the magnificent animal towards the pike holder and galloped towards it. The speed of his approach was less than that of the initial charge, but what Belegorn intended to accomplish required more in terms of accuracy than alacrity. The rochecthel was the nonpareil weapon of the cavalry arm; scientifically engineered to provide both shock and wield-ability. With the right angle of approach, adequate momentum and a strong spear arm, it was guaranteed to penetrate anything. And right then, Belegorn was quite intent in introducing his rochecthel to the orc.

The orc caught sight of the incoming horseman and instead of fleeing; it showed remarkable courage and chose to stand its ground. With a grunt, it planted the halberd into the frozen earth and tipped the elaborate end of his weapon towards man and beast. The confrontation then turned into a deadly duel of nerves versus reflexes. Should the orc be nonplussed and quit the yoke, its life would be automatically forfeited. But should its courage prove steadfast, and then it was up to the rider to discharge his lance at the right moment and at the right spot before his horse veers to avoid the obstacle and expose its master to certain doom.

Seconds passed like hours and time slowed to an excruciating crawl as Belegorn galloped up to huge snarling goblin. In those moments his senses were heightened and he could hear the strain in the charger’s deep snorts and feel its fear and uncertainty at the enemy it was forced to face. The pounding of the hooves was painfully apparent and reverberated in his head like beats of huge drums.

Timing was everything.

Belegorn marked the exposed collarbone of the orc and urged his mount forwards…

The creature let out a ferocious roar of defiance, yellow eyes staring straight at its adversary’s…

The leave shaped tip broke through warty skin, penetrating tough flesh, sinewy tendons and dense bone before it met something more delicate and fragile. With a grunt of exertion, Belegorn twisted the lance and it snapped as it should. He allowed the steed to continue its gallop for a short distance before turning back to look; the collapsed orc was mortally wounded and hot steaming ichor spewed from the mangled shoulder where half a lance still protruded from.

Grinning with satisfaction, Belegorn disposed off the then useless lance and immediately drew his cavalry saber from its sheath. Surveying the carnage around him, he moistened his lips, placed his horn to his mouth and blew to rally his men,

“To me guardsmen! To me children!”

[Amanaduial the archer]

As Faerim rose in his saddle and held his sword high to his kinsmen, he felt a rush of exhileration course through every inch of his self as the crowd of Dunedain roared back seemingly in reply. But his grin soon began to fade as the men lowered their spears and began to charge forward.

Towards the elves.

Faerim's grin slipped from his face in horror and his eyes widened before he gathered his senses and galloped to the side of the host, going as fast as he possibly good so as not to be run down by his own allies. The weight of the elf behind him felt strangely heavy although she was not ungainly: she sat well in the saddle, moving with his own movements, obviously an excellent horsewoman, but she seemed as unfamiliar as he in this way of riding - neither were used to travelling with another with them. But the newly rescued woman had determinedly mounted up on a horse of her own and had fled in a trice with her child, a boy of about ten - thereby leaving the elves and Faerim another mount short, and so meaning that the lady Erenor had to travel with Faerim: they had to get away as swiftly as possible and it had been the quickest way, the other spare horse having been with Gaeredhel. But at least she seemed awake, much more so than the other female elf, who was slumped across Carthor's mount with Angóre - indeed, Erenor had been the most alert of all, chillingly efficient in her cutting the throat of an orc who threatened to thwart the rescue attempt. Feeling her weight against his back as she leant forward to streamline their passage, Faerim glanced back for a split second, seeing the fair, noble face staring straight forward, keen eyes fixed on their target: the edge of the Dunedain line.

The horses of his own kinsmen were dangerously close now, travelling too fast to stop, and the pair of riders still had about twenty metres to the end of the line. Leaning over North's neck, his fingers woven white into the horse's mane, he dug his heels in and urged him on desperately at a dead run to the end of the line. Come on, come on, I cannot have got this far to be run down by my own cavlary...!

With a last spurt, North charged forward and was out of the way of the Dunedain line with barely a second to spare. As they thundered past, swords held high and in full armour, Faerim realised just how close it had been, feeling almost faint with relief. But there was no time to spare now: the line of Dunedain thundered on and, Erenor or no Erenor, this rescue mission was not over yet. Drawing his sword, he turned his head and had to yell over the furious drumming of horse hooves and the sound of battle for the elf behind him to hear. "This hardly seems practical, my Lady, but it seems we shall have to fight together," he yelled, trying to sound confident.

Faerim felt rather than heard her exasperated sigh, then the glint of silver rose so dangerously close to his eyes that the hairs on the back of his neck rose. "It shall have to do," she replied grimly. Faerim inclined his head and shifted his fingers nervously on the swore hilt, but Erenor interrupted his preparation, adding, "You may like to use your bow though: it is a more practical way of fighting when there are two of us: there is less chance of you hitting me."

Deciding not to take the comment as an insult, Faerim nodded once and wordlessly sheathed his sword, but loosely, ready to pull out in a second. His bow ready to hand, the youth steeled himself for the impact of his very first battle, and pulled hard on North's reins and gave a short, fierce yell, digging in his heels. With a whinny of delight, excitement and terror that reflected Faerim's own terrifying mix of emotions, the horse reared back then set off at a gallop through the Dunedain ranks and towards the battle.

North was a nimble horse, and fast, and although he carried two riders, he was spared all the extra weight of cumbersome armour that others wore, with Faerim crouched low over his neck, his face almost touching the horse's flyaway mane. They reached the front ranks fairly quickly, jostled though they were by other riders. As Erenor raised her vicious looking curved sword - both beautiful and dangerous, probably rather like the lady herself, Faerim mused uncomfortably - Faerim tightened his grip on the saddle between his legs and took his bow from his back, ready strung, and raised it to his face. The orcs were coming straight for them, a solid wall of stolen fur, fangs, gruesomely stained weapons and glaring, half-dead yellow eyes. Fighting the urge to whimper or run away, Faerim braced himself for the impact and let fly with the first arrow. But even his good aim could only delay impact for a moment of two and when it came, it was so sudden that the youth felt like he had been flung into a brick wall.

Inexperienced in battle as his rider, North reared up, lashing out with his hooves at the dark beasts that assailed him and doing his bit. Faerim did his best to hold on and continued to fire, against all odds, into the mass of creatures, focusing only on the tip of the arrow and it's intended target, barely even aware of Erenor behind him as she swung time after time, hewing down those who came too near. Taking a second to regain himself as he almost slipped from the saddle, Faerim snatched at North's reins and urged him on once more, moving him forward through the melee - and the horse obliged, trying to run from this sharp, jagged place, an assault on every one of his sensed. Erenor almost slipped at the sudden movement and Faerim grabbed her wrist to steady her, more as a reflex than anything else. As soon as she had regained her balance on the fast moving horse, Faerim let go and turned his attentions back to his bow, firing another three arrows into the melee around him. But it was too much concentration to keep up, and his eyes and both arms were tiring quickly from this method of fighting: he knew he couldn't keep it up.

As an orc charged towards them with an awful yell, Faerim turned, startled and unable to take it down at such a close range, and it's blade almost took off his leg before Erenor's blade arced across sliced it's head from it's shoulders at such a speed that the body of the orc did not stop for a moment afterwards. North danced out of the way, equine eyes wide and fearful, and so it was the unfortunate soldier close by to Faerim who bore the brunt of the orc's weight: the man was taken unawares as the heavy body of the orc slumped across him and the spiked armour caused his horse to rear in pain. With a yell, the hapless man fell from his horse onto the muddy, churned up ground and, despite Faerim's attempt to get to him, an orc got there first, cutting the soldier's throat in passing. Faerim drew back in horror but Erenor barely paused: seizing the now redundant horse's reins, she swung across onto it's back from North's and was settled in the saddle in an instant. Giving Faerim a brief, grim nod, she raised her sword once more and continued her attack.

Faerim hesitated, marvelled at the elf's cold, business like efficiency in taking the dead man's horse, and in that precious second he very nearly lost his life as an orc attacked from behind. Faerim turned in an instant, his hand finding his sword and plunging it backwards into the orc's thick torso with lightning quick speed, but the closeness of his death standing by had jerked the young man back to his senses: sword now ready in his hand, he swung it around in a wide circle and, surrounded by his kinsmen, he attacked.

[Arry]

In the midst of battle, unwelcome death . . .

Lord Ereglin waved them on. The trio had ridden somewhat beyond the area where the Orcs were fully engaged with the Dunedain troops, and had stopped to look back on the fighting. Rôsgollo and Gaeredhel kept close to Ereglin’s mount, making sure the Elf was strong enough to maintain himself astride the horse. He assured them he was, urging them with his motions to join in the fray.

The Orcs were disorganized, frantic in their fighting. Striking out wildly against the Dunedain onslaught. For their part, the brothers mowed down a good number of the creatures that came against them. But, then, Gaeredhel grew tired; his right shoulder increasingly painful. The strokes of his blade were slower, less forceful. And several times he was almost unseated as an Orc with a lance pushed past his blade and struck against him.

Rôsgollo had been keeping parallel with his brother, and seeing him falter, he drew nearer to him, cutting through the few Orcs that crowded about him. Two Orcs with lances now harried Gaeredhel, and Rôsgollo could see, as his brother shifted in his saddle, the stain of blood enlarging on his right shoulder. Gaeredhel’s wound had opened up, and even now the blood trailed down his side beneath his shirt, a small rivulet running red down his high boot. An unfortunately aimed blow from one of the lances knocked the Elf to the ground. The two Orcs bore down on Gaeredhel, the one’s club bashing soundly against the Elf’s head with a sickening sound as the other drove his lance just above the neck line of the mail shirt, where the exposed throat lay.

Too late Rôsgollo came close enough to strike a blow against them. Already he could see the light fading from his brother’s eyes. With a cry he drove the Orcs away from his fallen sibling, slashing at them with grim determination. He drew his horse to a halt very near Gaeredhel’s now still form, dismounting quickly. He stood over him, slicing at the oncoming Orcs with a precise economy of strokes. He would hold them off, he thought, until he could secure his brother’s body from the foul creatures.

The Orcs, for their part, were attracted to one of their foe on foot. They pushed in against him in increasing numbers until the very weight of them bore him under; their clubs and blades bringing him to the same still repose as claimed his brother. Like ants over dead leaves, the Orcs swirled in their frenzy and just as quickly dispersed seeking other prey . . .