Fall of the North RPG

[piosenniel]

Novnarwen's post

Brander had been sitting on a wooden stool for several hours now, in the middle of the bedroom, second floor of his family’s residence. Silently, he listened to the noises that filled the air. By hearing the sound of steel against steel, the cries of pain and roars of either personal victory or of horror, the blind boy managed to make images in his head of every aspect of the battle. He could almost see the soldiers struggling against hordes of Angmar, trying to manoeuvre the enemy into defeat. He could see everything so clearly, probably clearer than others who had a perfect vision; the sky was dark, choking every happy moment in the soldiers’ memory as they fought what seemed to be an endless battle. As a carpet, the heavy clouds lay floating over them, deep and threatening, suppressing every good feeling which still remained in their tired bodies. Fright and terror took command over them and forced the men to turn around to meet their worst fear; not the orcs themselves, but death. Death and defeat. They knew in their hearts that they, soldiers, were the symbol of hope during this battle; if they were defeated, there would be no hope left.

At times when he sat there, quietly by himself, feeling useless and weak, his brother, Faerim, and his father, Carthor, appeared in a long series of images, both in the ongoing battle. Did any of the cries of pain and despair belong to them? He wondered. Brander had never cared much for his father. He neither loved nor hated him. Indifference, one could call it. Now however, realising that death was so close, he felt badly about his feelings towards the man who had bred and fed him. Was he not grateful for what his father, and mother, had given him? To some extent he was, Brander admitted. The problem was not what Carthor had given him, it was what he hadn’t, which, in Brander’s eyes, were far more important than other things. His father had never given him what most fathers gave their sons, such as confidence, trust and responsibility. Carthor had never been proud of him either, partly because Brander had never really achieved anything significant, which was most due to his blindness, but Carthor had never given him the chance to do anything either. Brander tried being independent, tried trusting his own abilities more than others’ willingness to help, but it was hard when he was always being looked down on, not only by his father, but also by others. Society in general seemed to hate the fact that he was blind and decided thus to ignore him. He was educated and young; it should not be hard for a man like himself to get work. In his case it was however. Brander had tried many a time, but everything had resulted in the same manner.

He closed his eyes hard, tried thinking about something else; in fact, anything else. His mind failed him. His father was out there; he was indifferent about what happened to him. He hoped on the other hand, that his brother would return home safely. He and his mother Lissi had expected Faerim for the last hour, but his brother had not come back. What ill has befallen him? Brander wondered. Even though his brother was always favoured by their father, he loved his brother. There were few who treated him the way he did, equally and with respect. If Faerim died, Brander would also.

**

Slowly, time went by. It seemed that while he’d been sitting on the stool, thinking about his brother and father and listening to the sounds from the ever growing battlefield just inside the walls of Fornost, he had forgotten how hungry and how tired he was. Now drowsiness was sneaking upon him, as a sly enemy, making his eyelids heavy. He stood up and walked silently over to the bed in the corner of the room. His brother would come; in the meantime, he could sleep.

Everything he’d heard when being awake, the sound of the wall falling and the men crying, had surely been tucked into his sub consciousness and was currently depriving him of the good sleep usually brings. The images he had so effectively and eagerly created, haunted him. The uneasiness he felt could be seen as pearls of sweat bathed his forehead and doubled quickly in number. He lay trembling with fear as the face, or the image, of Faerim appeared in front of him. His whole figure seemed to rise up in front of him, enlarging by every second passing. Suddenly, a bow, right in front of him, was spent. An arrow, as fast as the eagles fly, ran through the air, almost touching the dark clouds; its target had been carefully planned in advance. A scream of horror echoed. A man sunk to the ground, his face halfway buried in the sand. He writhed in pain, rolling back and forth, until he rolled no longer. The features in his sombre face could be determined by a weak source of light; the image of the pale face belonged to without a doubt his dear brother Faerim.

Brander opened his eyes wide. With tears in his eyes, he realised that the arrow had not been sent by his brother; the bow had been spent by an unknown enemy, hidden in the shadows. He rose quickly to his feet, greatly alarmed by this frightening, but yet realistic dream. “It cannot be true,” he muttered to himself, “It cannot.” He wanted to call for his mother, but the thought of making her worried with his dream, seemed to be the dumbest thing he could do. After all, it was only a dream. Nothing more. When thinking it through though, he realised that the man in the dream might as well have been his father. I’m blind, he thought, I don’t know how either of them look like. It’s only an image, an image of a person I don’t know. This seemed to comfort him, and with renewed hope in seeing his brother come home soon, he took his position on the stool again and waited.

[piosenniel]

Saurreg's post:

The hellish tongues of flames licked the smog-filled sky lustily and illuminated the remaining buildings and standing walls of the lower city with an eerie glow. At the base of the south gate, thousands of Arthedain soldiers charged into glorious combat like an unstoppable torrent bursting from a dam. Their shiny helms shone fiery bright with the reflected light from the fires as did their ready weapons. Onwards they charged, and a host of war cries greeted the darkened sky air, joining in the distinct blare of countless brass, the powerful treble of war drums and the earthshaking reverberation of metallic soled feet thundering across the city ground. Arthedain was on the attack again and the Rearguard was leading.

Belegorn let out a roar and lowered his sword onto the head of a hapless orc sprawled at the base of his feet. The sharp blade cleaved through the black iron helm effortlessly and split the vile creature’s head in two. Just as the first lieutenant delivered the coup de grâce to his latest victim, a huge man – an easterling mercenary of Angmar no doubt, charged towards him with both hands grasping a huge bloodstained battleaxe. Bellowing like a feral beast, the fearsome warrior attempted to smite Belegorn with a single blow from his dreadful weapon but the Dúnedain leapt agility aside in the nick of time. The great axe missed and its bit met and penetrated the ground instead, throwing its wielder off balance. Grabbing the greasy locks of his assailant with his powerful left hand, Belegorn yanked forcefully and tilted the man’s head back, exposing his neck. He then pressed the cold blade of his sword on the laryngeal prominence and pulled back swiftly along the blade’s length. A crimson spray emitted almost immediately much to Belegorn’s satisfaction.

All around him other soldiers were also in the midst of mortal combat. Archers delivered their steel tipped arrows in volleys with deadly accuracy while halberdiers and pikemen charged shoulder to shoulder and literally overran anything in their way. Tough man-at-arms of the line and skillful skirmishers finished off any enemy that escaped the said unstoppable human fence, just as what Belegorn was doing. The impetus of the sortie had thrown the enemy off balance and Belegorn was eager to exploit the opening created.

He lifted the horn of a mountain onyx and blew with his might so that all around him could hear,

“ONWARDS CHILDREN! PUSH ON! PUSH ON!”

Belegorn saw his regimental flag bearer huddled to the rear and called to him in his mighty voice,

“TO ME! AVANT BANNER!”

Belegorn and the flag bearer carrying his fluttering green pennon dashed towards the frontlines. Those who saw the advance of the banner let out a cry of triumph and followed suite. The sortie led by the rearguard continued to surge forwards irresistibly overwhelming everything in its path.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Hearing no reply, Faerim swore under his breath and leapt towards the stairs, taking them three at a time. Why was Brander not replying? And where was his mother? The orcs had not yet reached their level, but... hearing footsteps, the youth spun around, his sword out and pointing in the direction of the noise as he paused mid-step.

"Son! Faerim! What is it?" Lissi's anxious face looked up at him from beneath him. Faerim sagged visibly with relief, grinning widely at his mother. "Mother...Brander, where is he?"

"I'm here." Brander's soft, reassuring voice came from the top of the stairs as the blind boy walked down them assuredly, but with his hand gripping the banister carefully. "You aren't hurt, Faerim?"

Faerim grinned, laughing breathlessly as he took his brother's hand to stop him, and clasping it in his own. "Me, brother? The orcs were running scared away from me!"


Brander smiled, his hand coming up to Faerim's face as if he was checking him over. But there wasn't a second to spare. "Your father, Faerim - did you see him?" Lissi sounded anxious, coming to the bottom of the stairs. Her eldest son turned to face her, coming down the stairs quickly as he shook his head, pushing his long, fine blonde hair out of his face as he did so, his expression impassive, still breathless. "He was on the ground level, mother; I was above, with the archers. I...I did not see Carthor when the orcs took the ground level."

Lissi's eyes opened wide and she raised a hand to her mouth. "They have already taken over the ground level."

Faerim clenched his jaw tightly as he nodded. He was about to speak when he heard a scream, very suddenly, from far closer than he would have expected, and his head snapped to the side, his fist clenching over the sword that he still held. Vaulting the banister, the youth landed hard on the wooden floor but took no notice of the jarring in his ankles as he ran to the window and looked through the slit between the shutters down the street. There, coming down the street, were at least half a dozen of the vile orcs: he could see them so closely, barely twenty feet away, their foul laughter echoing down the street as they battered their way into the houses. The screams of women came from the houses all around, the men being away fighting, and the orcs simply raised their heads and laughed. Faerim felt sick. How had they managed to get to this level? And the orcs were like a breaking dam: where there was a trickle, there would soon be a crushing torrent.

He couldn't help gasping quietly in horror, and his mother picked up on it, coming to his side. "What? What is the matter, Faerim?"

Faerim pushed his mother gently back, trying to keep her away so that she wouldn't see the vile creatures, shaking his head silently, but Lissi pushed past him, looking through the slit. As soon as she saw the orcs, she opened her mouth, making to speak, but Faerim put his finger to her lips, shaking his head urgently. "We need to get out as quietly as possible, mother - they cannot know we are here," he murmured softly. Lissi, her eyes wide and bright, nodded mutely. "Go, please, get a cloak for yourself and Brander - I will get the horses ready." With that, he was gone, sprinting out of the door quickly as Lissi, pausing only for a second, flew up the stairs in a whirlwind of skirts to prepare herself and Brander. Faerim was glad for his mother's sensibility: he needed it now, when he was required, for once in his life, to be responsible. It was something he had otherwise managed to pretty well avoid...

The family, unlike most, had their own stables in use, at the side of the house, joining through the cellar: you went down the stairs to the cellar and up those which led to the servant's quarters, almost seperate from the main house: by going up these steps, you entered the side of the stables. Not, of course, that they were particularly vibrant: there was space for a dozen horses in the high ceilinged, spacious stalls, but what use had they for a dozen horses? There was only an old widow next door with no interest in equine activities of any sort, and Carthor had gambled away much of the family's money - they had no excess for more than was needed. But despite their slowly dwindling fortune, Carthor had always held firm to one principle: that his horse was never to be sold, and that his sons were always going to be able to hold their heads high and ride their own horses. It was an ironic twist, then, when Carthor discovered that one of his sons would never be able to ride independantly, but his wife had persuaded him to keep the horse, being herself a keen horseman. Grudgingly, Carthor had agreed, doing simply what would please his delicate young wife and avoid hassle for himself. Faerim found himself especially thankful for this as he ascended the few steps quickly and tried to push open the door. It wouldn't move: locked, and the key probably knocked out by the thuds that shook the city and the houses. Rather than wasting time on looking in the dingy, unlit room, Faerim simply took a step backwards and kicked the door open with all his might. It splintered loudly and he winced at the noise, then entered the stables and quickly ran down to where the horses were kept.

Faerim's own horse, simply named North, had been a gift out of practicality when the boy was thirteen and had outgrown the docile, delicate steed that he had learnt to ride on as a boy. Both father and son had been determined that Faerim would join the military and so, as a sort of coming of age gift, the newly broken in, powerful black stallion had been given to him: and since then, with Faerim now seventeen and North the same, both steed and master had fleshed out nicely, the latter growing into the war horse that he had always been intended to be. North whinnied quietly as his master approached and stamped uneasily hay-strewn floor, tossing his great black head, nervous of the thumps and sudden flashes that could be seen dully through the dirty, high windows of the stables. Faerim laid a hand gently on his horse's muzzle, stroking his fingers down the long white stripe that ran down the horse's nose, making a soft, soothing 'shushing sound as he unbolted the stall door, and saddled and bridled North deftly. Coming out again, the boy now faced a hard decision.

His mother's wish to keep a horse of her own would serve them well now. The creature was a delicate looking mare, tailored to fit a growing boy and to teach him to ride well on a challenging steed. Brander had never used the horse independantly though, but the mare was perfect for Lissi: dappled grey, it's intelligent eyes dark and quiet, a good natured beast. But those eyes were now wide, the whites showing brightly as the horse neighed, terrified of the noises outside. In the stall beside this was another horse: Carthor's. To look at this horse, one could never be in doubt of it's purpose as a war-horse: as scarred and ancient as it's owner, the creature was as powerful a beast as ever walked Middle Earth, it's broad shoulders and wide, muscled girth having seen Carthor through very many long winters and expeditions. The horse barely fidgeted in it's stall, instead looking at Faerim with a deep, trusting understanding of the noises outside, quiet and calm.

The Dunedain youth hesitated, looking from his mother's mare to his father's war-horse. The latter would be more practical - a war horse would be more enduring, and there was less chance of it frighting as they rode through the streets. And what if Carthor returned? He would need his horse. But to ask Lissi to leave behind her mare... Faerim shook his head and unbolted the mare's door, taking only as brief a second as was possible to try to calm the horse before he began to saddle her up. He would have to take all three.

Having saddled up and bridled all three horses, Faerim tied together the bridles of North and Carthor's horse with a long piece of twine rope: long enough and strong so they would be able to ride together, but not so strong that one horse would not be able to break free of the other if one was injured or killed. Angry at the time he had wasted in deliberating which horse to choose, Faerim moved quickly, quickly packing up some horsefeed and lashing it to North's saddle. Then he stopped once more, as he reached the door, catching sight of what sat beside it...

"Mother, Brander!" Faerim immediately regretted shouting and clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms as he looked around alertly at the street at the back of the house. No sign of any orcs yet...

The door swung open and Lissiel and Brander ran out, Lissi guiding her son with a light hand. She held in her hand a sack, which looked alarmingly heavy and unwieldy to Faerim. "Mother, we can't take-"

Lissi shushed Faerim with a wave of her hand. "We'll take these, Faerim, it isn't much. Here-" She slipped a very full quiver of arrows of her back and handed it to her son. "I thought you might need these - you haven't any left there."

Faerim blushed at his foolishly, the red vivid against his pale skin, and counted his blessings for his mother's observant and practical nature, whilst simultaneously feeling ridiculous for not organising himself. His mother had also equipped herself with one of his father's weapons: a bladed staff. But Faerim nonetheless felt it his duty to give her what he had brought as well. He took a sheathed short sword from where he had hung it on North's saddle, and handed it to her. "Here: this would be more useful when riding. What on earth have you got in that sack? And can you use that staff well?" he added, eyeing the other weapon. Lissi simply smiled knowingly and raised her eyebrows before she turned to the grey mare and mounted smoothly. Faerim raised one of his own and grinned at her, despite their desperate situation, then turned to Brander, taking the other item he had picked up from the stables. "Brander - something for you to defend yourself..."

The younger boy took the weapon, his expression confused: they both knew that a blade would hardly help him in a desperate situation. But as he felt over the object, his face brightened in understanding, and Brander smiled at Faerim hesitantly. "A staff..."

"More like a club really: it can't hurt you but you're strong enough to fairly do some damage with it." Although Brander couldn't see it, Faerim's smile was audible in his voice, and Faerim saw his brother almost glowing with pride at the responsibility. Nodding, satisfied that they were ready and without a second to lose, Faerim helped his brother up into the saddle then mounted quickly in front of him. Settling them both, Brander's hands around his waist lightly, the quiver of arrows slung awkardly across his back with the bow, and his sword in the saddle-sheath, Faerim took a deep breath. He had been working on auto-mode so far: he was just waiting to fall apart. Looking across at his mother, Faerim noted the bright grey light that seemed to shine out of her eyes, making them almost otherworldly. Seeing him looking, Lissi turned to her son and smiled nervously, her calm nature reassuring without saying a word. Faerim took another deep breath, squeezed his brother's hand lightly, and, with that, the family began their exodus, making their way along the street from which they would head to the Inner Sanctum. Surely the orcs couldn't get there as well...

[CaptainofDespair]

Hot, and acrid air swirled about the doomed city, a mixture of the fires consuming unnumbered corpses, the reek of the recently slain, and the sweat and tears of the populace. The ghastly smell was only matched by the equally sickening screams and howls of those who were left to the menace of the orcs. The sounds were distant, but for the young Mitharan, they were all too near and dear. Standing at the gateway of the final tier of the city’s defenses, he watched in horror, unable to save those who were now marked by death.

Turning to one of his guardsmen, who muttered a few choice words. “It is for the better, that they die now. At least they will not live to see the next dawn...” He struggled to force out the last words. “...which shall usher in the fall of our once mighty people.” A minute tear formed in the corner of his eye, but he brushed it away as quickly as it had formed. His guardsmen stared forward, unmoving and seemingly unfeeling, bearing countenances similar to that of statues.

Suddenly, another projectile came hurtling towards their position, but it was stopped by the sanctum’s walls, which shuddered under the shock of the hit. A few archers from the regular army had remained behind on the wall, rather than to push out to halt the progress of the orcs, with their comrades. They had been where the projectile had smashed into the ramparts, but they stood there no longer. Muffled screams had been heard, but they were soon pushed out of memory, to prepare for the new array of senses which bombarded all of those who were still alive.

With cloaks fluttering in the rancid breeze, Mitharan and his entourage strode out into the war-torn, and ruined tier which lay before them. As they went forth, the counselor offered a few bits of encouragement to his personal guard. “Prepare your hearts and minds, my brave allies. We go forth, to meet horrors unknown. But take heart, for there are many enemies to slay before we are to be stricken down, or recalled to evacuate.” His men gave a “Hurrah!”, and hardened their hearts for battle.

They quickly passed the rearguard stationed at the gateway of the inner sanctum. Giving a nod to the posted soldiers, the small party issued forth, entering the lower parts of the city, on the wings of caution. The dead were strewn everywhere, slumped against crates and buildings, and scattered throughout the streets. The smell as almost enough to unnerve the group, and drive them back into the sanctum. But, they carried on, wandering through the emptiness that had engulfed the alleys and side passageways. Soldier, orc, and civilian were all at the mercy of death, left to fend for themselves in the chaos of war. While they wandered, a muffled screaming could be heard emanating from a small home. Inside, orcs searched, and pursued the occupants, who had hoped to hide from the disfigured, hideous orcs. Though urgency dictated that he should move up to help those fighters on the main battle line, morality urged him to enter the home, and execute the orcs for their crimes.

Mitharan, flanked by his guard, burst in through the door, to find an orc holding a whimpering young girl by the hair, preparing to slit her throat. But, with innate agility, the counselor beat out the orc, hurling a small knife into its own throat, leaving it gasping for breath, as it fell to the floor in a pool of its own black blood. Mitharan, kneeling, spoke to the girl, in a whisper, after scanning her over for any pressing wounds. “Where is your mother, child?” The girl, still in shock, pointed to the back of the house. “Good girl...Now wait here with these men, while I go get your mother.” Cautiously, the young statesmen moved to the rear of the house, listening for any sounds, while two of his guards brought up the rear. Sweeping quickly into the next room, the two guards fanned out, slaying two orcs who were caught in the midst of their vicious reveling. Mitharan himself jumped a piece of broken furniture, thrusting his sword into the gut of a third orc, ending its life with a slash delivered to the frontal section of its vile skull, spilling brain matter onto the floor, as the creature’s body crashed through a rectangular table. The girl’s mother was quickly found, huddled underneath another miscellaneous piece of furniture. She had a few wounds, each oozing fresh blood, but none were life threatening, for the moment. Now, an escape was needed. He quickly gave an order to a few of his guardsmen. “Take these two back to the sanctum. Rejoin us when you have done this.” They nodded, in acknowledgment, and quickly gathered the girl and her mother, and whisked them out into the streets, back towards the only remaining safe ground in the city.

Mitharan, and his remaining handful of guards, were equally as quick in getting back out into the street. They went in great haste, for dire circumstance would befall them if they did not locate the main body of the remaining defenders within the tier. Rushing through the stricken city, they forced their way past collapsed buildings, overturned carts, and the countless bodies of the dead. At last, after following the sounds of battle, they burst out from an alley, into an empty street. “There’s no one here, milord,” muttered one the soldiers. “I can see that. I was sure they were here. From the walls I saw this spot, and I saw the carnage of battle...” The counselor sulked, demoralized. Then, the earth shuddered, and began to quake. The sounds of feet, ironshod feet, those of orcs, came rumbling forth, and encircled them. “We’re trapped, milord.” The soldier caught the glare of his lord. “Yes, I can see that quite well.”

Grunting and hissing, the orcs issued forth from the shadows, as if they were a great, impenetrable wall, one which no man could enter. The ravenous lust for battle, bloodshed, and death, drove these orcs to the point where any number of foes, no matter how small, would be hunted down and massacred, without quarter. Ever so slowly, they pressed in, forming a wall of bodies that could only be broken by strength of arms. There were not many, but it was more than enough to outnumber Mitharan and his guard. Then, they came. In small groups they rushed out from their line, to give an attempt at slaying their foes. They were all quickly dispatched, with helms splintered, innards disemboweled, and heads cleaved clean off. The soldiers fought valiantly alongside their lord, but it was not enough. The orcs now attacked en masse, and a free for all melee ensued, tossing organization to the wind. But slowly, each man was hemmed in, cut off from his brothers, and left to fend for himself. But, without warning, a horn blew from the street leading back to the sanctum.

The few guardsmen that had been sent off to escort the woman and child, had returned, with aid. Mitharan’s father, learning of his son’s mind, gathered his own loyal guards, and went out to bring him back. This twist of events emboldened Mitharan and his entrapped guard. They now fought harder, and with allies pressing in from the outside, the orcs were in dire straits. And then, the orcs broke rank, and fled back from whence they came. But the young counselor would not let them escape so easily. He hunted down the few stragglers, and brought swift death to them, hacking off their heads, which spewed charred blood into the streets. His father however, bearing a sounder mind, grabbed his son by the shoulder, and attempted to instill some form of reason into his mind. “My son, you cannot save the city. However valiant you may be, you cannot prevail with such small numbers. Please, gather your senses, and return back to the sanctum. We are to begin preparing for evacuation.” Mitharan, seeing the reason his father preached, sighed, and turned to flee back to the well protected sanctum. Then, he pointed to a few guards. “Take the bodies of our fallen comrades. We shall not leave them to the orcs, for they derive strength from feasting on the corpses.”

[Arry]

Rôsgollo

Rôsgollo’s search for Lord Ereglin bore no fruit, save for increasing understanding that he must get to the top level if her were to survive to see his Lord and brother to safety. Gaeredhel, where are you? he called as he ran. But heat from the fires spreading from the parapet and the swell of battle as the Orcs breached the gates pressed in upon him and he could spare no time to look for an answering call. He retreated in haste to the western passageway slipping in just as the gates were closed and barred against the enemy. Breathing hard, he stood for a moment with his back against the stonework.

My brother, I am here with Lord Ereglin. He is safe. Come! Gaeredhel’s urgent call lifted a corner of the pervading shadow that cast a pall over sight and senses.

The enemy was already bearing down on the entryway to the third level as Rôsgollo climbed the steps up from the now closed gates. He paused at the top, making way as reinforcements of the city’s forces hurried to fortify their positions. Before heading to where his brother and Lord Ereglin were, Rôsgollo made his way up to the parapet that looked down on the second level. A dark river swelled into the streets below, leaving eddies of red and the sounds of screams and cut off cries as it surged against any who stood in its way. In some small places, there were brighter swords raised and the singing of arrows as they rushed in vain hope toward their targets. But the small points of light were borne under by the unrelenting current of the dark river. In vain, he looked for the Periannath, but could not find them below, nor did he see them along the parapet on this tier. With a grim face, he headed toward the hall where Lord Ereglin had been housed. From there he would make for the North Gate, intending to find his brother as he escorted Lord Ereglin to the escape way.

He paused to ask a question of one of the King’s men set as guard at the quarters where the Elves were staying. The man was just preparing to leave to join the other troops when Rôsgollo ran up. ‘They’ve all gone, the Elves have,’ the man told him. ‘They’ll be gathering in the King’s Hall with Minister Mellonar before they head to the North Gate.’ Rôsgollo thanked the man and ran on toward the Hall. An image and a thought niggled at the back of his mind as he sped on.

A thin, pale man, hunched beneath his robes . . . a vulture, waiting to feed on the dead . . . Rôsgollo narrowed his eyes at the image. . . . Any dead . . . Vultures are not picky when it comes to feeding, he thought. He must warn his brother . . . the man may bear watching . . .

[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s troops diffused through the city as ripples in water, spreading into the alleys and side-streets of lower Fornost. Trying to exterminate the scattered orcs who had broken through into the city, the Rearguard managed to overwhelm most of the second level, since few orcs had gotten near enough to the third wall to be able to stand a chance against the full Rearguard. The Angmar-hordes, however, had by now fully broken through, and were surging into the districts, setting fire to all they saw, tearing walls, rending roofs, and befouling the once-great city with their stink and blood.

Hirvegil himself stayed near the front of one of the groups spearheading forward towards the gate, down the broad central road that led from one gate to the next. Passing ruined fountains with derelict, crumbled architecture, the company cut down the few disorganized bands of goblins that stood before them as the visage of the splintered second wall grew before them. As they bounded towards it, they saw the orc-host growing with the sight of smoke and death, which rose like a massive storm cloud overhead and a surge of ash and geysers of smog from below. The orcs were clashing with the very skewed remnants of the Vanguard, and some divisions of the Midguard which had been stationed in the city. Both were decimated, and their ranks failing as the orcs pushed forward. The rearguard did the same, driving towards the fallen gates and walls as companies branched out into the city. Guards had been dispatched to fetch the Elves some time ago, and it would not be long before all of the Elven diplomats were accounted for, and the citizens of Fornost were grouped in the inner sanctum for evacuation. All was going well, even if the city was falling.

Then, a greater shadow then ever before fell upon the city and a new and terrifying sound replaced all others.

That terrible sound would haunt Hírvegil until his days’ end. It was no shriek, nor scream, nor cry, nor any sound belonging to man, but a ghastly noise that wrenched him from the world and ripped sharply and deeply into him. He felt blackness and shadow, flowing through him as if it had overwhelmed the blood in his veins and stopped up his heart. With a groan of pain and anguish, he reeled. He looked about him, and saw that his troops were likewise wrenched from themselves for a moment, and many teetered clumsily upon their legs. But, as the soldiers of Fornost quailed, those of Angmar swelled and hooted. A great shadow had passed into the city and a cloud as dark as death had obscured whatever vague light yearned to be seen in the sky. The cries of the orcs grew louder and grimmer, becoming hoots of mad victory. They knew, as Hírvegil knew, that their moment of victory had come at last. The battle for Fornost was about to end.

Then, all of a sudden, silence fell, and the orcs slid back into their respective orifices, as if they had been sucked back, berated by the forces of Fornost. The sky was not bright, but its stormy aspect was also removed by chance, and the terrible screams of the wounded ceased instantly. It seemed, but for a moment, that the road was clear. Silence fell too suddenly to replace the din.

And then the shadow fell again.

Hírvegil saw it with his own eyes, and nearly turned away, clapping his hand to his armor as his heart beat with the great speed of the winds themselves. The broad, stone-cobbled road that led from the main gate of the second wall to the inner sanctum now bore a misty fog which surged forward like a wave, a terrific wave that wiped over the streets and flowed through windows, doors, over turrets and bulwarks, and into mortal souls. Orcs streamed forth, bearing tooth, claw, and jagged weapon at the Rearguard, which could not help but pull away as the herald of darkness and his host fell upon them.

The Captain of Despair himself had arrived; the Witch-King of Angmar.

Borne on a pale-black steed, deathly and ghastly in gait, was a black-robed figure with a great, icy sliver of a sword raised up in his hand. As the Wraith’s steed bore him onward, his tattered mantle fluttered behind like terrible wings and the void enveloped in his ominous hood spouted terrible sounds, the cries of men in anguish. The Chieftain of the Nazgûl galloped behind a line of orcs, and then behind a second, and the orcs soon overtook him and overwhelmed the battlefield, but the Witch-King did not fall into the background. His shadowy visage held a terrible grimness that was imprinted in every mind, and the morale of Arnor was broken. Anarchy had come, and route was not far behind. Above and around the figure, the visage of shrouds and moving shades darted, rocketing themselves through the air and howling. Hirvegil could not determine identity of these things that carried a shroud over the field, though, in his state of fear, he could only guess that they were spirits of some sort; the entourage of the Witch-King. His mad mind conjured the thought of more wraiths and wights come to consume him, but his logical half reduced them to illusions, and he hardened his heart against them – His men, though, were not. Within seconds, morale deteriorated to the breaking point and shattered.

“The Captain of Despair is upon us!” voiced a lieutenant of the rearguard, speaking a name for the Witch-King used in Gondor and Arnor. That officer turned on his metal-clad heel and fled through the ranks of his troops. They turned, horror blazoned on their faces, and scattered away from the orcs. Other units broke and fled, routing like so many frightened birds sprinting in whatever direction seemed appropriate.

The rearguard crashed into the ranks of orcs and overflowed on both sides. Hírvegil saw orcs leaping above him and men being thrown about. Two soldiers were crushed into the earthen street beside him, and the heavily but crudely armored uruk footmen crowded around, brandishing an assortment of blades staves, clubs, maces, swords, knives, and axes. Hírvegil, setting his petty fears aside as best as he could, held his ground. Hammering his ironclad feet into the ground, the Captain began to flail his sword swiftly, hefting his shield to the back so it would not hamper his movement. He risked a direct hit, but knew he could fend off the anarchic mass of weaponry coming at him with ease, as long as his strength did not give out. A broad horizontal slash sliced the head from one orc and the heart from another. He spun, but kept his head inclined, staring, eyes affixed on the same path of murderous uruks surging on every side. He saw blades piercing the air and, barely able to keep from panicking, swung his sword in a parrying arc and pulled his shield to the front. As the light of the jagged weapons, reflected by their dark sheen, blinded Hírvegil, he heard a clang and a thud, and his eyes reopened despite the pain in them.

One orcish scimitar lay on the ground and an ax lay imbedded in the wood of his shield. Hírvegil pushed forward, lashing out with his shield and pushing orcs to the ground before he speared them where they lay dazed. He saw blade points peek through his shield, filling up on the other side, until the defensive device was nearly torn to ribbons. Bashing and clubbing with the remains, Hírvegil leapt back as it was cloven for the last time, and hurled the wooden bulk forward, watching with grim satisfaction as its weight struck down and orc coming forward at another man. Gritting his teeth and sucking in breath, Hírvegil wrapped both hands around his sword in tight fists and drove the sword forward at the masses, listening as he slashed and stabbed for the sickening crunch that meant he had hit a target. At last, he felt the sting of weariness, and the many minor wounds he’d received took hold. He could feel blood dripping from the plates of armor on his arms and chest, but did not feel the wounds; his whole body was numb and any part of him that felt was burning like fire. His legs barely able to hold him, he retreated into the ranks of his men, letting his sword fall and drag along the ground. Eventually, the Captain struggled past the fray and into an area of less severe concentration and combat.

In the distance, surrounded by more men, Hírvegil saw that Belegorn had been pulled aside by one of the Captains. He managed to get nearer to Belegorn, but near enough, and was forced to yell to attract his attention and compensate for the cacophony. “Belegorn,” he cried, magnifying his voice until it was pained so that he could overcome the din, “are all the Elves accounted for?” Belegorn could barely manage to cry back, but he was able to say, audibly, “Yes, sir.” Hirvegil did not bother to sigh with relief, too busy slashing the arm off an attacker, and began to back away from the thick of the fray. “Keep fighting,” he yelled to Belegorn as he began to tear his way backward through the rearguard to get to open space, “but be prepared for retreat. We must outlast the hordes if we are to successfully evacuate the city.”

Belegorn shot a last cry to him as he left the chaos. “The Vanguard has been annihilated, Captain;” his stern voice wrung in Hírvegil’s ears, “we are the last force in combat.” This was something Hírvegil had guessed, but the knowledge presented so bluntly and truthfully was painful indeed, and he lurched as he strode back. This was the second time this day he’d been taken aback by an obvious statement. He could think of no morale-boosting words to shoot back to his lieutenant across the field, and, with a haphazard shake of his head, gave his final order for the moment. “Extract the remainder of the rearguard from the orcish ranks and get the wounded to the rear. May the winds of Manwë give you speed, and the might of Tulkas give you strength.”

His lieutenant nodded curtly, and turned, disappearing into the smoke and dust. Confused and filled with dread, Hírvegil sprinted towards the stairs to the highest level, looking up. As he did, his eyes widened in deep anguish as a single dark shadow crossed over him and above, past the walls looming above. A great projectile, like a comet, ablaze with fire, soared majestically overhead and crashed down into the last of the silver pinnacles of the Kings’ Hall.

The last tower of Fornost, before Hírvegil’s eyes, shattered and crumbled with a terrible crash. His soul retching inside him, Hírvegil forced himself to run up the stairs and onto the parapet of the inner sanctum.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Bethiril followed the Dúnedain guard to the king’s court.

The main thoroughfare to the court was choked with people trying to flee the nearly fallen city. She looked at the refugees. Some would not be parted with their riches, carrying heavily laden carts that they dragged while negotiating the crowded avenue. Others, wiser and more foresighted perhaps, carried nothing more than what would fit in a pack they could easily carry in their backs. Still, she thought, even these wise ones would not be able to outrun the black tide once it gains mastery. And even if they could flee from its reach—when first she came to the city, a layer of snow newly fallen covered it. For the next days the blizzard waxed in might, as if in league with the Orc host. Winter would take those who did not fall to the bitter steel of the Orcs. It was sad to ponder. In her youth she cherished the gloom of Winter.

The dark clouds run swift, and hide Menel’s light.
And Manwë covers all with a blanket of white.

Her guard/guide forced her back to the present situation. He said that time was of the essence, and they would now take circuitous passages to avoid the crowds. And so they walked, and she knew she would never see most of those Men again. Perhaps if she had come earlier . . .

A high-pitched cry shattered the last remnants of tranquillity in the city. All stopped in their tracks, and turned to the direction of the sound. Some fell to their knees and covered their ears, as if such an act could shield them.

She had not heard such a cry of despair and blackness since the winged Dragons first troubled Middle-earth, when last the sons of Valinor went to battle against the hosts of Morgoth in the Plains of Gasping Dust. But such potency of malice in one fell voice—if ever evil were to be music, this would be its chord of victory. Her mien remained impassive, yet in her heart fear spoke ever loud: Even were all the hosts of the Elven realms sent to the aid of Arnor, none would withstand the waxing might of this Master of the Shadow of Fear.

Nay, Bethiril gainsaid the voice. Fear ever seeks to weaken the resolve of all who lend ear to it. Her lord Elrond still puts trust in the swords of Elves and Men united, essaying to root out where the seeds of Morgoth sprouted. This seedling, however strong and deep its roots were, would fall to the same doom.

Still, as they neared the king's court, a silent tune from the past played within her . . .

Chill music that a herald piper plays
Foreseeing winter and the leafless days.
The late flowers trembling on the ruined walls
Already stoop to hear that chilling tune.