Fall of the North RPG

[Arry]

The eastern bank. There are tracks. Gaeredhel’s message was brief, the tone guarded.

‘Make haste, Faerim.’ Rôsgollo turned his horse northward, urging it along the river’s bank. ‘They have found where the Orcs left the water.’ Unconcerned any longer that they might be seen, the two riders bent over their mounts’ necks, using their heels to drive them on to a gallop. The lengthening stride of the horses brought the man and Elf very near the area where Angóre and Gaeredhel had stopped.

There is danger here! Gaeredhel’s warning was loud in his brother’s mind. Faerim and Rôsgollo were yet to clear a small cluster of trees that hid the others from them. They are waiting! came the even more urgent message.

‘Your weapon!’ cried Rôsgollo as the two elves came in view. Angóre’s horse had been hit and was running off, leaving his rider to face the approaching Orcs on foot. Gaeredhel had nocked an arrow to his bow and was firing into the running Orcs. There were nine of the creatures – two with bows, the others with blades or clubs.

Rôsgollo drew his bow and hit one of the Orcs in the shoulder. The creature screamed, dropping his bow, and pulled out his own sword. At a dead run he charged the Elf. An arrow from Gaeredhel’s bow brought down the Orc, inches from his brother’s horse.

The mass of Orcs was close enough that Rôsgollo drew his own blade and charged in among the three nearest him, bringing one of them to his knees with slicing blow. He had just turned his horse, readying himself for another pass through when a cry from Garedhel brought him up short. The lone Orc bowman had let fly a cursed missile as his Gaeredhel raised his right arm to let fall a blow from his blade. The intended Orc target was battering at Gaeredhel’s mount with his club, causing the horse to rear and strike out with his forelegs. The arrow pierced the Elf’s unprotected armpit, driving itself through his chest muscle until the chainmail shirt stopped its exit.

Rôsgollo flew to his brother’s side as Gaeredhel fell from his horse . . .

[Saurreg]

Meanwhile back at the camp

Belegorn stared at the wide openness before him, taking into view the wide expanse of snow-covered plains and the endless sky. He was lingering by the perimeter of the camp where he saw off the small detachment of guardsmen sent to support the elves and the teenager – the bold and confident one he spoke to during the journey. The veteran soldier sighed softly to himself, turned his head towards the cluster of drab grey tents behind him before turning back to continuing gazing at the natural landscape.

He had just managed to accost the troop of riders before the set off for their mission and spoke hastily to their commanding officer – a young sergeant who was recently promoted for his conduct and valor during the exodus from Fornost. The advice and command Belegorn urgently gave whilst grabbing the young man’s wrist still resounded in his mind,

Keep a sharp lookout at all times. Be prudent in your judgement, do not simply charge at the enemy when the signal is given by the boy. Be your own judge; assess the strength of the target before taking action. Remain downwind when approaching orcs and always remember to remain mounted at all times. Should the strength of the enemy be too much to bear, turn head and fly like the wind. Care not for the elves or the boy then, they are the masters of their own fates. Scatter your men in different directions, each to make his way towards Ered Luin individually. In no way must you all ride back together towards the camp.

Good luck! And may Oromë keep you safe!

As the intrepid little band thundered off into the horizon, Belegorn felt a sickening thud in his gut, the feeling one acquired when ill-fortune foreboded. He instinctively felt that the brave young sergeant and his equally youthful subordinates were heading towards their own doom. Belegron felt that they were sent to their death by their beloved captain, discarded like worthless pawns on a chessboard.

Hírvegil had bypassed the chain of command by approaching the men directly and giving them their marching orders for the mission. Belegorn had known that Hírvegil had been won over by Mitharan’s “carefree” comments and was determine to aid the elves on their foolhardy and very suspicious “rescue” mission and he was not convinced by Hírvegil’s reasoning. But to do so behind his immediate subordinate’s back was surprising. Indeed Belegorn would have been kept in the dark had not one of the militia burst into the tent when he was questioning his assembled sergeants, to tell him that a group of mounted horsemen were making their way to the perimeter of their camp.

Hírvegil had changed both in body and mood since the day they left Fornost. He was colder and more isolated than before. It would seem that the captain had fermented distrust in his first lieutenant; for what reason Belegorn knew not. Had he not been faithful in carrying out his duties? Or was it due to his undying devotion to king and country? Belegorn remembered how Hírvegil’s countenance changed when the former reminded him of their duty to the king and his orders.

And what if the day came when Belegorn was made to choose between duty to King and friendship to Hírvegil? Which path would he take?

The first lieutenant searched the dark recesses of his mind and an answer surfaced, in the form of the first three lines of the soldier’s pledge he made when he entered the regiment of the king, decades ago.

We, soldiers of the Royal Arthedain Army
Do solemnly and sincerely pledge
Our true faith and allegiance to King and Country…

Belegorn’s mind was made up as he reentered the camp. If subversion of any sorts arises, he would suppress it. Or die trying.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim drew his horse back as North reared suddenly in fear, as Rôsgollo charged forward into the melee towards his brother. The boy took in the scene in a second: Gaeredhel lay fallen to one side, Rôsgollo leaping off his horse to his side, but nearby Angóre was kneeling on the ground, is horse nowhere to be found and with a stunned expression on his face although he was already readying himself. Although he knew the elf was probably far more capable than he at handling himself, Faerim doubted the javelins that Angóre carried would be as easy to use from the ground as opposed to on horseback; he also knew that with three skittish horses in tow, he was going to be about as useful as- well, as they would expect him to be. And he knew he could prove himself to be far more than they expected.

Killing two birds with one stone, Faerim drew his sword and chopped swiftly through the rope that held the first horse to North, then at the one that held this one to the one behind it - he had no time to do more than that, and the other two bolted almost immediately. Taking the first, Carthor's stallion, by the reins, he rode over to Angóre, yelling to the elf as he came towards him. "Angóre, quick!"

The elf looked up, surprised, but caught the reins as Faerim threw them at him. Not wasting a second, the elf mounted smoothly, while Faerim rode on, bringing North around in a semi-circle towards the orcs, building himself up to the conflict as he raised his sword, his knuckles white on the stallion's reins. As he galloped towards it, the orc who had been running at Gaeredhel and Rôsgollo froze and looked across at him. Giving a makeshift battle cry, Faerim drew himself up suddenly and swept his sword around in a arc of bright steel, and such was his momentum that the orc's expression of surprise remained on it's face as it's head flew from it's shoulders. Grimacing in distaste as the black blood smattered onto his sleeves and gloves, Faerim slowed slightly as he re-adjusted his grip, then made for a second orc, hoping simply to do the same thing.

What the boy did not have the experience to know was that in a small scale battle, simply hammering out the same tactic on different foes rarely works more than once. This time his intended victim was ready and, as Faerim swept his sword down towards it's head, the creature ducked smartly, raising it's own blade to clash against the stroke that would have decapitated it. The jarring connection caused Faerim to cry out in shock and pain and his fingers uncurled as a reflex - causing his sword to fall, embedded in the ground. Flexing his fingers painfully, Faerim regained his wits as North headed straight for the woods, ducking not a second too soon as a low-flying branch threatened to tear his head from his shoulders. Gaining control of his terrified steed once more, Faerim turned him with some difficulty and, his sharp mind working quickly, realised that he needed to play the same ace card as he had in the falling city of Fornost. Praying that it would work, he unslung his bow and quiver and nocked a bow quickly. He barely had time to think before he shot, as a charging orc rushed him, it's bloody, nail-endowed club held high as it yelled fiersomely: Faerim shot with a cry of surprise and, more out of fluke than anything else, the arrow connected with the orc's shoulder. It fell back with a snarl, turning protectively over it's wounded shoulder, then resumed it's course of action with a vengeance. But this time Faerim was ready, and had time to sight at his opponent: the orc fell, a bow in it's neck, less than four feet from North.

That was the fifth orc taken care off, but four still remained, and their constant battering was like an assault on the senses as well as a physical assault. Despite all his training, North was obviously terrified by the haphazard melee in which the elves and Faerim had been so outnumbered, and his eyes rolled crazily and his black coat flecked with spittle and shining with sweat, shifting his feet and tossing his head. As the orc's arm spasmed by North's hooves, the horse took off at a canter once more, understandably spooked. Gritting his teeth and holding on desperately with his knees, Faerim turned to sight at his next victim and loosed another arrow, then another, taking down a sixth orc. Three remained, and Angóre, now mounted on Carthor's stallion, saw to a seventh victim. Cutting their losses, the remaining pair turned tail and fled through the trees, almost vanishing in an instant. Faerim shot one arrow, then another, and another after their backs, but it was Angóre's javelin that rewarded them with a dying cry of anguish. His lip curling both in satisfaction with the kill and irritation for the last orc who had got away, Angóre urged his mount on and sped after the last one - presumably hoping to kill it before it got word back to the orc camp.

Faerim slowed the skittish North to a walk then, with difficulty, to a halt, trying to regain his breath and soothe his horse. Dismounting painfully, he tentatively brought his hands up to the horse's nose and, although he shied and whinnied at first, North eventually calmed down enough for Faerim to rest on hand on his nose, stroking it gently as he 'shh'-ed the horse like a small child after a nightmare. Hooking the stallion's reins over one hand, Faerim curled a lip in disgust at the orc's blood on his fingers and rubbed his forefinger and thumb together curiously: the liquid was thick and sticky, like tar in texture and appearance. Glancing at the blood's previous owner, Faerim shuddered slightly and had to swallow down the violent urge to retch. Wiping his gloved hand on his longcoat to remove the blood, he tied North up to a tree and made for the spot where his sword lay, still shuddering slightly, embedded several inches into the ground. Pulling it out with as much strength as he could muster, Faerim bent and wiped it across the ground in a rough attempt to clean it, before he looked at the orc who had caused him to drop it. It lay face down, the steel-tipped javelin that had killed it rising from the small of its back, almost comical in it's absurdness. Curiousity about his brutal attackers once more overtaking Faerim, he reached out a foot and rolled the creature over, the javelin propping it onto its side. Looking at the orc's face, Faerim repressed the urge to physically recoil: the stubby, dirt blackened features were curled in an expression of anger, pain and, more disturbingly, fear, and despite their ugliness, they seemed almost human for an instant. Then the moment passed: Faerim had been told before than men sometimes felt remorse for their actions on a battlefield when confronted with the faces of the dead, wondering about the victim's background, family, life... But looking at the features of the dead orc, Faerim doubted it ever could have cared about any of those things.

Tearing his gaze from the orc, the boy turned and walked slowly away, heading for Rôsgollo and Gaeredhel. As he reached them, he heard hooves and turned, half heartedly raising his sword, but it was Angóre, not one of the enemy, who dismounted. Giving the elf a quick smile, he turned back to the other two, concerned.

[Arry]

‘You . . . cannot . . . stay . . . with . . . me!’ Gaeredhel groaned out his declaration in short bits. Rôsgollo had stripped his brother of his bloodied tunic, leather vest and chainmail shirt. He forced the rest of the arrow’s head through Gaeredhel’s flesh, snapped it off, and then withdrew the remainder of the shaft. ‘It only pierced the skin and if it grazed the muscle, it did not tear enough that I cannot use it.’ He grimaced as his brother prodded at the wound. ‘It burns no more than the arrow you mistakenly placed in my leg when we were children, brother mine,’ he said forcing a smile in an effort to make light of it. ‘It does not burn in a way that makes me think it is poisoned.’

Rôsgollo dismissed his brother’s claims with a snort. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘it is an Orc’s arrow and filthy from whatever they have hunted before.’ He took his water bottle and sluiced the wound as thoroughly as he might. ‘I have brought a small amount of herbs, thinking we might need them for the prisoners. We can spare some small amount for your wound.’ Rôsgollo fished in the pouch at his waist, bringing out several silver-grey leaves. Chewing them into a paste, he covered the exit and entrance wounds as best he could, then bound the shoulder with clean strips from his own tunic. Once done, he helped his brother put on his own shirt and other gear.

The four held a hasty conference on how to proceed. Rôsgollo held back his preference that they ride back to the Dunedain encampment for reinforcements. Gaeredhel had already read his thoughts on this and gainsaid them. You will have to tie me to my horse to have me go back now. Aloud, Gaeredhel urged them to go forward in the pursuit. ‘We are so close now. We cannot afford to let them hide themselves away from us again.’ He clasped his brother’s shoulder. ‘We have sworn to keep him safe. We must press on.’

‘Do not speak to me of our duty,’ Rôsgollo said quietly. ‘I know it all too well. But my heart speaks of my first duty, which is to you.’ He gazed shrewdly at his brother, gauging his response to his next proposal. ‘I will continue on with Angóre and Faerim to the Orc camp, if you will return to where we first found the Orcs had entered the river. Wait for the Dundedain that will be sent to aid us and direct them to us. We will leave an easy trail for them to follow.’ He paused for a moment, tensed against his brother’s answer.

Gaeredhel was silent, his thoughts guarded. He read the resolve in his brother’s eyes. ‘I will agree to this.’ Rôsgollo took in a sharp breath of relief.

Though I doubt any Men other than Faerim will rush to assist us . . .

-----

Rôsgollo watched as his brother mounted his horse and turned back south, down the river. Angóre, Faerim, and he resumed their progress northward keeping as low a profile as they might to avoid other Orcs left to watch the trail. In due time, they approached the Orc’s encampment, their own presence hidden by the thick stands of trees that grew along the edges of the eastern perimeter.

Dismounting before they drew too near, Rôsgollo stayed back to keep the horses quiet while Faerim and Angóre went quietly forward on foot to scout out the camp . . .

[Mithalwen]

The journey, had mercifully passed in a blur, but not enough of one to totally obliterate the jolting horror of being carried by an orc. To be in such close contact with the foul creatures, bitter enemies of the Firstborn was in itself torture. Yet one evident fact penetrated Erenor's returning consciousness as the orcs arrived at their campsite - the yrch had not harmed them. The orcs had provided them with food - repulsive maybe but seeming as good as they possessed and no harm had come to their persons, nor even their possessions.

The march over,the hostages had been dumped in a group. The others seemed fairly inert, but since Erenor was concealing her own awareness it was possible the others were doing likewise. A low groan from one of her stirring companions, corrected this idea. Erenor realised the truth. She had been given a smaller measure of the drug - her original and then feigned drowsiness from her headwound had made the orcs cautious with their dose. "Excellent", she thought, "they really do not want us dead".

Her train of thought was halted by a strange sensation; she felt watched. This was ridiculous; she had been watched with more or less attention, by orcs since her capture, but this was different. She looked around her surruptitiously. Their guards were still there but with thier captives bound and seemingly unconscious, they were engrossed in the universal activities of soldiers after a long march, preparing food and fire and easing sore feet. There were sentinels about the camp but they were looking out not in.

Besides the sensation was benevolent, she felt sure that elvish eyes or at least elvish minds were seeking her. She stole glances at her fellow emissaries on either side. Though they stirred she knew it was neither of them.

Erenor opened her mind, surely if their guards had survived the orc raid, they would have come after them? Or perhaps by some blessing her earlier attempts at seeking aid from her kindred afar had not been in vain. She fixed a picture in her mind of the camp, and then visualised the still concealed weapon, wondering if she could reach it without being discovered. Any elf near and so inclined woudl be able to read her thought: she trusted the orcs had not the skill. It was a risk but one she had to take. The presence seemed strong to Erenor but as she waited for some response, her hope faded in to fear that her feeling was some cruel side effect of the drug.

[Kransha]

With the questioned individuals departed, Hírvegil sought comfort in lying on his bed again. He should really be up and about; he had spent far too much time during the day isolated in his semi-spacious temporary quarters, most of that time sprawled on a disheveled bedroll. The Captain’s mind had used up its daily reserve, which was significantly less than usual, and felt both peaked and spent, both different feelings as far as he was concerned. One encompassed the pain in his head, the other the uselessness of his thoughts. Both put him off extraordinarily as he lay, thinking dejectedly about his predicament.

He was not himself. He, Captain Hírvegil of His Majesty’s Rearguard, had been spoken down to by a middle-class soldier’s wife, a common woman. He usually never even considered the class stations assigned by his archaic society, but he had always considered himself part of a specialized caste, a warrior class of elite comrades. Never had he held himself above others, but as that woman, Lissi, spoke to him in such a caustic, condescending fashion, and then had the nerve to walk out on him, he felt petty societal prejudice rearing its ugly head in him. Was he so different that he could not hold sway or command with common-folk? This was not the Captain of the Rearguard.

Hírvegil started to wonder if the fall of Fornost had altered him, changed him in some way. Usually, inspiring wartime oratory came from him passionately, as the speech-craft of ancient lords of war, but his words to the troops at the North Downs had been weak and threadbare, lacking in his typical abilities. His stratagems were not themselves either. Under most circumstances, he could’ve efficiently devised a solution to this whole sorry dilemma, but today his mind was dulled and content to beat lazily around the bush, concocting second-rate schemes which he could not even issue in a timely manner.

His father would have easily concluded the situation with a thought out solution, and so would he have done if he were the man he was but a month ago. His father would’ve done so many things differently, and this was no consolation for that father’s son. Rolling uncomfortably back and forth, wishing for sleep, Hírvegil pushed memories of his past glories away, trying to remain firmly rooted in the present, rather than the more desirable past. He rubbed his eyes and closed them tightly, scratching his scalp with an aimless hand that had nothing else to do, trying to empower himself with the spirit he’d once possessed.

Now he resolved that something had to be done. The lord he’d been charged with was obviously displeased with him, morale among the soldiers was dropping (through lack of information, disillusion, and other motivations), his own lieutenant seemed to have lost some confidence in him, and even the civilians were reacting negatively to his actions. Though his logical half spoke out against it, he blamed, inwardly, the Elves. Their stalwart braggadocio had cost him the support of his people. Yesterday, he’d been merry, ready for a good night’s rest and a needed period of slow, plodding travel that would tax neither him nor those beneath and around himself. Instead, through the arrogance of the Firstborn, as well as their clumsiness and the stealth of their orcish adversaries, he found himself unconscionably depressed and with no recourse he could see. The only things he could do where go on, go to the Elves, or stay where he was. Remaining static was out of the question, since that would just worsen the situation, and too many would react aversely if he chose to march on. That left one option.

Two minutes later, Hírvegil yawningly ambled outside his tent, fully armored and ignoring both the jingle-clank of his panoply and the orderly greeting of his guard who had been stationed outside his tent for hours and hours. With an ill cough, he dragged himself through the camp until he reached Belegorn’s tent. His blurry vision caught sight of the lieutenant some distance away, heading towards the tent and him. Belegorn’s look of withered disappointment overshadowed feigned surprise at seeing Hírvegil. “Captain?” he said.

“Belgorn,” Hírvegil mumbled, slurring syllables together as he spoke with both haste and tiredness, “Arise all able-bodied men.” His lieutenant looked at him confusedly, his eyebrow rising unnoticeably beneath a stern forehead. “Captain, I’d say all able-bodied men are aroused already. Day passes swiftly, and all men have woken and know of the evening’s transpirings.” Hírvegil barely heard this, picking at his ear with a hand encased in an embossed leather glove, minus his plate-mail gauntlet. “Good, good, get ‘em ready to move out.”

“Move out?”

“Ye, we’re headin’ after the Elves.” Hírvegil’s refined annunciation was all but gone, replaced by a slummy, country accent caused by the weariness of him, in voice and mind and sight. Belegorn stared at him as if he were mad. “Sir, you just dispatched a unit of rangers to-” “I know that, lieutenant, but we’re going to catch up with them, we are. Organize all troops into their respective companies and have some guards and watchmen appointed to remain in the camp and keep lookout. All soldiers are to move out in an hour. We will trail those blasted Elves at a speed even their proud steeds can’t match and finish this whole sorry affair with one swordstroke. I’ll take no insults from commoners and politicians, nay; we’ll slay all those elf devils ‘afore the day is out.”

“You mean ‘orc’ devils, Captain,” interjected Belegorn, still very confused. He looked a look Belegorn had never before seen – one of utter disbelief and utter incredulousness. It would have amazed and intrigued Hírvegil, but his eyes were focusing instead on a blank spot somewhere in the distance, past his trusty lieutenant. With a grunt and a blink, Hírvegil managed and “Umm…” followed by, “yes, I do. Now, get on it.”

With that (and another yawn), Hirvegil plodded back to his tent to get another hour of sleep.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn placed the feathery quill down and picked up the parchment. His grey eyes darted left to right swiftly as he proof-read what he had written. It wasn’t elegant prose for the writer was not a man of letters, but it contained the necessary information and instructions. Satisfied with his work, Belegorn held the parchment close to his face, blew gently to dry the ink, rolled it up and bonded it with a brown linen strip. He then turned towards the waiting messenger and handed the scroll over to the youngster with a stern instruction,

“This parchment contains the necessary information and instructions that the counselor Mitharan would need. In the absence of the captain and I, he would undoubting be in command of the column. Hand it over to him immediately and make sure that he reads and understands its contents.”

The youth nodded quickly and left the tent. Belegorn watched as the young man weaved and zigzagged before disappearing among the cluster of canvas tents. It would have been more appropriate if Hírvegil had approached Mitharan personally, but the commander was in no position to do so, not in his current state. He had appeared red-eyed with exhaustion before his deputy, lifelessly dote and speech slurred. More shocking than his tardy appearance and unbefitting bearing were his orders – absurd and totally incomprehensible.

Belegorn meant to protest immediately but Hírvegil left as sudden as he crashed, trashing about as he made his way hurriedly and clumsily towards his warm cot. For a moment Belegorn’s eyes widened and an unexplainable rage arose. His gloved hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his bejeweled sword and he felt an irresistible urge to pursue his outrageous commander and smite him with all his might and fury. But the terrible torrent subsided as soon as Hírvegil disappeared from view and Belegorn was left horrified by the dangerous hatred he felt. It took a while for Belegorn to regain his faculties. The time taken to draft the memorandum to Mitharan helped.

Belegorn adjusted his sword belt and affixed his dagger into its sheath on the left side of his body at the belt and retrieved his helmet and cloak from the wicker basket by his cot. He stepped out reluctantly out into the open and issued an order to a militia orderly to pack up his belongings. He had no idea how long he’ll be away and when the column would move again.

Tucking the wide rimmed helmet beneath his arm, Belegorn strode towards the marshalling ground where his charger and men awaited him.

**************

The grey winter sky offered no warmth and the sun was no where to be seen, being blotted out of the sky by dark clouds and fog. Just as well, for it mirrored the feelings of the first lieutenant and his rode across the assembled front of the riders and inspected each youthful face carefully. The mounted men stared on ahead passively like mannequins while the horses reared their great muscular necks in agitation. The aura and mood emitted by them were all too apparent to Belegorn; fear and insecurity were the orders of the day.

When the assembled riders were ready, Belegorn sent a messenger for Hírvegil. He looked towards the green pennon of the Rearguard in anticipation but the flag hung limply in its folds, inanimate on the pole. A forebode of the darkness to come.