Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Firefoot]

Grimkul had guessed that Kharn would be commanding troops in the thick of battle and so had headed into the midst of the fighting. There was, of course, the slight matter of the Elves holding their ground between where he was and the places where Kharn might be, but he didn’t go after them unless they attacked him first. Then he killed mercilessly and swiftly, not to be deterred from his goal.

Ulwakh was forgotten in this quest, though whether he had merely been separated from Grimkul by the tides of battle or actually parted Grimkul’s company, not desiring to return to the mass murdering of battle, was unknown to Grimkul, or at least it would be if Grimkul had not forgotten about him.

Still heading towards the sounds of battle, Grimkul rounded a corner and was abruptly confronted by the first bit of organized fighting he had seen since leaving the battle at the gate. A fairly large force of Orcs was regrouping under the rain of white feathered Elvish arrows. Grimkul scanned the scene, searching for the hated burlish commander. He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. He swung to face it and caught sight of Kharn, removed enough from the scene to be “safe.” With single-minded determination, Grimkul headed towards him as he raised his scimitar for battle.

"Nar! You! The knife-work's that way, you yellow-bellied slug!" Kharn shouted. "I said, get back there!" Grimkul paid the repeated order no heed. Now was his chance, his long awaited chance. He would see Kharn’s blood run in the street.

As he drew nearer, Kharn raised his own sword in preparation for a fight with an unexpected adversary. But Kharn’s weapon only served to infuriate Grimkul all the more, and he was suddenly aware of the half-healed wounds on his legs and arms, and how much his body seemed to ache – all at Kharn’s hands. Yet the pain felt good. It drove him, infuriated him, empowered him.

Grimkul’s charge gave momentum to his initial blow. It took all Kharn’s strength just to hold the blade at bay, and even so he was forced back a couple steps. “I’m not going anywhere,” snarled Grimkul, as their blades met again. “Not until you’ve died a slow-" Clash “-painful-" Clash “-death." With that, he swung his sword low, aiming for Kharn’s unprotected shins. Kharn deftly parried the blow. They went on in such a way, neither seeming to have the advantage, but it was Grimkul who gave the first wound, a deep cut on Kharn’s left shoulder. In fury and pain, now, Kharn redoubled his attack, sending Grimkul back on the defensive.

For a few blows, Grimkul was hard pressed, and Kharn scored a couple small cuts on Grimkul’s arms, reopening the scabbed over whip-marks. Suddenly, Grimkul saw an opportunity. Ducking and lunging as Kharn began to swing, he rammed his body into Kharn’s, knocking both of them to the ground with Grimkul on top. Grimkul heard Kharn’s sword clatter to the ground, but his opportunity was lost as his momentum kept him tumbling forward. Though he still held his own scimitar, it was all but forgotten as Grimkul lunged again, this time to keep Kharn from getting his sword back. All of a sudden, their sword fight had descended into a wrestling match with blades…

[Mithalwen]

Sirithlonnior had dismissed Losrian from service when he found her beside her brother's body. She had protested but his order was not to be disobeyed. "He has a wife and a child... you should go to them, try and get them away". And so, pausing only to take Ferin's personal effects, she had gone. Sirithlonnior had wished he could order his own child away from immediate danger but Artamir was a regular soldier not a volunteer.

Losrian passed ghostlike through the beleaguered city. She came first to her brother's workshop... either the invaders had not reached that part of the city or the workshop was not of primary interest - why raid a woodshop when the silversmiths quarter of Rather Celebdain was so near? Her pack was where she had hidden it and the terrified animals were still within. She wondered why her kindred had not taken the tiny pack pony for surely they must have fled the city. She wondered whether it would be a help or a hindrance to her alone. Swiftly she harnessed it with panniers and filled them with extra supplies from the store, keeping that which was most essential in her own pack. She had shut down her emotions and operated with a cold efficiency If needs must she would have to let the beast go. She released the other animals - they would have to take their chances.

When she drew near the house, fear increased in her heart the area was filled with smoke and there was a indescribable stench. What she saw would stay in her memory for ever. The building in the lee of the city wall was scorched and mostly destroyed by one of the enemies missiles. She found the maimed bodies, of Laswen and her parents, trapped by debris dead from injuries or the noxious poison of the fire blast she knew not. Her sister in law's body lay a little apart from those of her parents lying by the staircase the strongest part of the
house. Where was her child, had the fire destroyed his tiny body. Her eyes turned to the stairs, built under them was a small cuboard used as a cold store. It might just be big enough for a child.

She tried the door, fearing what she might find, could anyone have survived in that house? Instinctively she closed her eyes fearing she would open them to another death. Galmir was there. His body perfect but motionless, wrapped in a cloak with his drinking cup beside him. Losrian felt as if she had been holding her breath since her brother died, her chest constricted ... they were all gone. A sob rose to her throat..... if she had come her first.. would it have been in time to save the little boy from suffocating at least? She reached for his tiny body. It was still warm.

"Ferin, I am sorry" she moaned. The little bundle stirred in her arms. Losrian was so shocked she nearly dropped him. But the unexpected fact of another life dependent on her stifled her sobs and forced her to act with dispassion again. To leave the dead untended was hard but she knew teh best thing she could do for them was to try to get their beloved boy away from the city's destruction and every moment might count. She shielded Galmir's face with her cloak. He should not see this. He started to wail and Losrian, who had always passed the child back to his mother when he had grizzled, did not know how to comfort him him... "Come on Gally, we are going to the woods but you have to be very quiet"

"Ada there? Naneth?" he sniffed.

Unable to tell the truth, Losriansaid "Hush now Gally we have to go - no time for that now..." and bore him from the ruins. Pacifying him with a wafer of lembas she slipped back into the building and removed the pendant from Laswen's neck. It had been her wedding gift and Losrian would not leave that for the invaders.. if
they survived, Galmir should have something of his parents. She could not spend any longer looking for treasures. Bowing her head as the only mark of respect she could offer the dead, she left for the last time. Scooping up the baby who was blessedly silent, but still grateful for the masking sound of battle she started to seek for a way out of the city. The pony'[s hooves seemed deafening in the empty streets and for the first time she thought of abandoning him. But the beast had survived so far and was pluckily finding its way through the rubble so she thought again. Most of the fighting seemed to be concentrated in the heart of the city so she went the other way. For so long they had hoped that the walls would hold. Now she must hope for a breach.

She glanced up at the battlements, shrouded in smoke or mist, she knew not which, and thought suddenly of Artamir and his parents. Had they survived the destruction? She did not dare hope - either for herself or others.

[Folwren]

Skald's blow felled the orc that Bror had been bent on killing. It wasn't too dissapointing that his brother had gotten him - more likely to be relieving. He stepped over the fallen body to meet the onslaught of yet another orc. He battle axe swung and brought down the gruesome being in one blow. He pulled the broad blade from the thing's skull and stepped back half a pace to meet the next enemy. Blood and sweat ran down his face, and he had neither time nor an extra hand to wipe it away.

Battle. The word, combined with death, was bitter and hateful in his mind. The stench of the dead and dying rose up about him and his companions, almost materializing into a vapor, thick enough to encircle them and choke the breath in their throats. Another orc charged, his scimitar upraised. Bror caught the blow with his axe, easily turned the blade away and drove the spike of his weapon deep into the beast’s side.

A movement on his left caused him to duck another oncoming blow and turn. His attacker swung again and Bror lifted his axe once more to defend. The orc’s blade glanced off the shaft and slipped down harmlessly.

On and on the enemy came, beating upon the ranks of elves and dwarves like the waves of an ocean. Constantly they came and though they were flung back and broke upon the blades and axes, they slowly pushed them back - water eating out the rock.

Bror fought, his arms swinging or blocking in turn, beginning to ache and burn with the constant use, but entirely unable to stop and rest longer than a few seconds at a time. As he hewed the head off a charging man and let his axe droop momentarily towards the ground, he wondered how long they could possibly last before being entirely over run and killed.

[Firefoot]

Grimkul fell to the ground, stunned, but not dead as Ulwakh had supposed. Darkness loomed at the edge of his consciousness, threatening to engulf him – completely and permanently. The sounds of battle sounded dim in his ears, hardly noticeable. He could see little more than the ground, stained with blood both black and red. That the black blood should be his did not occur to him. He felt for his sword and found he was no longer holding it. His arm felt heavy, so heavy. He moved his head, tried to push himself up so that he could find it. There… some three feet away. It felt like three miles. Slowly, he pulled himself towards it. His vision swam with every jolting movement.

Finally, his groping hand found the sword. Both blade and hilt were still slick with blood, and still hungry for more. Grimkul wanted more. For the first time since his fall, he looked up from the ground. There, far in the distance, he beheld the cold mountains. Cold, dark, familiar…

He lurched to his feet and started a lurching, stumbling run towards the mountains. Free. He was free. But why did the ground tilt so? It rose up to meet him; he pushed it away, continued to run. From behind him, he heard dimly a shout. A fierce pain pierced his back, and he fell again. Wetness – dark sticky wetness. He could feel it. He couldn’t move his arm now, couldn’t get up. He felt a wiggling beneath him, near his face. He brought his other hand up; it grasped upon something warm and furry. A rodent, trapped beneath him when he had fallen. Grimkul tired to squeeze it, make it squeal, make it die, but found there was no strength left in his fingers for such a task. “Pushdug rodent,” he rasped. “Filthy Elves, cursed Dwarves.” The rodent scrambled against his grip, tiny nails digging into the skin. Blackness threatened. Looking up once more he saw the tall, impregnable mountains. Kharn’sdeadI’mfreeI’mleaving. The blackness was almost overpowering now, and with his fading consciousness he felt the warm fuzziness leaving his hand. And darkness was all.

[piosenniel]

King Durin leads his men in an attack against the rear positions of Sauron’s troops

King Durin paced the width of his great hall, his booted footsteps thumping heavily against the smooth marbled stone of the floor. A decision must be made . . . and soon . . . he thought to himself. ‘Think, man, think!’ he spoke harshly to himself, his eyes fixed on the floor as he walked along.

Of the thirty Dwarves he’d sent to accompany Lord Celeborn and his Elven warriors to where the Elves from Lindon were encamped, only ten had returned. He recalled his moments of panic when the message had come to him of this small number and the small measure of relief when he learned the others were unharmed, but staying on to lend their axes to the Lindon Elves. Since then, he had increased the number of scouts he sent out each day to bring him news of the battle raging against the Elven city.

Rori Ironfoot, who had led the Dwarves accompanying the Lorien Elves, was one of the Dwarves who had volunteered to go back out as a scout. His brother had stayed behind with the Lorien Elves, saying that he wanted to blood his ax on as many Orc necks as he could. The Ironfoot’s youngest brother had been killed a few months back during one of the times the Dwarves had escorted a group of Lorien warriors to the jewel-smiths’ city. It was Rori, on his way backwith the remaining other nine Dwarves, who brought back the news that the city was nearly overrun. And that the size of Sauron’s forces was so large that even the combined forces of Lindon, Lorien, and the Dwarves would not be able to get through them. In fact, he had told the King, it would be most likely that they would be overrun themselves and slaughtered.

The sun was going down as Durin poured over his reports and looked at the map on which he’d plotted the reports of Sauron’s troops activity and the placement of the Lindon Elves. The long shafts that let in the sun’s light had grown dark and now several retainers had come into the hall to light the many crystal lamps which hung from the cavern’s ceiling and along the smooth stone walls.

The King’s attention was caught by the mirror like surface of the hall’s floor. He could see the soft reflections of the retainers as they passed from lamp to lamp and those of others as they brought in a tray of food for him to eat and pitchers of water and of wine. For one small window of time their images would sharpen as they passed through the direct line of his gaze. Their images would begin to soften about the edges, then, and fade. Disappearing altogether as they moved farther from him.

Durin’s fist closed hard about the vellum map that lay before him, crumpling it into a tight, ungainly wad. He shook off the cloud of indecision that had him at an impasse for so long. If he did not act soon, his subjects would fade into nothingness . . . death would take them. They would be gone, much as the images of those who passed across the marbled floor were at last lost to his sight. And how would he explain then, to their families and their Forge halls that he had hesitated and they had paid the price?

‘Call the Captains to me!’ he cried, startling one of the lamplighters as he did so. The Dwarf nodded his head and took off at a run, as did the other lighters, each heading for their halls to spread the word. The great horns that called the gatherings were blown as they headed out toward the passageways. And other horns, in farther reaches of the caverns, sent the call on.

The King has need of his axes. Come! Come! He commands you!

~*~

In a day’s time there were seven hundred Dwarves armored and weaponed and bearing shields slung on their backs. More would come from the further halls to the east, but not for several days. The seven hundred would leave now; the others follow.

Riv listened closely to the King’s plan. Sauron’s troops were for the most part occupied with looting the fallen city and those who had come against the Elves of Lindon and the Dwarves paid no attention to their rear. And why should they? There was nothing to challenge them from that direction.

‘But we will challenge them with our axes, staves, and blades,’ the King went on. ‘Falling upon them unsuspected. Their doom will march in our ranks and claim them!’ There were cheers at these stirring words, but the King quieted those gathered with a wave of his hand. ‘Some of us, too, will meet our own doom. Though our numbers are large, our blades sharp and our aim true, still we cannot outmatch the sheer number of them. So we must be quick and canny in our attack. Swift enough to make a significant number of kills and canny enough to draw them away from our beleaguered companions – lead them on a merry chase back to the West Door. We’ll slip in safe, then, and close it hard against them. Those with the Lindon Elves will have time enough to get away. And the Elves, if they use their vaunted wisdom will flee with them to safety.’

As did the other men, Riv had but a short time to make his farewells to his family. Ginna slept soundly through it all; the innocent sleep of babes for whom war and death have no meaning. Leifr held back as his father called him to him. His eyes were wide at the sight of the armor, shield, and warhammer. His memory already holding an image of his father injured and pale from an earlier encounter with Orcs. Riv crouched down and coaxed the boy to him, ruffling Leifr’s hair with his fingers as he pulled him in against his chest. The boy’s cheeks were red with the effort of holding back his tears. ‘It will be alright,’ he whispered to his son. ‘You’ll stay here with your Grandpa and keep Mami and Ginna safe for me.’ Leifr snuffled against his father’s chest and shook his head ‘yes’. Standing up, Riv opened his arms to Unna and clasped her hard against him. No words passed between them, they had all been said before. She stepped back a pace and clasping his hand, kissed the ring of promise he bore upon his finger there. Then gathering Leifr to her and Ginna snug against her shoulder she composed her face into a smile and withdrew to the ring of families who would be waiting for their loved one’s return.

~*~

With haste the King led his troops from beneath the mountains, their quick strides eating up the distance between them and the rearmost position of Sauron’s troops. And when they had found them, they fell upon the Orcs and Men without mercy, hewing them down in great numbers until the ground ran slick . . . the red blood of Men intermingling with the darker blood of Orcs . . .

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo ran as best as he could through the city streets. His right ankle hurt with dull pain at each step, but that did not stop him. To fight the orcs was useless. There were too many of them, and the city would fall anyways. He just wanted to be back with his wife and children, and far away from this horror. They could've escaped since Cainenyo had left them in the dark street, and they might've found a gate through the wall, towards the northwest. That was were Cainenyo ran, just wanting to escape. This was not a fight, but a massacre. Dead bodies lay in the street where orcs had passed, and every street was home to a burning house. He ran through a wide plaza, with nothing but dead, broken elves staring at the night sky smeared with smoke for company, and the mangled corpses of orcs lay slumped in each alleyway, just ready to spring to life and snatch Cainenyo by the throat with their bloody claws. Cainenyo even stabbed dead orcs to see if they truly were slain as he passed them. He recalled a story, told in his youth, about people who sat like stones for hours, and now he greatly prayed that the orcs had not learnt this cruel new trick.

There was a wounded orc crawling through the mire. Cainenyo stabbed it firmly in the back and it collapsed into a puddle of blood with an inhuman shriek, and Cainenyo ran on, not wanting to see so many dead people ever again. So much death was in the city that night that it hung in the air like a dreadful fog, so thick was it that a feeling of dread and horror filled everything. Houses that were once beautiful and joyful now sat abandoned by their owners and looted by orcs, with their tall, arched windows staring blankly like the eyes of a skull. Where a home was burning, shadows danced wickedly all along the street, illuminating the carnage that lay all around. Cainenyo turned his eyes away from the horrors of war only to be met by more grim death. He turned his eyes towards the sky, where through the thick smoke a few stars glittered like diamonds, and Cainenyo spoke a short prayer.

"Elbereth, sweet Elbereth, guide me from this city and to my family . . . " His voice weakened at the last word and sharp worry entered his heart. His family! Were they dead, lying like those stiff corpses in the plaza? Were they saved by some miracle of Eru? There was only one way to tell, and that was to head to the northwest of the city. And so he ran, with his family in mind, ignoring his hurt ankle as best he could. The city walls were within view, and as he turned a corner he came to them. He began to panic. How would he cross over the wall? Had his family escaped this way, if at all?

Then a sweet sound came to Cainenyo's ears. The sounds of war silenced as the creaking of a wooden door floated through the air: the sound of an escape, a wooden door through the wall, unlocked. It was far down the wall, to the left. As he came to it his heart rose with happiness. It was large enough for a cart to pass through, and in fact, it must've been a small version of the main gate itself, perhaps used to move garbage out of the city where the people would not see. He felt elated. This was his escape! This is where his family escaped! The tracks in the dirt road leading from the door told him so. He pushed aside the swinging door, and ran down a grassy yellow slope from the city. He was free! The river stood before him shining in the early morning, and further down the river stood a stone bridge. And beyond the river stood dark brown and green woodlands, crawling across the hilly landscape. Oh, thank you, Elbereth! Cainenyo thought he could've sung out loud in his elation. The sun was rising over the Hithaeglir, and Cainenyo ran towards the bridge, following the tracks in the red dirt road.

[Folwren]

Bror’s head ached fiercely and his vision was blurry. The night had been long and seemed never to end. It was true that the forces of orcs and men had not kept up a constant attack all night long, but the Lindon Elves and the Dwarves with them had been able to sleep only a little, if at all. The attacks had come in spurted intervals all throughout the night. In one rather fierce, though short fight, Bror had received a nasty cut down his left arm. Though he claimed and insisted that it was only a scratch, Skald would have it looked at by an elf and cleaned and bandaged.

Dawn was breaking over the mountains now. Bror sat on a large boulder, his hands leaning on his axe, and his eyes watching the light grow. He wondered where Riv was, and whether he had gotten back alright to the mountain, and if he were safe. His mind reflected back to his home and the bright fires - the late evenings in Riv’s kitchen, and then mornings, sometimes, when Leifre and Unna would come out. A deep sigh escaped him as, finally, he considered his chances of actual survival and of getting back there. Those chances were slim at the moment, and he knew it.

Shouts to his right brought him out of his gloomy reverie and he got reluctantly to his feet. He moved his axe up to the ready and went forward towards the fighting.

The enemy was at it again, and they didn’t slack off, as they had in the night. Once again the Elves and Dwarves were put hard to it, and it was a desperate, if not hopeless fight. But then, suddenly, there were great cries from the East - strong, resounding voices that echoed. Bror lifted his head. The sun pulled free of the mountains and then found a hole in the clouds. Shafts of sunlight fell about the battle field, illuminating the fighters and the dead, glancing off of mail and steel.

In the distance, all the way across the battle of field, and new army was appearing, pouring from the rocks itself. Bror smiled, and then laughed, and raising his axe he gave a great cry to answer that of his kinsmen and friends from the mountains. The enemy before him fell back, being called and regrouped.

‘They’ve come after all,’ Bror said to himself. ‘Well, I am glad to see them, even if it is miles away.’

[piosenniel]

Maegisil is found and brought in . . .

My Lord Celeborn! We have discovered a small group of survivors. A short way to the west of us. Their scouts came near and we followed them back to where the Mirdain were gathered.

There was a pause before the Lorien scout went on.

It is Maegisil, Lord. There are sixteen others with him. And ‘no’ . . . Celebrimbor is not among them . . .

~*~

Maegisil and his small party were escorted to the encampment of Dwarves and Elves of Lindon and Lorien by the three Lorien scouts who had found them. Celeborn stood at the edge of the camp, his keen grey eyes fixed on their approach. He looked over the small group as it drew near him, his features giving no evidence of the dismay at the absence of his friend, Celebrimbor. Surely he would have been at the side of his counselor . . .

‘We are glad,’ he spoke aloud, ‘that you have been found safe, Counselor. Come, bring your people to our healers.’ He gestured toward the center of the camp, where tents for the wounded had been set up and food was being cooked. ‘Then you and I should speak with Elrond whom Gil-galad has sent.’

Celeborn fell silent as they made their way to the camp center. ‘Gladder still would we have been,’ he thought to himself, ‘if Celebrimbor had been found . . .’

[Envinyatar]

Elrond turned Losrian’s reasons over in his mind for a moment. ‘That more or less confirms what my advisors have offered. And moreso for the fact that you can add the weight of your kin possibly being already in that area. North it is, then. But not until tomorrow. We should have the injured taken care of by then and ready for travel.’ Elrond nodded to Losrian, then turned his attention to Ondomirë.

‘Come to my tent once you’ve set the first watch. We will need to make plans on where to station the troops as our group advances. I don’t know what foe may come against us or in what number.’

Ondomirë watched for a few moments as Elrond passed on to another captain. During his service under Elrond’s command a growing respect and appreciation for the Elf had begun, despite Elrond’s younger years. And Ondomirë had come to see why Gil-galad had sent him as his representative. ‘He will be a great lord among the Elven kindred,’ Ondomirë mused. And in a moment of perceptive clarity he understood that about this Elf would swirl and eddy many of the currents that ran from past to future.

He turned his attention back to Losrian as Elrond passed further on and out of his sight. ‘Well spoken, m’lady,’ he said, nodding in the general direction where Elrond had gone. He leaned back, looking at her speculatively. ‘The first watch will be some of the bowmen and the Dwarves. Shall I put you forward to stand watch? Or will you take your rest? We’ve enough bodies to fill the spots needed, without you.’ He wondered if she might want to spend time with the child that had come in with her, but did not ask. ‘I’ll leave it to you to decide.’ He pointed to where his own tent had been hastily set up. ‘Many of my men have come back from their searches. There will be food to eat, as you wish; and a bedroll can be gotten from the supply wagons so you can stake out your own resting area. First watch will begin just before sunset.

Ondomirë hailed Hensirë, the captain of the spears, as he passed nearby. ‘I’ve got to meet with the other captains for a while. I’ll be back in time to set the watch. See you then . . . yes?’ He gave Losrian a quick smile and hurried away to catch up to Hensirë.

[Arry]

Durelin's post

“We are glad that you have been found safe, Counselor. Come, bring your people to our healers. Then you and I should speak with Elrond whom Gil-galad has sent.”

Maegisil bowed to Celeborn, though he kept it at simple respect, and made it clear that he would not bow to the Lorien Lord as if her were royalty. He had enough of lords and their titles, the formalities and the hours of idle talk and what they considered to be important and careful planning, wasting the time of the entire people they governed. The use of his own title pained him. He could hear Celebrimbor’s voice again in his head, but he shook the memories off.

“Thank you, my lord,” he muttered. Hopefully the bitterness in his voice would be taken for grief. Turning to Sairien, who he had made sure stood beside him, and whispered to her, and she led the survivors they had brought with them toward the center of the camp. He then walked with Celeborn behind them, and spoke more.

“So Gil-galad’s men did arrive?” he asked the elf-lord.

“Yes. Their many delays are obvious, the dangers and the miles were enough to hold them back for far too long, and they do grieve it. But such was the risk the Lord Celebrimbor knew he was taking when he ventured so far from Lindon.”

“I doubt that he knew it,” Maegisil said, barely separating his clenched teeth as he spoke. Celeborn eyed him, but left the topic be. That was more nonsense that would be debated over for hours in some counsel hall in Lindon. If they wished for the Counselor Maegisil’s presence at such a meeting, though, they would not receive it. Anything concerning the former Lord of Eregion that the King and his lords did not already know would remain a secret to them.

After a short silence, Celeborn spoke again, his voice even softer than before. “There is no chance that your lord lived, Counselor?”

Maegisil sighed. “Please, my lord. I am Maegisil, and I am no Counselor.” Running a hand through his hair, he licked his lips and watched the ground pass beneath his feet. “And no, my lord. I can tell you with all certainty that Celebrimbor died with his city.”

[Arry]

‘Well, come on. Sun’s setting and that stuffy Elf is rousting us up for guard duty.’ Skald snorted, loudly, as Ondomirë passed by, knowing the captain was not out of earshot. ‘As if we Dwarves need to be reminded of our duty . . . captain ourselves, we can!’ Rori Ironfoot’s mustache twitched at the uncustomary remark from Skald, and his bushy brows raised at the speaker.

‘I’m tired, that’s all,’ Skald said, his voice sounding weary. ‘I’ll be my usual sunny self once I get a night’s rest.’ He shook his shoulders as if to shake off the fatigue that had settled on him during their brief time in camp. He’d been too restless, thinking of all that had happened and wondering how his family fared at home, to relax and give his body a chance to rest. And now the combination of both had put him slightly on the edge, made his tongue sharp. He clasped his helmet firmly on his head; picking up his buckler and axe he trudged after Bror and the others as they joined half of the archers around the perimeter of the camp.

Some of the Elves took point positions, further out from the line. With their sharp eyes and acute sense of hearing they would be able to spy out any who approached, and relay the message silently to one another.

As the fading evening light settled into darkness, Skald settled in near a rocky outcropping, his eyes scanning the shadows in the distance; his ears open wide for the faintest of sounds . . .

[Mithalwen]

Losrian had indeed spent the time between parting with the captain and sunset with her nephew and indeed with 2 little elf girls - the daughter of the woman who was caring for Gally in the wagons and another, an orphan whom one of the dwarves had found beside her mother's body.

The tale had touched Losrian's heart - this little maid had suffered more even than Gally. The numbers of survivors were so small and mainly women and children who had escaped before the city was ransaked, that it seemed unbelievable that her father or any other relative might be found alive.

If Galmir were old enough for such reflections he might have cursed fate for leaving him with the only member of his family who had not treated him as the centre of their world - but at least he had someone. And his aunt found him easier company now that he had the normality even in such abnormal surroundings of hot food, the company of other children, and something nearer to a bed to sleep on than a cloak spread on a nest of straw.

The children would sleep between the two women. Losrian sang softly as she settled the two orphans and was glad that they began to doze before she had to leave for her watch.

This was duller than she expected. The night was quiet and although her friend Skald was near the duty did not allow for caonversation. And Ondomirë was not there. Losrian felt a pang of disappointment that she chose not to examine to closely at the realisation, categorising as residual gratitude for his great courtesy to her. Her thoughts were distracted by the whispers she heard as her watch ended that Maegisil had been among a group of survivors and was even now ensconced with the lords and captains.

If the counsellor of Celebrimbor had survived, was there hope for the lady Narisiel and her family? Narisiel would surely have been at the palace too. Losrian did not dare hope that it would be the case but memories of her mentor, her husband who had indirectly saved her life this morning and their son whose gentle teasing she had found so disconcerting filled her mind as she slipped off her boots and slid into her bedroll as gently as possible to avoid waking the children next to her.

Losrian woke to find the night was beginning to fade into a clear dawn and a small elf boy had wriggled from his own bedding into hers and was now nestled in the crook of her arm. A tress of her silver hair was wound around his little fist which was held close to his face. Galmir had always loved playing with her hair but this gesture caused something to break in Losrian. In her determination to be taken seriously in the usually masculine world of the smiths she had avoided more traditional female roles and so she had not sought much contact with thechild. Her resistance shattered she. was overwhelmed by emotion and silent tears coursed down her face as she wept for her lost kin and bitterly for her coldness to their child. She gently stroked his face and drew him closer to express her love and to satisfy this new, almost visceral need to protect him.

Soon the camp was stirring and Losrian managed to stem the tears before Gally woke. She did not know wheter he subconsciously repaid her increased affection with cooperation but she soon was able to get him ready for the journey. Once loaded, the slower moving wagons and their escort would set out while the riders, who would soon overtake them, readied for departure. Hoping to use up some of their energy before they were confined to the wagons for the day, Losrian played with the children up until the time appointed for them to leave. Young enough herself not to mind crawling around on the grass with them, Losrian found herself pinned down by three very small elves when she heard a familiar voice " Will you be riding with my company today, milady or will you be other wise detained?"

The voice avoided sarcasm and Ondomirë's face was as calm as ever as he regarded her. It was all she could not to laugh at how ridiculous she must look.

"I will indeed my lord. This trio are about to depart" . She stood dusted the dirt from the knees of her trousers and shook out her hair which fell loose to her waist.

"Very good. Report as soon as the wagons set out", the captain answered before giving his customary short bow and striding away to deal with more important matters. Once her was gone the surpress giggle erupted and though it was a merry fairwell to Galmir, who waved to her as long as he could, the parting though temporary caused Losrian unexpected pain.

She braided her hair, neatly this time and once she had put hte mail back on she was ready to take her place among Ondomirë's "men".

The elf lord spoke little as they rode, he seemed absorbed in his thoughts which Losrian assumed concerned the discussions between Elrond and his captains and allies which had continued late into the night. Losrian concentrated on her staying on her horse - though like all elves she had good balance and an affinity with animals, her opportunities to ride had been limited lately and then to farm horses not restive warhorses. Behind the smoking remains of Ost-in-Edhil reamined in elvish sight at least and ahead the tree clad rise of Hollin Ridge grew nearer.

[Durelin]

Maegisil had made it back to the palace, and, coming to a halt at the foot of the huge stairway after crossing the courtyard, wished he had not ran so quickly. The pain in his stomach immediately caught up with him, and dizziness set in, and for a moment her swayed when he picked up his foot to take the first step. Suddenly he realized that he could not remember there being guards at the gates to the palace, and he turned to look. He did not trust himself; not only had the last few hours been a daze, but he had not been to certain of his sanity for some time now. Indeed he saw the gates flung open and no guards in sight, and as if that was not unwelcome enough, he saw a familiar form stalking toward him.

It was Angoroth, Sauron’s wretched emissary, emanating arrogance from upon his horrid mount. Maegisil was too dazed to move, or to even sneer at the approaching man as he wished to, though he tightened his grip on his sword. The creature of course had his guards with him, but the elf would not go down without a fight, and he hoped, even in his exhaustion, to take down a few of the wretched soldiers before falling himself. Much good it would do, though, to be valiant. He thought of his wife. She was alone. Fear pierced him in his heart, and tore through his stomach, making him want to empty its contents all over again. He had to get to Sairien. But if he ran, Angoroth would surely cut him down. What chance did he have, but to endure the creature’s presence?

The city was taken, there was no arguing that, there was no one to call for to aid him in killing the man right on the spot, and even though there were supposed to be reinforcements somewhere out there from Lindon, Maegisil doubted he would see them, or at least not alive. Killing the army’s leader was pointless, now. It would be a waste of time and a waste of his life. Ost-in-edhil already appeared to be ruins long destroyed, and repeatedly ransacked by those who lacked respect for the dead, though they too would one day join them. Thinking of the dead, and of his own death, he stared blankly at the approaching man, and did not change his expression even after the man addressed him.

“Ah, such a party has come to greet me, the dark one!” the creature said. Maegisil still could not find enough care to show Angoroth just what he thought of him. If the ghastly man wished to think that the elf was defeated, he could. Any elf would know better, excepting of course the might lord whom Maegisil guiltily wished was dead.

“You honor me well, with such invitations to your lands. I come to return the favor, dear elf! Now, kindly lead me to the Lord of the City. I have business with him.” Maegisil scowled. So Celebrimbor was not dead…yet. If he were, Angoroth would surely have known.

“Ha! A guest you are! And I treat my guests to the blade!” Maegisil found sickly humour in both Angoroth and his own words, and laughed. The disgust he felt, and the pain, the fear, and the way his mind had shut down to escape from it all was clear in his laughter.

“Do not make me slay you, elf. You are beneath my mission, and I only come to complete the circle, and bring the Oath to fruition.” The creature paused again, but Maegisil simply let his anger boil within him. He was not too sick with himself for it to be at all easy for him to speak. But the dark one soon continued.

“The ring, which I gave to you freely at the gates, is your salvation. It is the symbol of my protection. Do not throw it away.”

Maegisil’s rage exploded, his Elven pride taking over. No one, and certainly no servant of the Dark was his ‘protection,’ and he would treat no possession of a creature of Sauron with care, it was his to throw away as he willed, as was the creature’s life. “Nothing will save the city, and my people, but your death!” he practically wailed. He felt nothing in those words, they were empty cries of a disgruntled child, as that was what he had been reduced to, and his pride would not let him remain silent and endure the end with dignity.

The dark creature dismounted from his lofty position, though it made no difference to Maegisil if the man looked down upon him or not. But if the thing came at all close to spitting on the elf and what he stood for, he would be at his throat in a flash. Angoroth seemed to know this, and appeared to simply be amused by it. He stepped closer to the elf, who remained unflinching. “Abandon your duty to the city, for slaying me will do you no good. The orcs will consume your lord, your city, you…and your precious wife. Take my signet ring, and go with these soldiers of mine. They will escort you and your wife beyond the city, and into the woods. You may then do as you wish, but I advise you not to waste my freely given gift. The Creator will forgive you, for this destruction is not your doing.”

The Creator will forgive you… What did this monster know of forgiveness, much less of the almighty Ilúvatar? He could not speak as if he were one of the Children. He was a lowly man, and a servant to the servant of Morgoth. Though, for a moment, Maegisil wondered. Was he truly only a man? There was something in those eyes, in that demeanor, in his voice… The elf almost felt as if the man before him had weathered more years than even he. But no matter what Angoroth was, he had no respect from Maegisil.

The anger flared, and the elf’s knuckles turned white wrapped around his sword. But the pain flooded in, as a heavy rain after the lightening storm, and he found his knees weaken beneath his weight. He carried much upon his shoulders, and he was only now realizing how much. The city, his people… The orcs will consume your lord, your city… They already had. He had seen the destruction, and it was torment, that he had not the time or the peace to weep for it. Your precious wife… He talked of her as some thing. Maegisil snarled.

Sairien… He had to get back to her. He had promised. She was still alive. She had to be. She was safe... Suddenly he found himself on his knees. There were tears in his eyes. Was he truly kneeling to the man before him? No, it was simple exhaustion. O, but Angoroth seemed pleased by this. Maegisil wished he had the guts to rise up, and bring his sword up with him to slash the black-gutted man into pieces. But he did not. Fear had overcome him some time ago. He had disposed of the fear for his own life with the slow rising of the sun, but now he found any strength he had gleaned from the light of a new day ripped away by simple desires. His love for his wife, and his hatred for his lord. He finally had chosen between the two, after wasted years of devotion to a lord rather than the elf-woman he loved.

“I pray that Ilúvatar will forever curse me, as one of the House of Fëanor, for I make a pact with you, that I shall do as you say. This pact is as evil and cursed as the Oath that led this city to its destruction, but I am no lord. As for the lord of this city, he is yours. And indeed I beg you to kill him, so he and the Oath of Fëanor may no longer plague my people.”

He also prayed that he would be the last elf to kneel before any servant of Morgoth.

~*~*~

Maegisil abhorred the company of Angoroth’s guards, and he was made sick simply by being in his own skin. As he led the way to his house, the guards keeping apace with him, he looked over his shoulder with every other step, and his eyes darted around. Paranoia was creeping up on him. He now feared not only for his wife’s life, but also for how she would take what he had done. He wished she would hate him for it, but he hoped and prayed she would follow him out of the city. Even if she never spoke to him again, and left him as wretched as Celebrimbor, he wanted her alive. He needed her alive. He would never forgive himself if she did not make it out of the city, even after his cruel covenant.

It seemed the orcs had rushed to get to the palace and secure the entire city before completely ransacking every building. His home looked untouched, and he felt guilty for it. And he thought it a miracle when he found his wife safe, and for a moment he forgot his woes and smiled at her, embracing her. But she was stiff in his arms. She had seen Angoroth’s soldiers. Her rushed to explain, stuttering and stammering as he spoke, choking on his words and holding back tears. She looked at him blankly. Could her gaze have ever been so cruel as when she did not show what she was feeling? He did not feel as if he had explained anything before she put her hand to his mouth and silenced him.

“Lead on, my love.”

He almost smiled again, at hearing her voice, hearing her call him her love. Was any feeling only feigned in those words? He was afraid to find out. “We will gather the remaining survivors. Some have survived. Some must have escaped…” He was growing frantic in his voice. Again, his wife silenced him with her calming touch.

“Let us escape first, love, or we shall be no help to any others.”

[CaptainofDespair]

In short time, he reached the stairs of Celebrimbor’s palace, and slowly and methodically ascended them, as a king ascends to his coronation. He found a motley assortment of guards remaining, men who imagined they would serve their lord faithfully, and to the last. But, Angoroth would have none of this. “Scatter faithful soldiers of Eregion! Your doom will be the same as your lord if you do not stand aside!” Few challenged this. Some defended the doors to the inner sanctum of Celebrimbor’s palace staunchly. They died where they stood. The rest fled in haste. With the guards dispensed, either with word or sword, he pursued his final goal.

Casting aside the heavy doors of the chamber, he thrust himself into the Lord of the City’s sanctum, where he had cloistered himself to the end. The Lord looked up from his seated position, and already knowing what had come for him. “Ah, so here lies the last of the great Feanor’s seed! I would have thought one of such proud heritage would stand up to his enemy. Indeed, the sons are weaker than the father!” Inaudible murmuring emanated from Celebrimbor’s lips, but he did not speak to his accuser. “And so it comes to this, Celebrimbor. The Oath is fulfilled, and my duty to my master, Melkor, is complete.” Angoroth, having fully thought out his actions for this moment, made use of his plans. He sliced open the stomach of the elf-lord, while he yet lived, and he laughed as he took in the stench and sight of disemboweled innards and gore, as well as the agonized screams of Celebrimbor, as he gave in to his temptation to fulfill his murderer’s desires. Those screams echoed throughout the city…

~*~

Angoroth, he who had destroyed the people of Eregion, was never seen again in the West. He fled the city, in short time after his slaying of Celebrimbor, and deserted his bond to Mordor. Whispers of his wicked deeds followed him ever northwards, where traveled by both steed and foot, at last reaching the wastes of the North.

Haggard and worn by the icy winds that whipped around him, his armor discarded long ago, traded for hides in those sparse villages he entered during those last beleaguered steps of his quest; he marched to a location deep in the desolation, nearest the long departed citadel of Utumno. Without even a single slab of timber, not even a measly scrap of bark stripped from a waterlogged, dead tree, he burned the hides which kept his shivering body even remotely close to warm. The fire, which burned dimly in the cold, starry, night sky, burnt off little heat, and the lonesome Maiar knew this. The time had come, he thought.

And so, he drew forth his sword, still tainted with the frozen blood of Celebrimbor. Sliding the blade through decayed flame, as it flickered pathetically amongst the hide-embers, grasping painfully for the cold steel. The Maiar watched gleefully, as he muttered prayers to his master, the fallen Valar Melkor.

I commit my body to the ice,
And my soul to the dark light.
I go now,
To join with my Master beyond the Night.

Slowly withdrawing the blade from the dying fire, Angoroth methodically twisted the ancient sword in his palms, pointing the blade to his stomach. It crept forward, like a spider ready to pounce, drawing ever closer to him. As the tip of the metal penetrated into his body, the skin gave way, engulfing the blade as it sliced into him. His face remained emotionless, as he merged with the steel. He lurched forward onto it, hoping for an end to himself. Blood rose up within him now, and gurgled in his mouth, spilling over his cracked lips, staining the ice and snow with his crimson taint as it splashed across the frozen earth. With his vision growing bleak, and his blood draining from his withering body, he collapsed over himself. Still kneeling, cast forward, hanging limp from his waist, he gave into death. With his final prayers, he committed his soul beyond the world, leaving it forevermore, as the pale light of his eyes faded, flickered, and finally vanished with the dead flames of the hide-fire…

[Envinyatar]

Envinyatar's post

‘There’s been word back from our scouts near the city. We must make all haste.’ Ondomirë drew his mount along by the reins as he approached the gathered Dwarven warriors. It was still night, many hours until the sun would rise. Still, the Dwarves had known to rise early, perhaps their keen ears hearing the sounds of the rousing camp. In such a short time they had gotten their packs on their backs; helmets and what armor they wore securely fastened on; axes and pikestaffs in hand. The expressions on their faces were difficult to read in the dim moon's light. But to his mind, unused to Dwarves and their ways, they seemed unwelcoming.

Never mind what you think he admonished himself. Lord Elrond’s commanded it and you’re to see it done.

‘Yes, well then,’ he went on, wondering what was going on behind those bearded faces. Their dark eyes glittered as they followed his every move. He elected to keep his own gaze on their hands. Were they to twitch even for an instant toward their weapons then he would flee from them and take their answer as a ‘no’.

You are such a coward! They’re seasoned warriors. Surely they’ll see the need for this.

Ondomirë motioned for the Elves he’d brought with him to take their positions. The tall, grey-eyed riders moved forward slowly round the Dwarves. ‘The city is sore besieged,’ he went on. ‘And, well . . . there’s nothing for it but that you must ride with us. Even were you to sprout wings on your feet, you cannot hope to keep pace with our horses.’

There were angry grumblings as he finished speaking. But he gave no room for protest. With a nod of his head, the Elves moved in and plucked up a Dwarven rider each to sit behind them. Without another word, they turned north, the long muscled legs of their horses picking up speed . . .

-^-^-^-

It was late in the afternoon when the Lindon troops and their allies reached the narrow plain leading down to the river where the city stood. The Dwarves dismounted and reassembled into their own fighting unit. The Elves for their part, took their places as their captains commanded and began the advance on the city. Lancers and swordsmen to the fore; the bowmen behind, giving a cover of arcing missiles as needed.

And it was needed, sooner than hoped.

The city was burning, many of the beautiful structures already half-razed and smoking. Less than a league from the river and the foul creatures who had done the terrible deeds were swarming out from the dying city’s perimeter; a dark and noisome tide - their filthy weapons seeking more blood to shed.


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Child of the 7th Age's post

Half battle mad, mired in gore and stench, Ulrung stood triumphant on the streets of the city. His chariot was heavy with the booty he had snatched from the homes and palaces of the Elven lords. These were beautiful and amazing items crafted of gold and fine jewels: helms and brooches and glittering flagons such as Ulrung had never seen the likes before. Nor was he alone in his actions. Even in the midst of fighting, the Easterlings had taken time to gather up the spoils of war as they rushed wildly from one house to the next, slaughtering all who were unfortunate enough to come before their path. Their battle chariots, once so swift and light, now lumbered awkwardly through the streets, slowed by the heavy burdens that they now carried.

Ulrung and his officers remained oblivious to the threat that gathered now a short distance away. Why should they pay attention to anything else? The city was falling. There were prizes to be won. Victory was surely theirs. Ulrung saw little reason to keep a tight rein on those who slashed their way through the streets. With Angoroth gone, Ulrung no longer feared the wrath of the great commander. He could do whatever pleased him. As a result, Orcs and Easterlings burned and raided with glee: all semblance of discipline or order had vanished. Only a remnent of the Dark Lord's army remained together inside the broad plaza near the front gate where a few Elves had gathered and valliantly battled.

In the midst of this chaos, a horseman rode in through the rubble and stones. As quickly as he could, the messenger made his way to the Easterling commander. Ulrung had taken a break from fighting to sift through the treasures that were piled high in his chariot. He looked away from his task for a moment and greeted the man on horseback with the barest hint of a nod.

"Sire, sire, Lord Ulrung." The voice came hurried and frantic. "You must listen. They come! They come! A great host of Elves and dwarves, and they move with the speed of lightning. They head soon to the city. You and your men will be trapped if you do not gather your forces now."

"How can this be?" growled Ulrung. He was not pleased to be interrupted in his task of arranging his treasures.

The messenger's response was swift. "Elves from Lindon come and with them King Durin and all his Dwarves. These are not disheartened and beaten soldiers but well organized with the heat of battle in their eyes. They have not yet reached the gate but in a short time they will."

"You are sure?" Ulrung spat on the ground in disgust. His assurance of rapid victory seemed to be vanishing in smoke. This was the last thing he wanted to hear, especially with his troops scattered this way and that, gathering booty and kills in the back alleys of the city.

The messenger nodded. Ulrung had only to look in the man's eyes, shadowed with fear and doubt, to see the truth of the message he brought. Suddenly glimpsing the very real danger they faced, Ulrung bellowed out to his seneschal, "Sound the horn. The alarm for Orcs and Men to gather in the plaza. We have no choice but to turn and fight these miscreants." Then Ulrung turned again to his own chariot and with considerable reluctance pushed out most of the booty he had gathered. They would need speed and a chariot laded with gold treasures would be at a definite disadvantage. Perhaps he would come back later and retrieve his goods.

The Great Horn sounded in every corner of the city. Some heard it and stopped their plundering to come immediately to the square. Many more heard it and stopped up their ears, pretending that there had been no alarm. Even among those who remounted their horses and battle chariots to join in the plaza, many of these were heavily laden with treasure. Ulrung bellowed out an order for all to lay aside their bulky sacks and chests, saying that they could return for them later. But here too, many cursed and stopped up their ears, vowiwng not to lose what was rightfully theirs.

Oblivous to what was happening, Ulrung snapped out his orders: "We will deal quickly with this contingent of Elves who await us outside the gates. We will take Elrond's head on a platter, and then go against any others who make their way to the city. After that we may gather what is rightfully ours."

His men were still raggedly assembled, and the Orcs who followed were much fewer in number. But still the troops of Sauron gave a great bellowing cry and followed their leader Ulrung out through the gates and onto the plain as they hurtled forward to meet the threat.

[Arry]

Envinyatar’s post

The black tide swarmed against the Elven troops. At first Lord Elrond’s lines held and perhaps even advanced in small increments. Sauron’s troops, though, were relentless and more numerous than the Lindon scouts had reported. The Orcs and Men were fueled by their victory against the city and the blood of their foes that had already bathed their blades.

Elrond’s warriors fanned out; the warriors on each wing pushing forward as far as they were able, extending their formation like the horns on a great bull’s head. Their foes were funneled in and toward the grouping of Dwarves and Celeborn’s Elves that stood firm against them and then fell back slowly.

It was Lord Elrond’s intent to catch the foe between the pincer like extensions of his own troops and squeeze in on them, killing as many of them as he could. For a brief while, his strategy worked. And it might have continued so save for the fact that the Orc and Mannish ranks swelled again and again as their captains pushed them from their looting of the city and against the new threat.

‘Regroup!’ he ordered his captains.

The thinned out lines of Lindon troops pulled back into a tighter formation from which they charged again and again in smaller groups, throwing panic into their foe as their great horses trampled through their unorganized ranks.

----------

Orëmir’s ranks of bowmen sent a storm of arrows hurtling against Sauron’s army felling as many as they could. As the lines of Orcs and Men drew close, half the bowmen drew their swords and charged against them; while the remaining bowmen fell back a little and rapidly firing arrow after arrow continued to pick off individual targets.

Heaps of dead and dying Orcs and Men dotted the plain before the Lindon Elves and the Dwarves. But it was not enough. There were too many of the foul warriors. Lord Elrond and Lord Celeborn’s troops fell back slowly against the onslaught.

[Firefoot]

Grimkul’s furied lunge ended with him landing heavily on top of Kharn. He brought the hand still holding his sword down hard on Kharn’s face. Kharn howled in pain and surprise as the hilt produced a jagged gash. Grimkul smiled coldly at the sound. Revenge, sweet, sweet revenge. Kharn was clearly at the worst of it now – while still scrabbling for his own sword, he still had to ward off Grimkul’s assaults. Twisting, pushing, scratching: these were the devices that Kharn now had to result to. Grimkul held him in place, landing punches to his face and chest.

Abruptly, Kharn ceased going after the fallen sword and snatched a knife out of his belt, causing Grimkul to remember the sword in his own hand. But the advantage in this situation was Kharn’s: the smaller weapon was entirely more maneuverable in the close quarters. He scored a deep gash in Grimkul’s thigh before Grimkul could even bring his blade around. But it was not enough: as Kharn tried to twist away, Grimkul brought his scimitar down, rending a long gash in Kharn’s side. Kharn, clearly in pain, tried a desperate parry, but Grimkul almost carelessly knocked it away. He brought his sword down on Kharn’s shoulder, cutting through the muscle and tendon and effectively disabling his sword arm. Becoming increasingly exultant, Grimkul scored a number of smaller cuts and gashes. Finally, when he deemed that Kharn had suffered as many injuries as might be expected, he rose shakily to his feet, stained in black blood: Kharn’s, and his own. The blood flow from his leg had not staunched much, and the loss of blood had weakened him severely.

Kharn eyed him, obviously near death. There seemed to be a measure of satisfaction to him, though: “You won’t live long, now.” This infuriated Grimkul: that his opponent, clearly defeated, should still mock him! Without waiting another instant, he brought his sword down and plunged it through Kharn’s heart. Then he spat into the dead face, turned about, and limped away, his triumph only slightly dampened with the knowledge that Kharn had not conceded the victory.

Now there was only one thing that he could want. Turning about, he could see the mountains rising in the distance. He was leaving, this time for good. He made his way slowly to the gate of the city, but as he drew nearer he noticed a strange thing: the press of Orcs had thickened, and they were swarming out of the city! They were being attacked! And so, unexpectedly, Grimkul was plunged into the fight, exactly where he, for once, did not want to be. He fought his way through the ranks, cutting down anyone who got in his way, be it Orc, Man, Dwarf, or Elf. He soon found that he could go no farther without engaging in real combat; at the very front of the Orkish lines, now, he was almost wholly surrounded by the ranks of Dwarves. He ruthlessly cut one down, slicing nearly all the way through his head.

But he suddenly found himself feeling light-headed; his reactions felt slow and dulled. The shouts all around him buzzed in his ears. He fought like a mad thing, no longer aware of anything but a burning desire that everything die, so that he might go on his way in peace, to go on to his old mountain haunts, to leave it all behind… But first, they all would die.

[Arry]

Skald’s hands grew slippery on the haft of his poleaxe. Even though he had put on his leather gloves for a good grip, still the rivulets of dark Orc blood had wet them thoroughly and lessened their ability to grip. He glanced to his right, where Bror stood, his brother’s axe cutting in clean arcs against the advancing foe. Stepping back a pace or two, Skald threw off his gloves and hastily wiped the shaft of his weapon along the side of his breeches.

Just as he was stepping back up to the fighting line, a spray of blood from somewhere on his left hit him. Axe at the ready he turned to see Regil Brassbeard fall, his head nearly cloven asunder by a great Orc’s blade.

Even as Regil’s body slumped to the ground, Bror had roared up, attacking the filthy Orc with his axe. For his part, the wiry creature was able to parry many of the blows Bror rained down on him. Though, a number of the swings seemed close enough to nick the foul hide before they were thrust away.

Too close for Skald’s comfort were the strikes of the Orc’s blade toward his brother. The foul creature seemed mad. Unlike other Orcs they had encountered this one did not run from the fierce blows of the poleaxe. It was almost as if he wished to hasten his own death. Skald swung his own axe at the Orc. The shaft shifted in his hands a little at this sideways strike. The flat of the axe head hit hard against the Orc’s thick skull, causing the creature to stagger and fall. Not waiting to see if his blow had killed the Orc, Skald turned to other foe.

Through the haze of battle, Skald could see that Men were now pushing their way to the front of the lines. Arrows now flew against the Elves of Lindon and Lorien. And the scimitars of the Men of the East were assailing the front ranks of Lord Celeborn’s ground troops. Here and there with deliberate charges could be seen the Lindon Elves on their great horses, their swords cutting down the advancing troops of Sauron. And at times, they fell themselves. Their bright and terrible beauty swept over by the darkness.

Skald saw the Elf, who had borne him into battle on the back of his horse, as he fell to Easterling spears and swords. And a moment of grim cheer rose in his heart as the great horse reared and slew several of the attackers with his slashing hooves. Then he, too, fell to the long, sharp staves that pierced his neck.

The rage of battle grew in Skald’s breast at the sight. His eyes hardened as he ran toward the Easterlings, a number of other of his Dwarf companions close on his heels.

Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!

The great battle-cry of the Dwarves thundered about them as they hastened toward the foe . . .

Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you! . . .