TIG XCIII - Betrayal at Henneth Annûn (Game thread)

[Pitchwife]

Ithilien was baking in the early summer afternoon sun. A brooding silence lay on the land, hardly a leaf stirring in the hot still air. The only sounds to be heard were an occasional soft rustling of cloth and, very rarely, a faint creaking of leather.

Pithwivion was crouching behind a laurel bush, his bow on his knee, arrow nocked. Next to him were Anborn and Lord Faramir, and on the young captain's other side Mablung and Damrod. Around and behind them, five score Rangers lay in cover, masked and hooded, their green and brown cloaks blending perfectly into the brushwood, bows at hand and waiting patiently.

Suddenly an owl hooted somewhere in the distance. An unusual sound at this time of day, but Pithwivion knew this was no coincidence.

"Our scouts have sighted their vanguard," he whispered to Lord Faramir. The captain nodded.

They kept watching the road, the long road that led up from the far South to the Morannon; the road on which more and more Haradrim came northwards these days, troup after troup of Southron soldiers in thrall to Sauron; they all went into Mordor, gathering for the onslaught on the free West that had to come sooner or later.
After a while a cloud of smoke appeared in the distance; approaching, it gradually dissolved into a long file of dark-skinned warriors in black, gold and scarlet, marching five abreast towards the Rangers' hiding spot.

"On my sign," said Faramir in a whisper that carried to the ears of the last Ranger in the last row. When the first ranks of Southerners had already passed them, he raised a hand. "Draw!" Five score and four Rangers rose like one man and drew their bowstrings tight. The hand fell. "Loose!"

A hail of arrows came down on the Haradrim, who fell dead by the dozens; the rest was for a moment too much surprised to take cover, and it looked like another volley or two would finish more than half of them before they could think of offering resistence. But all of a sudden the Ranger on the other side of Anborn gave a cry and fell forward with an arrow in his back, and then another and another one, and within a few heartbeats a dozen Rangers lay dead, struck down by black Orc arrows from behind.

Pithwivion whirled around and whipped out his sword just in time to parry a blow by an Orc scimitar that would have done for him. Hordes of Orcs were storming at them through the brushwood, big black Uruks of Mordor with longbows, swords and axes. And now the Southerners, having recovered from their surprise, hurried to join the fray from the other side.

"This is hopeless, my lord!" he shouted to Faramir. "They have us between hammer and anvil!"

Faramir, busy fending off an attacker himself, cried out: "Retreat! The day is lost! Retreat!" Anborn raised his horn and blew the retreat signal. They were hard pressed to win free of their thronging enemies, but at last they turned and ran.

This time, the Rangers of Ithilien had been outrangered.
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