Disclaimer: I don't own anything J.R.R. Tolkien wrote. Goerfin is my original character, as well as most of the other characters.
Chapter 1: The Dark Storm
Harsh war-crys filled the air, as the Orcs attacked once more, thousands of them. They had tried to climb to the walls whole night, the defenders constantly throwing the ladders down along the attackers. Goerfin stared wearily at the nearing mass, checking the chin-strap of his helm. The archers started to shoot, felling many of the foul creatures. Soon, too soon they had to stop, however. The arrows had to be spared, and that meant more work for the men-at-arms. Goerfin drew his sword and prepared for the fight, as the black arrows and sling stones of the enemy rained on battlements.
Soon the first iron hooks, which were used to fasten the ladders, clattered on the top of the wall. Some men rushed to throw them down, but the Orc archers were good shots at night and killed the Gondorians. Goerfin's squad commander, corporal Paurring, walked past him, checking the readiness of his men. The corporal was strangely calm, as usual.But Goerfin scarcely noticed him, for the first siege ladders were raised and the Orcs came up, like a black, poisonous wave, roaring like wild beasts. The first black helm appeared above the brink of the wall. A grey face stared from under it, a furious light in its eyes.
Goerfin leaped forwards, swinging his sword. The Orc could only yell for the last time, as the cold steel hit its neck. Black blood spurted from the wound, and the creature fell, now headless. Judging from the angry shouts from below, it took some of its comrades with it. But many more remained, and they charged up the ladders, caring very little about a few dead "comrades". Goerfin and his comrades managed to kill many on the ladders, but soon the foul enemies leaped upon the battlements in large numbers. A fierce battle ensued, the Men of Gondor fighting with desperate courage. Goerfin was suddenly faced by a large Orc-chieftain, leering hideously and holding a heavy, curved sword. The Orc spat from its mouth in mangled westron:
"Come, filthy tark! I'll gut you!"
Goerfin was afraid, for the Orc was very strong-looking and almost as tall as he. For a second he hesitated, and the Orc rushed towards him, slashing sideways with its weapon. The strike would have beheaded Goerfin, but he managed to crouch just in time. The tip of the sword hit only the left cheek-plate of his helm, the cruel blade drawing some blood from his face. The strike was so powerful, however, that the chinstrap of Goerfin's helm snapped and the helm clattered on the stone. The man was stunned and fell on his knees. The Orc-chief laughed and raised its weapon to kill.
Goerfin's vision was blurred, and a wild terror overtook him. With a desperate effort he thrust his sword up- and forwards, yelling in pain and fear. The blade met something and sunk into it. Something hot and wet splashed against Goerfin's face, and he thrust relentlessly, hearing a chilling shriek. Something clanked beside him, and finally his eyes started to clear. He looked upwards and saw the face of the Orc, no longer jeering, but full of pain and anger. Goerfin twisted his sword viciously, his teeth bared. The creature tried to grasp the blade which had sunk deeply in its stomach, but its claws were rapidly weakening. It let out a last furious yell and began to fall backwards, red eyes glazed. Its efforts to remain on its feet were in vain, and the Orc crashed on the stones, black liquid flowing from the hideous wound. It writhed for some time feebly and was then silent.
Goerfin felt somebody grabbing his arm and turning his head he saw Gildinir, a young sandy-haired lad from his squad. The young man hauled Goerfin to his feet and asked nervously, concern in his grey eyes:
"Are you all right? I saw you fall."
Goerfin only nodded, his head still somewhat dizzy. He smiled to the lad. Gildinir was only seventeen, but he and Goerfin were fast friends. At thirty-four, the latter regarded the boy as something like a little brother. In this cauldron of witch, unlikely friendships bloomed as the comrades and family were the only consolations. But now there was no time to talk more, as more Orcs rushed towards them, yellow teeth bared and mouths almost foaming. The lad let go of Goerfin's arm and raised his shield. Goerfin did the same, holding his sword firmly.
The first Orc ran straight into the blade of Gildinir, falling to the ground. The others followed, and for some time the two men were hard put to it to survive. Goerfin felt a red rage surging in him and snarled at the enemies:
"You bastards, you won't have me today!"
He couldn't control himself anymore, but charged the group of four Orcs fighting them. He hacked the heads and limbs of the Orcs, not heeding his own safety at all. For a moment nothing mattered but killing as many Orcs as possible before his own death. The enemies were taken by surprise by this solitary onslaught, and two of them fell in a moment. The third turned to run, but a shove from Goerfin's shield sent it down from the walls, where it hit the ground over thirty feet lower.
The fourth was more cunning, and kept its head calm. It danced backwards, narrowly avoiding the strikes of the infuriated Man. Suddenly it leaped forwards, bearing its shield on Goerfin's face. The impact made him sway, and the Orc prepared to kill. Suddenly, however, it was pierced by a sword and fell, choking in its own blood. Wiping his eyes, Goerfin saw that his saviour was Paurring this time. The corporal yelled over the tumult:
"Prepare for the next wave! Find your bloody helm!"
Goerfin looked around him and saw that almost all the Orcs on the walls had been killed and all the ladders thrown down. He picked his dented helm up and peered cautiously over the parapet. New battalions of Orcs marched towards the walls, torches illuminating their black and brown garments and their evil faces. This time the assault would be even greater than the previous. But now the archers of Gondor could pelt the nearing enemy with the arrows its own bowmen had shot.
They had to take again cover from the flying missiles, watching helplessly as new ladders appeared above the battlements. When the hail of arrows ended, the men-at-arms jumped up. In pairs they picked up the revolting corpses of their enemies and threw them down from the walls. Many enemies were thrown from the ladders and many more were injured below, as their comrades and the dead bodies fell upon them. Some men of Gondor now attacked the ladders with axes and sent them also down. The resulting tumult was almost deafening, the Orcs shrieking in pain or rage. Only few of them managed to climb up, for in the hail of the grim missiles their own numbers were now a hindrance.
The first light of dawn rose over the Ephel Dúath, and the Orcs finally retreated after a final volley of arrows. The defenders collapsed on the cold stone, thoroughly exhausted. Goerfin panted heavily, trembling all over. Somebody put a little piece of bread in his hand, a quarter of the daily bread ration. He ate it absent-mindedly, blinking in the growing light. All men were too tired even to rejoice that most of them were still alive. Some of them conversed in low voices, their faces grey and frighteningly old-looking for young men. Gildinir, who sat next to Goerfin, gasped:
"How long can we endure? It has been now two years, and no aid is coming."
"We have just to fight on. Or do you want to surrender to them?" asked Goerfin wearily. The young man shook his head. They were silent for some time, until corporal Paurring came to speak to them.
"You may go to sleep now, our squad's watch is only late in the afternoon. The next meal is given to you at noon." He looked at the blood-stained form of Goerfin and went on:
"Goerfin, I know you are tired, but if you can, try to clean your surcoat and your face. It is unhealthy to have Orc-blood smearing your clothes or wounds."
Suddenly Goerfin burst into a grim laugh.
"Unhealthy? If you say so, corporal." He rose wearily to his feet and strode away, still laughing. Paurring looked after him, worried by the cold ring of Goerfin's voice.
--
Like many times before, Goerfin walked to a garden in the second circle of the city. He sat under an old oak, holding his head between his hands. His thoughts were black, when he remembered the last two years. It had been rumoured for over a decade that the Witch-King who had been defeated in the North had gone to Mordor and prepared now for war again. But there were too few men to guard the passes of the black land, too few since the Great Plague hundreds of years ago. Some brave scouts who had climbed up to Cirith Ungol had told that the tower there housed now Orcs, and that more were coming.
But there was little what could be done. A great storage of food and arms had been prepared and many of the women and children had been sent westwards. But it was too late. Suddenly the war broke out, its first sign a black storm cloud rising from the east. The Orcs had poured down from the Cirith Ungol. On the bridge and in Imlad Ithil there had been a fierce battle, but at last the men of Gondor had been driven back to the city. A fear had fallen on them, as the fell King had ridden before them, with his eight companions. Goerfin still shivered when he remembered the terror of seeing the wraiths. Their voice had been as hard as steel and cold as death, when they had cried out, encouraging the Orcs and cursing the Men of the West in their evil language.
They had fled to the city. After that the only thing what could be done was bar the gate with great stones and strong wooden beams and prepare for the assault. The King Eärnil had promised help, using the palantir, but the enemy was very strong. All roads to the Tower of Moon were guarded and every attempt to raise the siege had been repulsed. The only thing Goerfin could be pleased of was that his parents had moved to Minas Anor six months before the attack. He himself had stayed because his business in silver-smithing had gone very well, the people of Ithilien loving the metal which reminded them of the moon. He had been drafted just a month before the attack, along the other able-bodied men. Thoughtfully he stroked his reddish brown hair.
Then he leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes as painful memories flooded him. He saw in his mind a golden hair, green eyes and a lovely mouth, smiling gently at him. Lóthwen... She had been the most important reason for him staying. His business, everything, was a small matter compared to his betrothed. Having already been content to live without marrying, he had suddenly met her. He had been thirty already and she only twenty-two. But somehow they sensed that they were very similar in the things they loved and in their way of thinking. Both were quite solitary, preferring a few close friends to a large crowd of aqcuaintances. Lóthwen had been wonderful at embroidering, and Goerfin had modelled some of his jewelry on the dream-like patterns she had sewn on clothes. The memory of giving her a silver pin, formed like a wondrous flower with heart-shaped leaves, came to Goerfin and for a moment he forgot his grief. The pin had been perhaps tasteless, but she had took it smiling and thanking him with a kiss.
--
They walked in the garden, sun shining brightly. The leaves were opening, and birds sang their courting songs in every tree. Scent of flowers filled the air. Lóthwen had indeed seemed like a golden flower in this garden, surrounded by the awakening spring.
"It is so beautiful, Goerfin! You shouldn't have..."
"Oh, it was nothing."
She blushed, embracing him. He couldn't resist but touched her lips with his own. They almost trembled, their faces blushing. Lóthwen had pushed him gently away after a while.
"Don't think I am rude, but we must stop. It is not proper."
"Yes, I know, it is three months still before our wedding. I understand."
With a little difficulty he calmed his racing blood. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly Lóthwen exclaimed:
"Look at the sky! There, in the east!"
They watched as a cloud, greater mountains and blacker winter nights rose above Ephel Dúath, the black stone looming threatening below it. Lightnings flashed, and a great wind rose. Goerfin turned to take Lóthwen in his embrace but she was nowhere to be seen. The garden had changed to the battlements of the walls and he stood alone, listening to the sigh of the wind. Moon rose, but it was not beautiful silver as usual, but sickly white, its light frightening. Black specks appeared on its surface, growing larger and larger until the crescent disappeared. The wind died and a black rain fell down, drenching Goerfin.
--
He sat up, sweating heavily. He looked around him, bewildered. Chill rainwater dropped from the branches of the oak. His eyes gazed the trees in the garden. It was late autumn and the leaves had dropped, leaving only empty branches reaching to the sky, as if praying for mercy. He rose to leave and looked down on his surcoat. Suddenly he shivered. The silver crescent sewn on his chest was stained by black blood.