AN- Sweet, twenty-five chapters! And this one will be a bit longer than the last two, with about 2600 words. Disclaimer-I don't own either LotRs, nor Middle Earth. Anything that is original, is mine though.
If any of you are confused at the mike-mike, it is military jargon for milimeter. You'll see what I'm talking about. And if you think I'm giving Durandir and his men an unfair advantage, think again. I've got some tricks up my sleeves for Mordor...
Anyway, please read, enjoy, and review...
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Durandir peered at the target with a pair of binoculars. "Estimated range, two hundred meters. Prep weapon."
"Sir, yes SIR!" the soldier shouted. He fiddled the weapons targeting controls.
"Fire when ready, sergeant."
"Roger dodger!" The sergeant grabbed a standard round for the sixty mike-mike mortar, and slotted it into the weapon's barrel. "Round away!" he shouted as he let go of the shell. The mortar fired with a hollow shtumph. Durandir waited as the shell rapidly went downrange, and smiled as the tree, the 'target', exploded with the first hit.
"See, what did I tell you? Didn't I say you would become perfectly proficient with the mortar? Pack up; we're going to get going soon."
The man jumped up and saluted sharply. Durandir watched as the man started to disassemble the mortar, his squad mate helping him. Damn, you could barely even tell that these guys used to be Uruk-hai.
He walked away from the two men, the 'Durvagorians' as all his previous Uruk-hai decided to call themselves. He had at first been confused by his men's transformations, but as close as he could figure the Valar had decided to take pity on them, and transform them to humans. For had there ever been an army of Morgoth that had ever decided to turn back to the light?
He stopped at another part of the camp where the men he had given M-16s to were practicing their marksmanship. Granted, they still needed some practice, but they would have a hard time not hitting an army the size of the one that Mordor would send to Minas Tirith.
But he had stressed the importance of accuracy on the part of the mortars, for he needed them to hit the high priority targets, such as the siege towers, the catapults, and the battering rams. The loud chatter of a heavy machine gun caught his attention. One of the Durvagorians were crouched behind a M2HB .50 caliber Machine Gun. Durandir had told them how Americans had called the weapon 'Ma Deuce', which the Durvagorians found fairly amusing.
Durandir sighed, and approached the corporal while he shook his head. He grabbed the soldier, and the man jumped as he turned to face him. "You're wasting ammo. Use controlled three round bursts, not unsteady full auto fire. Do you get me?"
"But sir, I-"
"DO YOU GET ME?" Durandir roared. He had quickly instilled a modern ranking system among his troops. And also the discipline. If they had been normal orcs turned good, he would have a hell of a time getting them to do their deeds properly. But they were Uruk-hai, so they were disciplined, and understood rank. Durandir hadn't given himself any given rank, but it was understood that he was the boss.
The Durvagorian snapped to attention. "SIRYESSIR!" he roared back. "I was just saying, sir, that you can easily make more ammo, sir! Why should we conserve it?" He paused, and then caught himself. "Sir."
"What if I can't get to you, and there are dozens of orcs charging you?" He leaned closer into the face of the soldier. "What happens when you run out of ammo then, corporal?" He plucked at the BDU field jacket that all his men now wore, all in the woodland camouflage scheme. "Can this stop a sword? Sure your body armor might, but that only covers your torso. Orcs can still tear you to pieces. And what melee weapons to you have now? A knife," he pointed to the Ka-bar, "and a tomahawk?" he pointed to the hand axe that was holstered on the corporal's web-gear belt. "That would not long hold off a horde of bloodthirsty orcs, and you know it." He leaned even closer to the man, baring his teeth at him. "So when I say control your fire, than do so!"
"Yes sir!" the man snapped angrily.
"Pack up, trooper, we're leaving soon." Durandir straightened as the Durvagorian saluted him. He snapped a salute back, and the man turned to his task. Durandir turned around, and was glad to see that his order had gone through. The camp was a bustle of movement as his thousand troops worked like ants as they packed up.
Durandir turned towards his army's destination, and was glad to see the river Anduin in the far distance. They had been traveling for five days now, and were getting ever closer to their destination. There was a heavy thud as Cerul landed behind him.
"What thinkest thou?" he asked, smiling slightly at how his speech reverted to 'Shakespearean' every single time he spoke to Cerul. "How long would'st take us to reach fair Minas Tirith?"
"A good two more days, my friend. Making a forced march in seven days is quite the accomplishment, I think. Especially with frequent stops to train your soldiers in new ways of fighting."
Durandir felt, rather than heard, her anger at the end of her sentence. "I know that thou thinks my methods of fighting are disgraceful. But I do protest. For there is an army of several hundred thousand marching on Minas Tirith! I am using this army to save human lives."
"Doth thee truly think that I care about such, Durandir?" the dragon snorted as she leaped off the ground with a powerful thrust of her wings. The wind slammed against Durandir, but he stood stock still. He was still adjusting to the fact that Cerul was completely neutral, not caring if an individual died or not, as long as it didn't really concern her personally. He sighed, and looked around at his now ready army. He started forward, wondering just what kind of reception he would get at Minas Tirith.
Two days later, Minas Tirith:
The sentry yawned as he paced around the tower that looked over Pelennor Fields. He glanced over the wide grassy land that lay between Minas Tirith and Osgiliath in disinterest. In an hour, his shift would be over. He felt it was going to be a long hour. He took another step in his seemingly endless cycle before he blinked in surprise.
He gasped, and his eyes snapped back towards the distant dust cloud, from the direction of Rohan. "It can't be!" he whispered. The beacons hadn't been lit, how could Rohan have known? But then his eyes shifted above the oncoming dust cloud, and he noticed the bat like shape, and his heart squeezed in terror. He was just about to give warning of an oncoming fell beast when a bright flash of sapphire caught his attention. That was no Nazgul mount, but a dragon. A dragon?
He turned towards the city. "Sound the alarm!" he shouted wildly. "Dragon! There's a dragon!"
Durandir's POV:
He smiled as he saw the dots that were Gondorian soldiers line the walls of Minas Tirith. "Cerul, I need to speak with Matt, and then we can go say hello to our rude hosts." Cerul chuckled, that ominously creepy rumble, and she dove towards the Durvagorians.
The walls of Minas Tirith:
"Oh sweet Eru, the dragon is attacking those men!" an archer shouted, and the Gondorian soldiers watched with horrified anxiety as the dragon dropped towards the soldiers they could just barely make out.
Durandir's POV:
"-so keep on going!" Durandir shouted out as he drew his sword. "I'm going to go speak with Denethor."
Matt grinned savagely. "Go have fun, sir!"
"I plan to; Cerul, let's go!" The dragon's wings blasted out, kicking up dust in great clouds, obscuring Durandir's soldiers. There was the scream of air against the wings' edges as she hurtled towards the city.
The Walls:
"Can you see them?" someone shouted down the line.
"No, they must have been killed by that monster," the archer replied grimly as he tried to see through the dust.
"Here it comes!" someone screamed in fear, just as the Archer Captain shouted, "Prepare your bows!" There was the rattle of arrow against bow stock as all the archers fit arrows to their bows…
Durandir's POV:
"I really hope you can dodge arrow volleys, Cerul!" Durandir shouted over the wind.
"Why is it that you always underestimate my abilities?" Cerul roared back.
"'Cause I don't know them yet!" he laughed grimly. "Head for the edge of the spire!" Cerul shifted her bearing in response. It was then that the archers on the walls fired the first of their volleys. Durandir felt his stomach freeze in fear as the virtual wall of arrows flew towards him and Cerul. So this is what the French felt at Agincourt! he thought sadly. However, Cerul simply folded her wings to her sides, dropping below the arrows and at the same time causing Durandir's stomach to rise into his throat.
The next volley was fired, and Durandir grunted as Cerul slammed down with her wings so she rocketed up, and Durandir's stomach almost immediately decided to reside in his feet. Cerul blasted over the gate like a blue missile. She reached the end of the spire, and angle almost straight up, and pumped her wings hard to get altitude. Durandir squinted his eyes with the force of the wind against his face, and looked at the stone surface below his feet with surprise. The stone shapes were going by so fast that not even he could distinguish the individual lines and crags.
Suddenly there was nothing but air below his feet, and Cerul braked hard, roaring with the strain of it. Her feet latched to the end of the huge spire, and Durandir undid the straps to his legs that held him into the saddle. He leapt off his huge mount, and landed lightly on his feet. "Cerul, head back to the men. I don't want you to get hit by any arrows, even by accident." Cerul roared, and pushed backwards with her feet, disappearing from Durandir's view as she fell down.
He turned towards the Citadel, and grinned at the sight of dozens of Citadel Guards charging him. The Fountain Guards held their ground, still protecting the White Tree. His grin turned into a blood-curdling chuckle, and the charging Gondorians faltered ever so slightly. Ever so slightly was all Durandir needed. His blade raised high, he charged as well.
Inside the Citadel:
To say Denethor was unhappy was an understatement. "My lord, we have to get you out of here!" one of his attendants was shouting, fear in the man's voice.
Denethor stood imperiously. "And why should I? I refuse to leave in the face of my enemy. And besides," he grinned, "the Citadel and Fountain Guard are the best soldiers in Gondor. No fiend of Mordor could defeat them all."
Just as he finished talking, the shouting outside turned into screams of fear and pain, and the doors burst open. Everyone in the throne room turned to see the four Citadel Guards, whose bodies had opened the doors, slide down the polished marble floors. There stood a man at the mouth of the Citadel, and he was dressed all in black. He held an odd blade, which Denethor could not discern where it originally came from.
The man started forward smoothly, his movements those of a skilled warrior. And Denethor knew true fear when he saw the man's eyes, which were as dark as the blackest of nights. He sheathed the odd sword as he came forward, and did not flinch as one of the few remaining Citadel Guards charged him with a drawn sword. Denethor watched the man in curiosity as he didn't even draw his blade, at least not yet.
Durandir's POV:
He sighed as the Citadel Guard charged him, the man screaming in a desperate rage. The second the man entered his range, Durandir let fly his Battojutsu Soryusen, his sword cleaving the man's blade in half before his sheath caught the man in the head, sending the Gondorian flying into one of the pillars with enough force to dent the man's armor severely.
Durandir glared at the fallen man in annoyance as he sheathed his sword, but once the click of hilt against sheath was heard, he turned his impassive gaze upon the Steward of Gondor. "The way you greet allies is most curious, Denethor son of Ecthelion. And most annoying."
"Ally?" Denethor spat. "How can you be an ally?"
Durandir blinked at him, a small and cold frown marring his face. "If I was an enemy, I would have had my dragon partner burn the entire spire with her flames, including all of your precious Citadel and Fountain Guards, as well as the White Tree and the Fountain. Then I would have come in here and killed you all without a single problem. After all, my blade has felled legions of men and orcs without them being able to even scratch me. Instead, I merely came to your council as quickly as I could, and defended myself when I needed to." He straightened ever so slightly. "Gandalf, how are you?"
"Quite well Durandir, though I believe your method of entry is rather unorthodox." The White Wizard had headed for the Citadel as soon as he had heard of the approaching dragon, and yet Durandir had still beaten him.
Denethor scoffed as he sat back down into his chair. "Another singular ally, hm? Do you also want the beacons to be lit? Do you think Gondor needs aid?"
Durandir's cold laugh echoed around the cavernous room. "No, the beacons need not be lit, for Rohan is already mobilizing. And your foolishness will kill all of your people, by the way."
Denethor's face twitched with anger. "You dare call me a fool?" he roared.
"Yes, I do. Your ignorance will cause not only your death, but the near death of your son, despite the fact that there was still hope. You are the leader of a strong people, yet your weakness would kill them all, your despair will destroy Gondor. You think that you are wise, and noble. But the Palantir gives out lies, Steward." There were gasps from the attendants and lords that were in the hall. "Sauron will lead you down the path of utter despair. So I say again. Dotard, you who are as ignorant as dirt."
"Guards, remove this man!" Denethor bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth.
"NO!" The shout reverberated throughout the hall, and dust shook from the ceiling. Any guards who had moved froze with shock. "First, I am not a man, but a half-vampire. My father's line, villain though he may have been, extends far back in the genealogy of vampires, and I am more noble than you may think I am. Second, would you be foolish enough to remove your greatest ally? Or are you afraid? Afraid of the coming of the King? Or afraid of me, instead?"
Denethor's face darkened with rage. "The throne of Gondor is mine, and no other's!"
Again Durandir laughed at Denethor. "You idiot! You couldn't stop the King's return, even if you tried. If you did, I would have your son replace you, by any means possible."
"You could get executed for your words!" Denethor threatened. This time it was Gandalf who laughed.
"The entire army of Gondor could not stop Durandir, even if he took your threat seriously enough to care. Especially if he had his army behind him."
"Indeed, Denethor. I have one thousand men with weapons that could burn this city to the ground without them even having to try. So please, just hear me out."
"Fine, master vampire. What dost thou want?" Denethor sarcastically asked.
"As many skilled laborers as possible, and enough digging tools to equip them, and a thousand more men."
Denethor blinked in surprise as Durandir watched him in amusement. Evidently he hadn't expected something so…useless. "Granted. But what for?"
Durandir smiled icily. "Oh you'll see, milord. You'll see."