Chapter 6 – The Wasteland

In the Western Wastes…

The night was cold, bitterly cold as the majority of the Narnian army slept in the wasteland while watches were posted. Once they lost what light managed to make it through the darkened clouds, the desert night's cold was frigid, like Narnia's hundred year, Christmas-less winter threatened to return each evening and would only leave once the dawn's light broke in the east. Those troops who bore a natural fur or long hair did better with it than those with short hair, or like the sons of Adam, none at all. The kings of Narnia, as well as those troops from Archenland found themselves sleeping in their heavy woolen armor padding wrapped in woolen blankets. Even still, the cold managed to find a way through and chill them to the bone during the night.

They had marched out from the western edge of Narnia on the sixth day after the slaughter of the orc lumbercamps, and the day after the wagons loaded down with casks of water and food supplies for the trek west arrived. At first, the thinking had been to follow Sir Eric's recommendation to march at night, but they soon realized those nights before they began their march that the darkness of the cloud cover made that impossible. At night, even the light of the stars and the waning moon were blotted out and the world of the wasteland was plunged into a darkness so thick, so tangible, one might have been forgiven for thinking they had been condemned to the abyss. Even those talking beasts which were nocturnal and accustomed to operating in darkness had difficulty seeing anything with no source of light at all. Torches which were lit around the camp even could only do so much, and the darkness around them fought against the light of the flames furiously. The desert days, so blistering and unforgiving when the Gondorian knight had made his own crossing, had been tamed by the heavy cloud cover, reducing them to merely warm, even temperate.

Each day, two hours before they lost all light from what sun managed to break though, the company would call for a halt to break camp for the night to eat, sleep, and take in the reports of both the scouts of the ground who could run ahead much faster, and those scouts in the sky, the griffins and eagles who could see hundreds of miles farther than they. These flying scouts proved invaluable to them, keeping a careful watch on the lands which were their goal, and reported back frequently with news either welcome or troublesome. Some of these also kept watch over their rear supply lines to ensure the precious wagons continued to moved freely across the land, as well as taking post between the army's current encampment and dropping it at either Cair Paravel in Narnia or Anvard in Archenland where it could then be distributed to families and loved ones.

Just before what passed for dawn, the army was awakened to march once more across the drab desert sands, rocks, and dry gulleys, always keeping an eye to the west, their flying scouts especially keeping them on course without the presence of the sun to guide them. Sir Eric was right in that there was the occasional pool of water hidden away in clefts, but they were never enough to quench the thirst of tens of thousands either great or small in stature, and many were fouled and undrinkable for anyone.

On the second day of marching, the flying scouts spotted another company of orcs traveling eastwards along their path, but still a good distance off. Twenty of the fiends surrounded two large wooden wagons pulled by some two legged monstrosities that barely resembled either orc or man, and was four times as large. It was the Gondorian who identified these beasts of burden as mountain trolls. These orcs were different from most of those the Narnians had encountered at first. Those who had first followed Sir Eric into Narnian land all had skin the color of pitch, black as obsidian or volcanic rock. These appeared shorter than those first orcs, less muscular, and were paler in skin color. Some were pale like light had never touched their skin, others were gray as though themselves already corpses, and still a few had a sickly green tinge to them.

In a way, the Narnians had been strangely fortunate that this was their first sighting of the servants of Sauron since they began their march. Since that first encounter, they had run across no additional orc laborers or caravans to reinforce those already sent. The desert had belonged to the Narnian army unchallenged up to that point except by scorpions, lizards, and desert vipers.

It had been Sir Eric himself, once more mounted on Fleetfeather's back who had spotted them. He and the griffin had formed a good partnership over those days since he had first left Cair Paravel westwards, and they worked well together taking in the lay of the land as they flew ahead. For this reason they had been made captains of the airborne company. They had scouted the regions westward from the air every day along with dozens of others, flying as far as the ruins at Lithlad in northeastern Mordor and Ered Glamhoth in the southeast before turning back and reporting to the kings and captains when the army had made camp before dusk. He was certain that the travelers with the wagons were orcs and not eastern men. What he was not certain of was what the wagons held as there were heavy tarps which had been thrown over them, and neither man nor griffin could see their contents.

It was the third day of the Narnians' march, and the presence of the orcs only served to reinforce where they now were, and into whose land they had come. The river upon which they had put their trust in for fresh water after their own supplies had begun to run dry was not far off, the Gondorian projected that the army would reach it just after noon on the morrow. But neither was the fortress to the army's northwest in Lithlad. It was a gleaming structure that, from Sir Eric's knowledge of architecture, hearkened back to the days of the Numenoreans, though it had clearly succumbed to the pressures of time and its monstrous occupancy. While Sauron's servants could destroy and ruin like no other, orcs could never have built something so grand and magnificent as he saw. From the knight's overflights, he could easily imagine there were at least a thousand orcs within its walls, maybe two thousand, and not the laborers which the Narnians overcame beyond the western wood either. These would be real warriors.

The knight and his griffin partner now kept watch from a bluff high above them as the enemy party made its way through a desert canyon. The light was beginning to fade on that day. The orcs and their trolls had not slept the entire night, and had closed the distance between themselves and the Narnians during that time to where they were a mere hour, maybe two at their current pace from stumbling on the army's encampment. The ground beneath them was all sand at the moment as there was no road, paved or unpaved, which would take them where they would go.

What the orcs did not know was that there was a small company of forty centaurs and men on horseback lying in ambush, just waiting for them among the rocks and clefts. If all went according to plan, the orcs would not know what hit them, and the fortress that sent them would not know what had happened to them or their cargo.

Closer and closer they came. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. And then the centaur captain gave the signal. Arrows flew penetrating half the orc party's skulls within seconds. They fell, spilling black blood all over the sand. The rest of the orc warriors dove for cover under their wagons and behind the trolls who took hit after hit with arrows until they looked like a maiden's sewing pincushion, but did not fall. Then, the mounted cavalry from Archenland and the Narnian centaurs charged them, intending to impale the trolls on swords and bleed them with axes.

When they saw the arrows had ceased firing, the remaining orcs appeared again from their hiding places only to see the Narnian cavalry bearing down on them. The soldiers reached the first troll intending to cut into its neck, but the massive creature went wild either from the pain of the arrows still imbedded in its flesh or from the appearance of the armored riders charging at it. It began crying out in great roars, thrashing and swiping at the cavalry and didn't seem to either know or care where its fists went as one orc was backhanded so hard that it flew into the side of a rocky bluff and didn't rise again. Another received a fist to the noggin and dropped like a stone when his head cracked. The soldiers tried to stay clear of the beast, but two got caught by its powerful blows and both horses and riders went down unmoving.

The troll continued to thrash from its wounds and began to beat on the wagon it was strapped to and overturned it, spilling its contents including several sealed casks which hit the sand and burst open. Their foul smelling contents spilled all over the sand where the creature was thrashing. Around them, the riders continued to beat down the remaining orcs, putting them to the edge of their blades, and attempted to contain both trolls after the second one joined his fellow in its lethal dance of madness.

One soldier yelled to a nearby centaur so loud that Sir Eric could hear from his perch up above, "How do we kill this thing?!"

"You're asking me?! I've never seen one before in my life, Archenlander!" The centaur shouted back as he just narrowly leaped out of the way of a wild blow.

With the orcs dispatched, the remaining soldiers concentrated on each of the trolls, crowding around them and probing them for weaknesses. None of them had ever seen such powerful and malevolent creatures before. While there were creatures the Narnians called "trolls" in the Trollshaws of the northern country called Northfell, they were nowhere near the size and strength of these brutes.

They were so preoccupied with the trolls, they didn't notice the sand shifting beneath their feet.

Suddenly, right where the first troll was standing, a massive armored white worm burst from the sand and grabbed the beast in its multi-jawed mouth ringed with jagged fangs. It was easily as thick around as an ancient tree and the height of a watchtower as it carried the troll into the air screaming for fear. Oily black fluid dribbled from the mouth of the worm as it dragged the troll back into the earth from whence it came, slamming it hard against the bluff twice for good measure.

Then a second one erupted just as abruptly and grabbed the centaur who had never seen these kinds of trolls before. Red centaur blood flowed from the mouth of the worm who had grabbed it from the underside, and he soon stopped struggling. The soldiers were taken by surprise but to their credit they shifted their attacks quickly to the worms, losing all interest in the remaining troll in the attempt to save their comrades.

A third one burst out of the ground and grabbed another rider on his horse. The poor animal didn't last long as the fangs ripped into its underbelly, but the man was encased in armor from head to foot, and the worm's dagger like fangs couldn't find an entryway to the soft flesh beneath it.

Thinking quickly, Sir Eric asked Fleetfeather, "Can you carry two men at once?"

"Not for long, but maybe!" Fleetfeather announced, believing he knew what the knight meant for them to do. "Jump on!"

The two leaped from their perch and dove for the man still struggling in the worm's mouth but alive. Fleetfeather grabbed at the man's arms with his forward talons trying to pull him free from the mouth of the beast. His armor was stained with bloody gore of his horse, and slippery.

Seeing that it wasn't working, Sir Eric drew his sword and with only the thought of freeing the man, he leaped off of Fleetfeather's back and onto the back of the worm sword tip downwards and finding a chink in the worm's armor, drove it into what he took for the creature's head.

Surprised, the worm released the Archenlander soldier and he fell to the ground. It then began to thrash around in pain and confusion, throwing the knight this way and that until he was shaken off the worm's back and it dropped itself back into the ground. He landed hard on the sand, but whole and alive.

Around him however, more worms had erupted from the ground. More than he could count in that moment of time to see them. They attacked anything which moved and especially seemed to congregate near where the casks of foul smelling orc grog had emptied their contents across the sands.

"Fall back!" He cried out as his fellows continued to be attacked. "Run!"

He ran for the man he had dared to try and save and, taking him by the hand, with the strength given him by the danger of the moment, he hauled him to his feet, armor and all, and began to run with him. Nearby, he could hear the pounding of horse and centaur hooves against the desert sand as the soldiers fled back in the direction in which they had come. One particularly large centaur warrior ran by the knight and hoisted the injured horseman onto his own back before breaking into a full gallop from that place. With the injured man secured, and the rest of their men in the retreat, Sir Eric ran as fast as he could until his felt large, eagle like talons grab a hold of both arms and he was lifted from the ground and into the sky.

"I've got you, friend!" Fleetfeather shouted at him. "What are those things?!"

It took a moment for Sir Eric to recover himself as he watched the scene below him, grieving for the good centaurs and men whom he could not rescue, their blood staining the sands they were dragged beneath.

"Were-wyrms!" The knight finally responded. "I had thought them only legends! My men and I hadn't encountered them when last I was here!"

Fleetfeather drew him back up to the safety of the bluff, and from there Sir Eric counted close to a dozen of the were-wyrms which had been drawn to the battle. When they had all returned to the earth beneath them, he mounted the griffin once more and flew to catch up with the retreating soldiers as they all returned to camp.

Now we know why the east of Mordor is so lightly guarded. He thought to himself mournfully. I should have known. He felt the deaths of those good soldiers lost most keenly on his own conscience. It was his information that had led them to this road.

That Evening…

The discovery of the were-wyrms beneath the sands along their intended route caused no little debate among the kings and captains of the army that evening. They would have reached the river by late afternoon of the next day if it were not for the worms guarding the sands of the passes through the bluffs and canyons of the desert. As it stood, they had lost ten to the wyrms, excepting the one that Sir Eric had valiantly rescued. And more might have been dragged beneath had he not sounded the retreat when he did.

"Is there any other way to reach the river by tomorrow?" High King Peter questioned the knight.

"The most direct route is through the canyons, your majesty." The knight replied, pointing down to the map of Mordor he had originally drawn up. Since that point, he had updated it with new information as he had gathered it, and drawn in more details as he could remember them from his flights with his griffin companion. "Any further northwest will take us up to the gates of the orc fortress and through those same sands."

"So you're saying we have to run the sands and risk losing our people as food for worms? That is not acceptable." The high king replied.

"Not necessarily, your majesty." Sir Eric replied. "On our last overflight, we discovered a pass through the cliffs and mountains to the southwest. It will lead to greener lands and rockier footing where I don't believe the were-wyrms can trouble us, but we will not reach the river by tomorrow should we take it. And Fleetfeather saw the smoke from cooking fires, and the movement of people in that direction."

"People? What sort of people?" King Edmond asked, listening to the exchange.

"We were at too great a distance. He couldn't be sure, but it is known there are easterlings, men of the east which live in the mountains and around the sea. Allies of Sauron, your majesty." The knight replied.

"Our water supplies are nearing their end, as are the supplies of food. There is more coming according to the latest letter from Susan, but we will need to stop marching for several days for the wagons to catch up to us." Peter then told them.

"Why did the worms attack then and there?" A small voice asked. It was that of Klippiwick, the mouse captain. "What drew them to that spot? Certainly it wasn't the motion on the sand alone, otherwise they would have attacked the enemy wagons without our people having to do a thing."

"I'm not certain." Sir Eric replied to the diminutive swordsmen, considering the question. "They first congregated in the spot where the wagons had been overturned by the trolls that drew them. Casks of the orc's foul liquor had burst open and spilled on the sand. The worms first attacked at those points."

The mouse thought as well on his words before asking, "Can we use that somehow? Perhaps bait them and draw them out so that we can destroy them and allow our people to pass through safely?"

"We barely survived our last encounter with the wyrms. Even if we could find something to bait them as well as the orc's liquor, I thrust my sword into the head of one and did little better than to scare it off." The knight answered.

"What about the explosives the dwarves lent us?" Edmond then asked, remembering the wagons which they had so carefully drawn with them on their march. "If we could draw them out across our path and then drop the explosives onto them when they emerge, we could clear a path directly through to the river."

"Bait them and bomb them?" Peter asked, considering his brother's proposal.

"Well… yes." Edmond replied, still thinking through the details of his plan as they spoke. "We could drop bait along the route with the flying scouts, let it hit the sand and soak in for a minute, then circle back and when the worm emerges and opens its mouth, drop a bomb down its gullet like a bitter medicine. We may not need risk anyone on the ground for it at all."

The captain of the dwarven company, a dwarf named Glogin with a long black beard braided with iron rings, upon hearing reference to his people and their special weapons, perked up his ears to pay special attention. Noticing this, the high king asked him, "In your opinion, could these weapons do the job, Captain Glogin?"

"These explosives can put a hole the size of a minotaur and ten feet deep in solid rock, your majesty." Glogin replied proudly of his people's work. "I've no doubt they can blow one of these worms apart, especially if they were ingested by them."

"What do you think, Sir Eric?" Peter asked. "You've spent a great deal of time with Fleetfeather and the other flying scouts. Could they drop them with any accuracy?"

"Fleetfeather could tell you what color a man's eyes were from two hundred feet in the sky, your majesty." The knight replied. "And I've no doubt of the abilities of the others."

"But what about the bait?" Another captain asked, and with good reason. "We don't keep barrels of this 'orc grog' around. We've no idea even what it's made of."

"It stank of sour beer and rancid meat." Sir Eric said.

At this, the dwarven captain appeared to be at war with himself in his inner thoughts, tugging on his beard as if conflicted. Finally, coming to a resolution of his conflict, he spoke as if forced, "My… uh… my men might be able to spare some beer for this, your majesties."

"Beer? Where did you get beer from?" Edmond asked.

"Well, we brought the casks in our supply wagons, now didn't we?" Glogin responded defensively. "You said we'd have need of plenty of supplies on the march, and a dwarf's nothing without a good stout or ale, is he?" Seeing the kings eyeing him questioningly, he followed up with, "We weren't the only ones. The minotaurs brought their own horrid brews as well. If you want a beer that stinks of rancid meat, I'd ask them."

The minotaur captain glared at the dwarf in response for his betrayal, but then spoke, addressing the kings, "It's true, your majesty." He admitted. "We brought our own supplies of liquor to keep ourselves warm on the cold nights."

Peter shook his head in surprise, wondering why it surprised him so much, but then addressed both captains, saying, "Your people's vices may well end up being our army's salvation in this matter. Round up all the beer and liquor you can spare from both companies. If this plan succeeds, we will all have reason to be thankful for the foresight of your thirst for spirits." He then added, "If it succeeds, I'll raise a mug of stout with you myself.

At Dawn…

The sky began to lighten just after dawn. As it did, dozens of griffins and eagles took to th skies. In their claws and talons they carried flasks and casks of alcohol, or alternately, small metal canisters the size and shape of ostrich eggs and covered with dwarven runes. Leading them was Sir Eric and Fleetfeather. It was decided that they would be the first to test their "bait and bomb" strategy. The flight of newly commissioned "bombers" struck quickly for the sight of the ambush where everything went awry. It was thought that the wyrms they encountered the day before might still be in the area, and with the sand already soaked with the orc's grog, it might be the best place to try to lure one to the surface with fresh liquor on the sand.

The two reached the spot and circled high overhead. "Whenever you're ready, friend!" The knight told his griffin companion.

Nodding in response, the griffin kept his eagle like eyes pointed at the ground for just the right spot. Then, without warning, he dropped the cask of dwarven beer and watched as it fell from the great height overhead, smashing into splinters and foamy amber liquid against the sand.

"Now we see-" Sir Eric began to say, but he had barely begun to get the words out of his mouth before a huge were-wyrm burst from the sand and shot it's head some twenty feet into the air looking for prey.

Without more word, Fleetfeather dropped the payload in his other talons having seen just the right moment to let it go. The metal canister fell fast and hard and hit its target perfectly, much to the griffin's satisfaction.

The next thing they saw was the head and midsection of the worm bursting outwards in all direction in a great ball of flame, and a sound like thunder echoed throughout the bluffs and canyons. The headless body of the worm swayed violently this way and that and then collapsed on the sand where it continued to jerk spasmodically until it lay motionless.

"It works!" Sir Eric shouted triumphantly.

"Indeed! Bravo for the dwarves' ingenuity, and taste for the drink!" Fleetfeather replied cheerfully.

Sir Eric made a hand gesture to the others, giving the signal to proceed with their own runs. Soon, the entire desert was alive with the sounds of the explosions and the smell of dwarven beer. Worm after worm went for the bait, and some emerged from the ground regardless, presumably to find out what all the commotion was about. The griffins and eagles unleashed against them again and again for the next several hours, returning for more casks and munitions until the entire desert path between where the Narnians had made camp and the river which was their destination was littered with dozens if not hundreds of the corpses of the great white worms.

When an eagle dropped yet another flask of liquor and the ground gave no response or reply, the fleer of scouts turned back to join their fellows who by then had already packed up their camp and would be on the march around and through the gulleys and pathways of dead were-worms towards the river.

Sir Eric and Fleetfeather made one more circuit overflying the area just for good measure to survey their handiwork. That was when Fleetfeather called out to his rider, "Sir Eric! It appears we've drawn considerable attention to our expedition from the north!"

Eric turned his own eyes north to attempt to see what the griffin saw. There to the north from the fortress in Lithlad he saw large numbers of bodies flooding out of the gates and towards the worm strewn sandy path.

It was the fourth day, and Mordor was sending out their closest forces to welcome those who would disturb its 'peace.'

"We need to warn the kings to prepare for battle!" Sir Eric replied.

So it begins. The knight thought to himself.