"This is a mess," Peregrine Boffin said as he looked out over the barren plain. There were still scatterings of trees, but most of the land had been stripped down to the dirt and rocks. He was not the only one who felt this way, but he was willing to say his piece.
Peregrine Boffin stood in the tent as the leaders of the various groups voiced their opinions on how to attack. He was there by virtue of being the Warder of the Western March, and the commander of the Army of the Mark, two thousand hobbits with less sense than he had. The Took, as Thane, had given him that honor. Peregrine listened politely, and smiled his approval whenever anyone asked, then made excuses and slipped away.
Because of his lack of enthusiasm, the hobbits had been given a small role in the planned advance. Their archers and pikemen would be the reserve, with the main task of watching the goblin contingent, who were there as no more than observers. Peregrine lit his pipe and looked over the land. 'It had been too easy,' he thought, as he puffed away. 'We've marched all this way into a barren wasteland, to find nothing. He kept eyeing the curves of the hills, as the night passed on.
"You are up late, hobbit," said Dwarin, as the meeting ended. "I had thought you would be asleep in your tent long before now."
"Do you think we will fight tomorrow?" Peregrine asked, letting his annoyance slip through.
"Perhaps, little friend," Dwarin said with a grin, "We might even save some for you."
Peregrine watched as the Dwarf walked away. "I don't like it," he said, "I don't like it one bit."
"And what would that be," Hermione said, coming up to him.
"I did not realize you were up, my Lady," Peregrine said with a bow, "I meant nothing, I was just clearing my head."
"My Lord Warder," Hermione said in response, "We both know that we are here as window dressing. The nice little hobbits and the teenage beauty queen. There are many things that are not to like. Please tell me which one you do not like today."
"The enemy, My Lady," Peregrine said with a smile, "He doesn't play by the rules."
"And are there rules in war, for this is a war if I am not mistaken?"
"There are rules, and there are rules, and the first rule is that you do not let the enemy know what you are doing. That is why we rush forward and then wait and then do a dance. But the enemy isn't doing that. They are running, and they let us know they are running. I don't believe them, and no one believes me."
"And so you watch," Hermione mused, "I hope you are wrong, and I fear you are right, My Lord. What would you have me do?"
"Talk to the elves," Peregrine said, "This veil they cast to prevent the use of magic hampers us more than the enemy. We are safe from any sudden appearance by the Dark Lord, but we are blind to what is not in front of our eyes. I should say that I am amused, though. Many of the men who came, brought weapons to use, and these will not work either. We fight with little more than sticks and stones."
"There are reasons," Hermione said, "but you know them as well as I."
"There's nothing to be done," Peregrine said, knocking the dottle out of his pipe. "It is time to wake up my army, so we can spend another day watching everyone's behind."
He went off, and Hermione heard a low horn call. She listened as the rustling of hobbits grew louder. The sun would not be up for another two hours, but they would be ready at dawn.
*
Brigadier MacGregor was not happy with the arrangements. He had been given the task of organizing the ranks of the various groups of men. It was slow going, but things were coming together. Most of them were volunteers from the 'Show Brigade,' an ad hoc military group which specialized as extras in battle scenes. MacGregor smiled as he remembered one movie shot, where he asked Mel Gibson for an autograph (for his granddaughter).
MacGregor thought back to the strange request he had received from the British Government. His honorary title was made an actual rank, in exchange for leading an army which already knew how to use swords and shields. Thus, an aging movie extra became a British Officer overnight. The money was good, and most of the group agreed to come as well. When they were told the truth, that they would be fighting a real war, some few grumbled, but no one backed down. They had played in too many movies, to turn down the real thing. His reveries disturbed, the Brigadier looked up as a runner came to him.
"The left flank, sir, they've been attacked. They're coming this way." The runner said all of this in one quick breath.
"How bad is it?" Markham asked, "What are we talking about?"
"A few hundred of the orcs hid in one of the few patches of trees that remain. They are not doing much damage but they have stopped the advance while we take care of them."
The General called his staff and had the runner lead the way. He would get a first hand look at the enemy, and finally see how they fight.
He approached the line as the skirmish appeared to be ending. Then another wave of orcs, perhaps two hundred appeared to harass the line. MacGregor cursed at the delay, but kept his head, calling the runner to him.
"Get to the command tent as quickly as possible. Tell them I'm being hit repeatedly by small groups of skirmishers. I need reliable scouts immediately. This may be the start of something."
In seconds, the runner was on his horse, racing toward the command tent. As the rider faded in the distance a shout rang out from the point, the place where the line had bent to face the flanking attack. As the General looked up, thousands of orcs attacked the line, breaking the point. At the same time, more orcs ran out to pin the flank. "Damn," MacGregor cursed, as he drew his sword. The line had collapsed as the enemy raced through the breach, in what the Brigadier had to admit was a well executed assault.
To their credit, the junior officers were pulling the men together and reforming the lines, but the enemy had him surrounded on three sides. Across the sea of orcs he could see the other side of the line, falling back, (running like scared rabbits) to the far hills.
They would escape, MacGregor knew, but he would not The trap was well laid, and they were cut off from the main army. All of them would die. "But we will make the enemy pay as large a price as possible," MacGregor muttered to himself. "Hail the Spartans," he called out, telling all of the men his plans and their situation. They were Twelve Hundred Men, twice and twice again the number of their Spartan brothers, but like them, his men would buy precious time for the others to reform. MacGregor guessed that some Ten Thousand orcs and more had attacked him, and over half stayed to fight him. Every minute he held on was one more minute he kept these orcs from joining the main body.
"Runner," he called, " the enemy left flank is massing. Warn the commanders, we will try to retreat to the rear, and away from the main lines." They won't expect that, MacGregor thought, to break out and run deeper into their clutches. But he knew what he was doing. There was high ground there. His duty was not to survive, that was no longer possible. He had to delay, and hope that it was enough.
With surprisingly few losses, the trapped men broke out of the encirclement, running quickly to the chosen battle ground, a long sloping hill. As quickly as they could, the line was reformed to meet the pursing orcs, who were caught in surprise at the well executed maneuver. Many died as they failed to realize that the enemy was, once again, a determined fighter.
In an ever decreasing circle they fought, taking a deadly toll. The folly of the situation even reached the Brigadier. With half his men, already lost, he was outnumbered, eight to one. But the enemy couldn't get close enough to finish him off easily. Then MacGregor knew that the tide had turned. The orcs often paused between assaults, but a large orc could be seen in the distance, arguing. As MacGregor watched through his binoculars, the orc Chieftain began to hew the heads from several orcs.
"This is it," the Brigadier called out in warning, as the orcs organized for a new attack. "They've got a new boss now, and he won't let up. Brace yourselves, men. For God and Country."
The orcs attacked, and their front ranks died, paying dearly for the loss of even one man. Without the usual pause, another attack was launched, then a third. Man and orc died together in the massive sword play, as the line contracted, until the Show Brigade was a small circle of less than one hundred men. Then the enemy pulled back.
"What's happening, Sir," a soldier asked, surprised at the sudden breather.
The Brigadier raised his binoculars, and said, "Archers. They're finally going to finish us off the smart way."
"You called the Spartan thing right, George," a captain said, "that's the way they ended as well."
MacGregor smiled and said, "You may be right, Jim, but I don't plan to sit here and become a pincushion."
"You've got a way out?"
"Sorry, I still haven't figured that one out," MacGregor said shrewdly, "but they've pulled their fighters back to let their archers have room. Archery is a poor sport at close range."
"We're going to attack?" Jim asked in surprise.
"And take as many of them with us," The Brigadier said, "FORM RANKS."
The men lined up to face the archers, which many orcs found amusing, and even more amusing as they began to throw away their shields. Then the shout rang out from the ranks of the men, "Have Fear, Have Fear, There Is A MacGregor Among You."
The men attacked. The unformed ranks of archers was hit hard with severe casualties. The orcs recovered from their surprise and attacked the now available targets but again at great cost. A dying man does not fear death, and will kill even as he is dying.
It had taken the orcs almost six hours to finally kill the last man. The Brigadier, and all of his men had died, but they had killed four times that many, and kept more than five thousand other orcs from joining the attack.
*
The Warder of the Western March looked over the field. Men, and a few dwarves were running, with no chance to stop and fight. The orcs were swarming behind them, as they came to the last hill before the main camp.
"Form a line," Peregrine shouted, "Don't advance, stay on the crest." The hobbits formed a line as long as they could at the top of the hill and waited, pikes ready, and arrows notched. They stood and watched as hundreds of men and dwarves came running up the hill toward their line. Grelchik was angry. This was not the way to save their investment. He howled at the hobbit commander only to be told to shut up or leave. He grumbled but kept silent, and watched as the wave of violence approached.
"Runner," Peregrine called out, and a hobbit stepped out of the line. "Inform the elvin commander that I hold the left flank. Tell him to send what reinforcements he can spare. And as you pass them, tell the drovers to bring up the store of arrows. We will need them."
When a hobbit looked to set down his pike, Grelchik said, "Give it to me, at least I can hold on to part of my investment." As the hobbit in question ran off to deliver the message, the goblin stepped up to look at what was happening. He froze in horror. Some of the groups below him were fighting but most were running. The fastest had already reached the crest of the hill, passed through the line of hobbits, and were still running.
"If you're going to use that, you need to hold it down more," someone said to him.
Grelchik looked over to see a hobbit staring at him. He suddenly realized where he was. Most of the alliance troops had passed through the line, and orcs, his distant cousins, were rushing up the hill. "The names Toma Proudfoot," The hobbit said, "And if we want to know each other better, you'd best hold that pike down like this."
The goblin had the pike put in place, and was told how to stand. He then froze in that position, not knowing what to do.
The orcs hit the line of pikes, and stopped. The line shuddered, and hobbits dropped as some of the orcs got through. Hobbits in the second line took care of them. Archers began to fire over the heads of the pikemen, sowing confusion amongst the confident orcs.
The orcs fell back, and came again. Again the line shuddered, and again arrows killed anything taller than a hobbit. The orcs fell back again, formed themselves, and marched at the line of hobbits, but there weren't just hobbits anymore. Dwarves had quickly filled the places made vacant by the dead and wounded. Men did the same, as others reinforced and extended the line. In the midst of this, was one very frightened and very excited goblin, who found the courage to stay.
"My name is Grelchik," the goblin said during a brief pause. The act of talking made him feel better for some reason.
"Nice to meet you, Grel, and just call me Tom," the hobbit said.
"My name's Derry," the hobbit on the other side said, adding, "Here they come again."
Elves had come up, and with a quick word to the hobbit commander, a new order was given. As the orcs approached the crest, the front line knelt while archers stepped behind them, and loosed arrows at close range. The orcs kept coming until too many of their commanders had been killed. Then they broke, and ran back to safety. Relief filled everyone, but the orcs did not go far. More were coming, and a new attack would begin soon.
Peregrine called to one of the elves, asking about support. The elf told him that he had all that could come. They were being engaged all along the lines, and everyone was hard pressed. Then Peregrine received the bad news. They had with them some eighteen thousand, but the orcs that could be seen, were estimated to be at least twice that, probably more. Horns sounded, and Peregrine looked out. The orcs were coming again, and they did not plan to be stopped.
The Warder ran down the line, trying to be everywhere at once. "Stand the line," he shouted, "You know what to do." He watched as the tide came closer. They reached the bottom of the hill and began their climb. He shouted for everyone to wait, then, when the enemy was halfway up the hill, with only fifty yards to cross, he gave the signal to attack.
Pikes and axes flashed in the sunlight as the two lines crashed into each other. This time, the orcs did not hit a stone wall. This time, the wall hit them. Fighting was fierce. The orcs were put off their guard, those advancing running into those trying to retreat. A heavy toll was taken, but the orcs did not break. Archers fired into the enemy lines as Peregrine ordered his troops back to the crest. They would have another small respite, while the orcs decided what to do.
Tom and Grelchik made it back to the crest. The goblin looked over to see someone new standing next to him. The hobbit he had talked to so briefly would never talk to him again. Grel readied his pike against the advancing orcs.
*
Dal Dagda looked out over the battlefield. The orcs had laid a clever trap. If their timing had been better, they would have caught both wings by surprise. As it was, the right flank, mostly elves, had enough warning to prepare. They had fought all morning, and the sun stood high above them. Many a friend would awaken in the west, and the elves were diminished that much more. The pressure on the elves was steady, but could be contained. The orcs, although many, and violent, were brawlers, rather than fighters. The elf guessed that the more experienced ones were put in the first lines for the surprise assault, and had long since been killed.
He was near the point when the line broke. The hobbits held the high ridge, and could not be moved, while the elves held the plains to their right. But their center was weak, and the orcs discovered this. They pushed an assault, and the alliance army was split in two.
If war could be considered funny, Dal Dagda would have laughed. The line had been broken, and a wide-open space lay between the two flanks. The orcs, however, had overspent themselves, and could not take advantage of the gap. Two battles were now being fought, side by side, until reinforcements could be brought up. Whoever filled that hole first, would be able to rout the other's army. Dal Dagda's only problem was that he had no reserves, and he feared that the General, or should he say the hobbit commander, had no reserves either.
*
Hermione had talked to Galdor, and was returning with a message for Peregrine. Her horse was passing the center, when the line broke. She watched in horror as the dwarves were forced back under the pressure of the assault. Then she spotted a pocket of some dozen dwarves being slowly surrounded. She drew the sword she had been given, and pointed Dineth toward the group.
The mare forced its way through the orcs, doing damage to any which did not flee. Hermione swung her sword, mostly to keep the orcs at bay. She reached the pocket of dwarves, and dismounted. Freed from protecting her rider, Dineth attacked the surrounding orcs with vigor.
"Dineth will make a path for us," Hermione shouted.
"That is all well and good," Dwarin said, "But we are trying not to die. Just keep swinging that sword. Keep them out of reach."
Hermione swung her sword at the orcs surrounding her, making feints and stabs. Dwarin and the other dwarves were being more effective than she was, and they were making progress. An assault by other Dwarves was launched in their direction, and soon they were part of a retreating group, instead of a surrounded one. As they made it behind their lines, Dwarin grabbed Hermione and shouted, "Well done, my Lady, I did not know your skill, but you were wonderful."
"I've never held a sword before today," Hermione shouted back, "How can you say I was wonderful?"
"Because we are alive, my Lady," Dwarin shouted with a laugh. "You may not have known what to do, but you did know what not to do, and that is what counts."
Dwarin grabbed one of the goblins milling about, and had them take Hermione to a safe place, telling her, "You did a wonderful job of looking brave, but you are still too young for this. Please stay where they take you." He saw the girl off, and turned back to the battle. It had been a long morning. He had learned the hard way not to underestimate hobbits or young girls. Both had, in their own ways, saved his life this day.
*
"What do you have to report?" Voldemort demanded.
"We have split the enemy line at the center," the war-orc said in its rasping voice, "We have no one to spare. We need more troops if we are to take advantage of the gap."
Voldemort cursed, as he faced another delay. The elves had cast some spell, making all magic useless, which meant his greatest creations, the orc mages, were also useless. Despite that, he had crushed the enemy, only to have his troop stumble over hobbits, those despicable half-sized creatures. Now his second chance to end this was delayed, until more orcs could be gathered to be sent forward. That these orcs where almost green would make no difference, but it would take time. He had to deal with those centaurs first.
The centaurs had been clever, making an overly long trip to come at him from behind. They prevented him from sending reinforcements but they were not enough to hold him much longer. The Dark Lord smiled in anticipation. As soon as this ragtag army was crushed, and that elvin curse lifted, he would destroy anything that survived that did not call him master. Then with his enemies too weak to withstand him, he would grab the Ring, and Power.
The Dark Lord took those troops he could spare and marched to the battle only ten miles away. What he left behind should be able to rout the centaurs, but he had to have this victory on the field.
*
Harry Potter flew his broom as quickly as he could. It had been a last minute decision, but he could not pass it up. He would have the chance again to be a hero. And this time he would not have to share it. He flew above the battlefield, and casually cast a few fireballs at pockets of orcs. As he looked down, he saw who he was looking for, and landed near Dal Dagda.
"That was very impressive, Harry Potter," the elf said.
"I've always been a natural at flying," Harry answered.
"I was referring to your use of magic," Dal Dagda explained, "We have suppressed all use of magic on the battlefield."
Bemused, Harry said, "It could be because of this," and showed them the sword of Godric Gryffindor. As a test, he set the sword down and tried to cast a spell. Nothing happened. He sheathed the sword and tried again. A small light appeared on the tip of his wand.
"We need information, more than fires" Dal Dagda said with a smile, "if you could fly over the battlefield, and let me know what you see."
"I'm on my way," Harry said, "Do you mind if I have some fun while I fly around?"
"If it means killing orcs, I have no objection," the Elf Lord said with a wave. It was good to have one wizard, but it would not be enough, he thought.
*
"Why isn't anyone next to you?" Sean asked.
"Because I'm now the end of the line," Draco said, calmly, "If those orcs get around me, then we are done for."
"Draco, you've saved my life a half dozen times already," Sean said, talking more out of nervousness, than anything else.
"I was only saving my life," Draco said, "If they killed you, they would kill me next."
As though not thinking about it, Draco quickly thrust out his pike, killing an advancing orc. He did that almost automatically. It helped to know what the enemy planned to do.
"They're coming," Draco said, "Then we will have fun."
*
Fighting had begun, just after dawn. "That had been more than eight hours ago," Peregrine Boffin said to himself. He looked from his vantage point at the hole in the center of the line. Well-placed archers kept the enemy from taking advantage of it, but he could not spare anyone. His line was already spread thin. He raised the field glasses he had been given, and looked out at a cloud rising in the distance. It was a line of orcs, maybe five thousand strong. They were marching toward the gap at great haste.
Peregrine tried to think of a plan, something, anything he could do, when Hermione pointed him to another cloud. It was movement, but no one was supposed to be off in that direction. Peregrine thought it might be the centaurs, successful in their raid, but whoever approached was smaller than a centaur.
"Do you think they could be ours?" Hermione asked, holding her bandaged arm.
"We face south, and the elves face almost west," Peregrine pointed out. "The pits are about ten miles off to the southeast. These are coming from the northwest. They could be anyone."
Then, a horn sounded, a hobbit horn. Peregrine gave a signal and the horn was answered by one of his own. Cheers began to move up and down the line. As the advancing group came close, they were seen to be horsemen racing for the gap. Behind them were hobbits, running as fast as they could, and being led by a half-grown lad riding a unicorn.
"That rascal did it," Peregrine shouted, handing the field glasses to Hermione. She looked at the leader, and saw that it was Faramir, once again returned from the dead.
"I know he did it," Hermione said, "I just want to know how."