A group of soldiers made their way east up the road. A blighted forest rose a few
hundred yards to the north of them, and to the south there was nothing but a barren, rocky
wasteland as far as the eye could see. They continually looked back nervously, for they were
guarding the rear of a long column of refugees. Before them were their families and their
comrades, their people. From behind them they knew that their enemies were approaching. The
dust cloud was gathering at the fortress, of Durthang nestled between the high mountains, that
they had just left full of traps and manned by a few brave souls to delay them. They were flying
from them as an arrow does from the bow.
One of the warriors looked forward. He was a young man with long black hair, and a
few days worth of stubble upon his face. He was dirty, sweat-soaked, and spattered with blood
from days upon days of constant battle. On the horizon he saw another dust cloud forming.
"Finally," he said, "Reinforcements, as I reckon, though a little late." He ordered his
exhausted soldiers to redouble their pace, so that they could re-join the other refugees. Within
the hour they had caught up with them. They continued their march, much relieved by the sight
of fresh troops to cover their flight, though it would still be some time before they would meet.
When it came to be time for the two allies to meet, the young warrior began to advance
through to the front, to meet the oncoming warriors. But suddenly, his people were running
back, away from their allies. He grabbed one woman as she ran past him.
"What is happening? Why are you running?" He demanded.
"The riders! They are killing us!" She clung to him desperately.
"What? Are they not our allies? Are they not the soldiers of our Lord?"
"They are! They are lead by the Nine! But still they kill us! We must flee! Please, let
me go!" She cried.
"What? Impossible!" He looked towards the north, and through the dust he saw a figure
running, and as he watched a rider appeared, leaned over, swung a sword and cut the figure
down. His grip slackened, and the woman fled. He drew forth his sword, held it aloof and
shouted above the din of the slaughter.
"To the woods! To the woods!" He signaled towards the forest with his sword, and the
masses began, even in the chaos of the massacre, to move towards the trees.
They ran over the lumpy ground, with their attackers riding upon their heels, picking off
those who were too slow or clumsy, like predators thinning out the sick, the weak, and the young
from a herd.
When he reached the woods, he turned, and mustered some of his remaining warriors.
They tried to block the rider's advance, though they were new in number. A rider approached
him, sword slashing towards his head. He raised his sword, barely in time to deflect the blow.
He went to strike back, but his opponent had ridden past him and stuck down a fleeing woman.
Another tried to ride past to his right, to easier pickings beyond, but he jumped upon him,
dragging him from his horse and running him through.
He looked about then, at the slaughter visited upon his people. His soldiers were fast
falling to the enemy's blades, and those common citizens fleeing were being cut down.
All that had been done was for naught. Joining in an alliance with the great capitol of
Barad Dur, despite that to do so alienated them from their brethren. Their sacrifices on the
battlefield for the cause. All gone, destroyed at the hands of those for whom they had done so
much for.
Their brethren... the troops that had stormed the fort... he grabbed the horse whose rider
he had just killed. They might be willing to help, and though it was unlikely, there was no other
hope. He mounted the horse, and began to ride, though the steed resisted it's new rider some,
but none the less it obeyed.
Emerging from the forest, he saw the dust cloud from the other army that had been
besieging their little fort. He rode hard, pushing the horse as fast as it could go. As he neared,
however, the din of battle only increased.
The human army was under attack. He circled around, trying to see where their leader
was, but no matter how far around he rode, all he saw were the soldiers of his former allies.
Then he saw a small group of mounted humans break through the lines, headed back towards the
fortress in the mountains, pursued by a handful of their attackers. He sped his mount on,
mirroring the actions of a predator, picking off the slower ones as he could.
There was a sudden crash, and halt in the enemy's charge. He went crashing into the
body of attacking soldiers. As he fought the soldiers surrounding him, he worked his way
forward and found that the human soldiers had turned to engage their pursuers, to buy some time
for the leader and his retinue. But it was an ill-fitting task for so few warriors. A handful of
enemy warriors outflanked the few soldiers standing in their way, and sped after the fleeing
leaders. He broke through the lines and pursued them.
Archers. He cursed under his breath. By the time he caught up to them they had already
fell half of those who had fled. He worked as fast as he could, but for every archer that died by
his sword, the numbers of the human soldiers ahead of him dwindled further. The last one had
notched an arrow as he swung his sword, missing the rider but cut deeply into his mount. The
horse screamed and fell, but the arrow flew still. The remaining survivor's horse tumbled
forward, throwing its rider as the arrow bit into its flanks. He reached the lone survivor as he
was rising. He was a man in dusty white robed, and shrank from the warrior as he offered his
hand.
"Come," He shouted, "Get on, we can escape!" The priest looked uncertainly at him,
then took his hand. Just then an black arrow pierced his side, and he fell, his hand limp. The
warrior looked back angrily, and saw the last archer that had lost his mount but apparently not
his life. He rounded about, charging the fell bowman, now desperately trying to reload his bow.
He leaned over as the soldier began to flee, and buried his blade in the greenskin's black guts.
He then turned back to the main battle, and spurned his horse on. But it wouldn't go. It
took a few steps forward, drenched in sweat and with red foam about its mouth, and stumbled,
its legs giving way beneath it. He threw himself from the horse as it fell, and rolled away.
Panting, he brushed himself off. He looked about him, bodies and blood everywhere.
All his people, gone. His brothers, whom he betrayed for his new allies, were being slaughtered
by the Nine and their cohorts. Carrion animals were gathering: flies, beetles, crows, ravens, and
vultures.
He rested is sword on his left shoulder, and walked away, into the barren wasteland to the
east. The army from Gorgoroth didn't notice the lone figure as he faded into the distance.
hundred yards to the north of them, and to the south there was nothing but a barren, rocky
wasteland as far as the eye could see. They continually looked back nervously, for they were
guarding the rear of a long column of refugees. Before them were their families and their
comrades, their people. From behind them they knew that their enemies were approaching. The
dust cloud was gathering at the fortress, of Durthang nestled between the high mountains, that
they had just left full of traps and manned by a few brave souls to delay them. They were flying
from them as an arrow does from the bow.
One of the warriors looked forward. He was a young man with long black hair, and a
few days worth of stubble upon his face. He was dirty, sweat-soaked, and spattered with blood
from days upon days of constant battle. On the horizon he saw another dust cloud forming.
"Finally," he said, "Reinforcements, as I reckon, though a little late." He ordered his
exhausted soldiers to redouble their pace, so that they could re-join the other refugees. Within
the hour they had caught up with them. They continued their march, much relieved by the sight
of fresh troops to cover their flight, though it would still be some time before they would meet.
When it came to be time for the two allies to meet, the young warrior began to advance
through to the front, to meet the oncoming warriors. But suddenly, his people were running
back, away from their allies. He grabbed one woman as she ran past him.
"What is happening? Why are you running?" He demanded.
"The riders! They are killing us!" She clung to him desperately.
"What? Are they not our allies? Are they not the soldiers of our Lord?"
"They are! They are lead by the Nine! But still they kill us! We must flee! Please, let
me go!" She cried.
"What? Impossible!" He looked towards the north, and through the dust he saw a figure
running, and as he watched a rider appeared, leaned over, swung a sword and cut the figure
down. His grip slackened, and the woman fled. He drew forth his sword, held it aloof and
shouted above the din of the slaughter.
"To the woods! To the woods!" He signaled towards the forest with his sword, and the
masses began, even in the chaos of the massacre, to move towards the trees.
They ran over the lumpy ground, with their attackers riding upon their heels, picking off
those who were too slow or clumsy, like predators thinning out the sick, the weak, and the young
from a herd.
When he reached the woods, he turned, and mustered some of his remaining warriors.
They tried to block the rider's advance, though they were new in number. A rider approached
him, sword slashing towards his head. He raised his sword, barely in time to deflect the blow.
He went to strike back, but his opponent had ridden past him and stuck down a fleeing woman.
Another tried to ride past to his right, to easier pickings beyond, but he jumped upon him,
dragging him from his horse and running him through.
He looked about then, at the slaughter visited upon his people. His soldiers were fast
falling to the enemy's blades, and those common citizens fleeing were being cut down.
All that had been done was for naught. Joining in an alliance with the great capitol of
Barad Dur, despite that to do so alienated them from their brethren. Their sacrifices on the
battlefield for the cause. All gone, destroyed at the hands of those for whom they had done so
much for.
Their brethren... the troops that had stormed the fort... he grabbed the horse whose rider
he had just killed. They might be willing to help, and though it was unlikely, there was no other
hope. He mounted the horse, and began to ride, though the steed resisted it's new rider some,
but none the less it obeyed.
Emerging from the forest, he saw the dust cloud from the other army that had been
besieging their little fort. He rode hard, pushing the horse as fast as it could go. As he neared,
however, the din of battle only increased.
The human army was under attack. He circled around, trying to see where their leader
was, but no matter how far around he rode, all he saw were the soldiers of his former allies.
Then he saw a small group of mounted humans break through the lines, headed back towards the
fortress in the mountains, pursued by a handful of their attackers. He sped his mount on,
mirroring the actions of a predator, picking off the slower ones as he could.
There was a sudden crash, and halt in the enemy's charge. He went crashing into the
body of attacking soldiers. As he fought the soldiers surrounding him, he worked his way
forward and found that the human soldiers had turned to engage their pursuers, to buy some time
for the leader and his retinue. But it was an ill-fitting task for so few warriors. A handful of
enemy warriors outflanked the few soldiers standing in their way, and sped after the fleeing
leaders. He broke through the lines and pursued them.
Archers. He cursed under his breath. By the time he caught up to them they had already
fell half of those who had fled. He worked as fast as he could, but for every archer that died by
his sword, the numbers of the human soldiers ahead of him dwindled further. The last one had
notched an arrow as he swung his sword, missing the rider but cut deeply into his mount. The
horse screamed and fell, but the arrow flew still. The remaining survivor's horse tumbled
forward, throwing its rider as the arrow bit into its flanks. He reached the lone survivor as he
was rising. He was a man in dusty white robed, and shrank from the warrior as he offered his
hand.
"Come," He shouted, "Get on, we can escape!" The priest looked uncertainly at him,
then took his hand. Just then an black arrow pierced his side, and he fell, his hand limp. The
warrior looked back angrily, and saw the last archer that had lost his mount but apparently not
his life. He rounded about, charging the fell bowman, now desperately trying to reload his bow.
He leaned over as the soldier began to flee, and buried his blade in the greenskin's black guts.
He then turned back to the main battle, and spurned his horse on. But it wouldn't go. It
took a few steps forward, drenched in sweat and with red foam about its mouth, and stumbled,
its legs giving way beneath it. He threw himself from the horse as it fell, and rolled away.
Panting, he brushed himself off. He looked about him, bodies and blood everywhere.
All his people, gone. His brothers, whom he betrayed for his new allies, were being slaughtered
by the Nine and their cohorts. Carrion animals were gathering: flies, beetles, crows, ravens, and
vultures.
He rested is sword on his left shoulder, and walked away, into the barren wasteland to the
east. The army from Gorgoroth didn't notice the lone figure as he faded into the distance.