The orcs and uruks surged around Helm's Deep.
On the outer walls, through the inner walls, to the very last stronghold.
Black skins crawling, battle yells ringing, the blood lust tangible,
Victory cries hanging in the air.
At once the doors burst open, revealing white horses carrying white riders,
Their mail and plate glistening in the early morning sun.
Sword against sword, black against white,
Riders of the east versus monsters of the west.
Red blood mingled with black, corpses of both kinds falling on each other.
Slowly the white horsemen fought their way forward.
Beyond the Hornburg, through the courtyards,
Down the stairs, over piles of rubble left from the night before,
As the White Face crept through the sky,
So the White Cavalry crept through their battlements.
The horn of Helm Hammerhand blew on that fateful morn when East met West.
I heard the cries of agony from the fields below,
Black Speech and Rohirric fighting once again,
Mingled with the rousing blast of the horn,
Echoing through hill and dale,
Waking the children in their caves.
At last I stood on the great wall, surrounded by black corpses,
So many I could no longer reach my foe,
Black blood flowing down the white walls,
Glistening in the morning sun.
And suddenly, a shadow, a shadow that should not be.
Then I gazed out over my wall of vanquished foes,
Out towards the wall of hope.
Trees, great trees, surround us: a fourth wall,
Impenetrable as the uruks soon found out.
Nowhere to run, cut down cruelly by Théoden king and his men:
A fifth wall of goblin corpses.
And there stood I, Anduril unsheathed,
Looking at the White Wizard's work.
Victory?