A scene from an eventually forthcoming work tentatively titled "Arda," which is a crossover with "The Lord of the Rings" and is a hybrid of book and movie continuity - whichever aspect suits the needs at the time.
The Rohirrim defenders of the fortress complex staggered as they braced the giant timbers against the splintering door, trying desperately to shore up the defenses as the Uruk-hai battering ram slammed powerfully against the ancient wood again and again. A withering hail of arrows from the human and elven defenders poured down from the sky mixing with the heavy rain that fell, extracting a heavy toll on the army that assailed the ancient stronghold.
Saruman's armies absorbed the losses without a qualm. The mixed legions of Uruk-hai, goblins from Mordor and the Misty Mountains, and the hybrid man-orc crossbreeds from the foul breeding pits beneath the ancient spire of Orthanc looked barely diminished despite the mounded dead beneath the walls of Helm's Deep, and the carpet of the slain that blanketed the approach to Helm's Gate. With the destruction of the Deeping Wall, the fall of the citadel was inevitable - and both the attackers and the defenders knew it.
Ugluk, Saruman's chosen instrument to wipe the stain of man from the lands of Rohan roared, and at this command, another unit of goblins marched forward, eager to join the fray. The massive Uruk-hai's heavy lips drew back in a snarl of satisfaction as he saw an elf hurled bodily from the top of the inner citadel's walls, only to be torn apart as his body impaled itself on the pikes of the heavy infantry milling below, waiting for their turn to climb the ladders or pass through the openings forced in the defences.
A ripple ran through the waiting troops and first one, then another, then the army in its thousands began to crash sword against shield, fist to chest, and spearbutt against the muddy ground. Ugluk's broad nose sniffed the air curiously as the wave of tumult worked its way forward through the ranks of the army, then he began to laugh as he caught wind of what was coming and turned back to the citadel. "It will all be over for them even sooner, now," he gloated, his mirth shaking the rain- drenched locks of his hair, as he thrust his sword of blackened steel into the air in triumph.
The defenders heard the raucous cries, but most couldn't spare the time to look and see what new deviltry was coming. But gradually, as the noise increased, the fighting slowed as both the assaulting orcs and the human defenders turned to see.
A light appeared in the darkness; not the warm golden color of sunlight nor the crimson of flame, nor even the silver of moonlight. The light was the white of snow, purer and brighter than even the best of candles, and it glowed in the distant sky above the rearguard of the host of Isengard.
As the light slowly loomed larger and closer, the defenders quailed, and harsh whispers of "Witchcraft," arose. The fear that the ancient wizard of Isengard himself approached did more to break the weakened spirit of the defenders than even the shocking breach of the outer defenses.
The orcish armies began to chant in unison, the fell syllables growing in volume, but inaudible over the crash of metal on metal. Strangely, even as weapons crashed together until the sound rivaled a thousand forges, not a single spark could be seen arising from the besieging host.
The ominous chant grew in volume even as the clashing of weapons stilled, and the orcs inside the outer walls of Helm's Deep picked up the chant as the sounds of battle began to fade. For the first time, the frightened defenders heard the dread syllables as they erupted from the innumerable throats of the orcish horde: "She - go... She - go... She - go..."
Hovering in the air above the forefront of the ranked Uruk- hai, a ship appeared - more closely resembling a small river barge than the smooth-lined elven barques, or even a Gondorian patrol craft. Crafted of the black steel of Isengard, what looked like a round lantern hung on each of the corners of the rectangular craft, but the white light that blazed from these was powerful enough to turn the rainy night into day in the area around it and to send shafts of light to bathe the ground, illuminating the bitter harvest of corpses and the forest of spent arrows and bolts that sprouted from the muddy ground like a haphazardly planted and oft-trampled crop of wheat.
Bathed in the gentler light emanating from a glowing glass sphere mounted at the rear of the craft, a figure with greenish skin dressed in leathers of green and black stood up and raised its hands above its head. As two armies watched, the hands lit up with green flame that abruptly elongated, forming two flaming shafts of green power that lit the figure's face, revealing the evil smirk that creased the features of the beautiful woman.
The orcs roared their approval, and the chant redoubled in volume. Shego waved the plasma swords briefly, then quenched her power, leaving only the metal cylinders she held in her hands with no sign of the flaming green energy that she had wielded.
"They do know you work for me, don't they?" the driver of the craft irritably asked.
Shego smirked as she stepped down from the edge of the flying vehicle, out of sight of the armies below, and walked to the front of the craft as she stowed the quiescent hilts of her swords in her belt. "You confuse them, boss. Me? They annoy me, I kill them. They understand that. They respect that."
"Hmmph," the driver snorted, but he sounded mollified, nonetheless.
The flying craft slowly advanced until it hovered just outside the outer perimeter of Helm's Deep, even with the highest parapet at the peak of the central citadel. The lights mounted of the front of the craft slowly turned, sending shafts of brilliant light drifting across the fortress until they centered on the golden-armored figure of King Theoden, watching the battle with his generals from high above.
After barking, "Take the controls," and stepping aside to let Shego replace him, the driver rested one foot on the prow of his flying craft, bracing himself on what appeared to be a spear mounted on the front of the vessel like a figurehead, the shaft surrounded by metallic rings that glowed with a gentle yellow light. As he moved out of the shadows of the controls and into the white light, his blue skin was revealed, as well as the strange and outlandish garb he wore - like none any of the watchers had ever seen before. The figure raised an oddly shaped metal horn to his lips with one gloved hand. "Surrender Kim Possible to me," he demanded, his magnified voice echoing louder than even the chants of the teeming hordes below. His Westron was oddly accented, but easily understandable by all.
On a tier below the king, an elven archer found the target he presented to be irresistible. He raised his recurved bow, drew, and shot in one smooth movement. The arrow flew straight and true, but before it even neared the strange flying boat, the gentle yellow light emanating from the spear mounted at the fore pulsed, and the arrow disintegrated with a crack of thunder, and the scent of lightning as electricity crackled in midair, crawling through the sky in the outline of giant sphere surrounding the sky-barge. The elf simply stared, unable to believe what had happened. He drew and shot again, to identical results - and the mocking laughter of the orcs gathered at the foot of the walls.
"Yield her to me, or face the consequences," the blue man promised, ignoring the attack. As his voice echoed over the Hornburg, none doubted his words.
From the shadows behind King Theoden, a figure stepped into the light burning forth from the flying craft. The figure's red hair and fair skin were unremarkable among the Rohirrim, but the clothes she wore were just as foreign as those of the pair in the flying raft.
"I'll surrender," the figure called, her words accented in the same peculiar way as the blue-skinned man's, raising one hand to first brush the locks of her hair from her eyes, then to shield them against the glare of the spotlights. "If you save these people... Ron."
From his position at the head of his army, Ugluk laughed again, the guttural sound quickly joined by that of the entire army. In the sudden silence that followed the eruption of evil mirth, his voice rang across the ancient stone of the fortress, his accent thick, but comprehensible. "Fool human; Zorpox the Blue and Shego the Green serve the White Hand."
Whispers from the suriving elven warriors of Ithryn luin were drowned out by a sudden roar in the black speech of Mordor.