Chapter 3: "Can you give it to them?"
Disclaimer: I do not own Tolkien Enterprises nor the works thereof. I do not wish compensation, nor do I wish to take credit for any characters that are not mine, i.e. Berethor, Ðørin, Estel, etc. Kharlûk is mine, unless I have missed any story with a Kharlûk in it. I do not own or understand Black Speech, so if someone knows the meaning of the name, I would appreciate it if they could review and tell me (always asking for reviews!). Oh, and don't try this at home.
A/N: Review! Please! The pace is about to pick up, bar any long periods of "Oh, I got a lot of homework" from my beta. No, Dally, I don't buy the excuse. Take that and chew on it. Anyways, read and review.
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The plot had worked. The mixed-breed sat in the back of his motley army watching the cavalry's charge. Four thousand soldiers were nothing compared to the might of Kharlûk and Túka! The destruction must be complete, or word would return to Aran. They would fortify themselves and ready for a siege. The Arani are not fools.
But they're not exceptionally wise either. Kharlûk grinned with a snarl only he could master. He was the only one of his kind. The captured Arani were prodded and poked until they found the perfect one. She was part Estelli, part hobbit, a descendant of the stewards of old. Not much elf, but she was Estelli. That counted for a lot. Mix in a little Easterling, a little Southron, a little goblin, and a lot of Uruk-hai and what do you get?
Kharlûk sniffed the air. No fear. Not yet. These puny men cannot even see that they are far outnumbered. Almost three Easterlings or Quodi to each Arani. Kharlûk estimated that he had a good five minutes before he should start the counter-attack. Riding to the front of the pack, Kharlûk noticed his Warg-Riders in the middle of the group. Kharlûk motioned for them to move up three ranks. If you start the Wargs in the front, they become outnumbered when the reach the attackers first, but if you start them too far back, you lose too many of your own men. It's a delicate balance when dealing with demonic wolves.
As he reached the front, he noticed a group of riders behind the attacking host racing to reach the rest of the pack. Araniel, Kharlûk snarled. With a growl that would turn an old Warg into stone, he addressed the troops.
"Congratulations. You have just graduated from mere dirt to maggots. Give yourselves a hand." Kharlûk scoffed as some of the less intelligent of his group proceeded to comply. "You cannot lose. We outnumber the enemy three to one. Attack the weakest first and corral the strong. Their generals approach. Try to capture them alive. For now. Let none escape, or you'll never taste man-flesh again!"
Kharlûk noticed a few of the Quodi begin to worry. "Do not desert us. If you do, I will personally increase the hole in your backside with my boot. Rabbles, arise!" Pausing dramatically for an effect only he was capable of relishing, Kharlûk sounded the order.
"ATTACK!"
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Hurry! The generals' steeds were of the foals of Shadowfax, stallions of the Mearas. They rode into danger without hesitation, gaining on the cavalry swiftly.
But not swiftly enough.
The horses of the enemy began to move. He saw a opening towards the middle begin to form and knew that the Wargs were on their way. Flying forward, destroying all in their path, Wargs could destroy half of the friendly army if handled improperly. It didn't matter to the warmonger. Wargs meant destruction to cavalry. An experienced Warg-Rider could easily finish of three or more foes before being killed himself, but the Rider wasn't the only problem. Wargs by themselves also would destroy troops. The hide of a Warg is so thick that it will sometimes catch the blade of its attacker and carry it off, leaving a defenseless warrior in its path.
Araniel continued his cries of retreat, but to no avail. The Arani had bad vision compared to the Estelli, and without seeing the spears of their foes, they couldn't perceive the true number of enemies. It was a new tactic, devised by Kharlûk himself. Keep the spears low and the number of troops is indeterminable to the common Man.
The skilled riders in the front began launching arrows to the Easterling force. Two ranks, two lines of bowmen. Those in front fire the arrows and fall back to reload as those from behind move forward. A complete rotation takes less than ten seconds. The shifting line was developed fifty years earlier by Araniel's father. Aside from being an impressive offense, the shifting line often confuses the enemy.
Araniel glanced behind to see his generals in hot pursuit. Ðørin was having trouble staying with the group and was falling behind. Elrodan was obviously in some pain, probably due to his age. Berethor was still riding hard, as was Lindórë. Suddenly Araniel felt that strange sensation again. He glanced into the woods and stared into the forest.
A glint of metal.
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Valgorúth saw his father's glance and quickly hid his sword. He knew that his father had seen him; he saw the grief in Araniel's eyes. He also knew that there was nothing he could do, that he should not try. Death was inevitable. Val removed all metal and hid it in his saddle bags. What wouldn't fit he placed under the ferns.
The battle began.
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"I am a captain of Aran. I shall fear no death; no evil shall overtake me. Though I stand alone before ten thousand foes, I shall obey my master's command." Sulyë was the first spearman, the third row to meet the enemy. Each spearman had one long spear and one short spear. They also had a short sword and a buckler. The object was to throw the short spear when in range, preferably at a Warg or steed. The long spear was useful only as long as it stayed in its owner's hand.
Sulyë launched the short spear at the nearest Warg, causing a howl to be let up as it received a trampling. Although a long spear is useful in small skirmishes, it becomes unwieldy in a battle as large as this. Sulyë threw the long spear as well, killing one Rider and unseating another with the shaft.
"Just you and me," Sulyë whispered to his sword. "Fail me not."
The archers in front dropped their bows and drew their swords.
"Make ready!" cried Sulyë. Those still with spears threw them and took up their blades. "Arani!"
"ARANI!" echoed the reply.
They were close enough to hear the growls and yelps of the remaining Wargs. Some Wargs had already killed a few of their own troops that had gotten in the way. With the sun glinting red off the blood-stained swords, the front lines clashed with fury.
"One, two," counted Sulyë as he removed a Warg's head, flipping the Rider into the stampede. "Three, four." Another Warg down, the Rider becoming a better acquaintance with the dirt. Usually if you missed the Warg, you'd hit the Rider anyways. Watching the flank, Sulyë stabbed into the foes before him.
"I am ready for death!" he cried. "Come if you must!"
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Kharlûk sneered at the carnage in front of him. He would eat well tonight. The first three rows were nearly decimated for both sides. Soon, the more experienced Quodi fighters would join the fray. All Wargs besides the reserve troops were slaughtered, leaving the Easterling forces at the whim of the Arani. They fell back for a moment, but when reinforced by the Quodi, nothing could stop them.
Laughing at the useless valor of the Arani, Kharlûk signaled his troops he had hidden in the forest. Almost entirely Quodi, these troops would circle in and close off all escape. A warrior's worst fear is to be outflanked. Kharlûk could now smell the fear. He loved the taste of death.
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"Araniel! Araniel!" Berethor shouted to the Estelli in the lead. "Someone must return! The city must be warned!"
"It's too late for that now," Araniel replied. "One shall return to the city, but if he left now, he would be pursued and tortured before death."
"Send Lindórë, milord," shouted Berethor. He is our fastest rider."
"He is also our most skilled archer. No," Araniel decided as his gray eyes turned to steel, "we cannot send anyone. Death will meet us in splendor!"
"Milord!" Lindórë called out to his master. "Look!"
The riders of the Quodi poured out of the forest on both sides of the plain. Although they could never catch one of the Mearas, Araniel knew that to abandon his troops would be faithless. No, he must press on.
He must.
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Chaos.
Utter and complete chaos.
Kharlûk was enjoying every second of death, every cry of pain, every scream and curse. He lived for death, breathed it, drank to it, worshipped it.
He knew he had forever. Not quite forever, he reminded himself, but close enough. He would live for some three hundred years. He was the wisest of all orcs, could learn nearly any trade, but thirsted for blood. Over the last eighteen years, Kharlûk had studied war, becoming the youngest general of the Easterlings in over one thousand years. Death was his passion, his life.
Kharlûk allowed himself to enjoy the moment. He and the fair one were the only ones who could see all of the destruction, but Kharlûk alone could enjoy the carnage to its fullest extent. He laughed as he saw a Quodi's head fly from his shoulders, knocking an Arani off balance. The Arani slid forward from the saddle and brought the horse to its knees. An Easterling's horse tried to jump over the fallen Arani, but missed its mark and stumbled. The Easterling lost his sword and fell underneath his mount.
Kharlûk's laughing grew louder.
"Death, come and take us all!"
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