Chapter 13: Blood on the river
The raven landed on the huge granite boulder beside Dwalin, cawing loudly to gain his attention. Dwalin had been resting, sitting comfortably leaning against another rock; his legs stretched pout, enjoying the rest after a long day of marching. His fire was at the outer edge of the huge nightly camp, not for the wish of distance to the many warriors camped in the rocky valley but for needing to be alone for a while, to think. The black feather bird cawed again and Dwalin tossed a bit of venison at the bird. "You'll bring news, I think." He was sure that the bird carried a message. They usually did, and by now Dwalin was well used to the black-winged company he'd have at times. But it had rarely been as often as it was now. The first message had reached him in autumn; the crow had actually been carrying a written letter from Kíli, who had penned the missive before leaving Rivendell more than four months ago around the end of October.
Opening his pack, Dwalin carefully retrieved the message he had read so often since that day. The small parchment was covered tightly with Kíli's clear hand. The first few lines concerned the Riders that had been hunting across Eriador for Baggins, and the good news that Bilbo was safe among the Elves. But that had been the only good news in the entire letter. Kíli spoke of a darkness rising, of war, and of an errand he had accepted for Lord Elrond of Rivendell. The last was enough to have Dwalin truly worried; the Elves rarely concerned themselves with the affairs of the world and when they did, the situation had to be very troublesome indeed. It was something Dwalin had disliked, he knew that Kíli would not say no when being asked for help, he had aided the Elves before when their troubles with the Orcs had become too much or when they had needed someone to guide them through the deeps of the orc strongholds of the North. Always dedicated to protecting others Kíli would take risks that left Dwalin with fear for his life, sometimes he wondered when Kíli's luck would run out… it was a day Dwalin feared more than anything else. But the next part of the letter had truly shaken him:
A Shadow is rising in the east, my friend. We both should not be surprised it has finally come to this; the signs were all too visible for many long years already. And before this storm we all must either stand or whither, yet if the Shadow is not defeated, our very world will be lost. I will go south and join those who fight the darkness. In my heart, I know that you of all people will understand. I have sent a letter to Narvi and the council in Cardemir as well; it will clear the path for Daroin to become the Lord of Cardemir should I not return.
"No, you won't die and leave my boy to succeed you," Dwalin had growled at the letter, startling the winged messenger perched close by. He did not even want to think of the possibility were the last true Prince of the House of Durin to perish, nor that Kíli held a good deal of affection for Daroin and had groomed him as a successor.
I know you will be angry by now, my friend, and I ask your forgiveness for making this decision without taking further council with you. My mind has been made up about it for years now but time is running short. The situation south is dire: the kingdoms of Men stand with their back to the wall. The Elves prepare themselves to leave this world; their path leads away from these shores, and our brethren are hardly concerned.
The words had made Dwalin shiver – they still did – and it was all too easy to imagine the story that would live on: how the last of Durin's line, the last Prince of the Dwarves, had fought beside Men to the bitter end. It was a brave, honorable way to go any of their great House would have chosen.
When you return to the Ered Luin, go to the cold forge and find the stone chest. What's inside I made for you. It is not much, but it comes with all the thanks for a life of loyalty to my family.
It was then Dwalin understood that Kíli was saying his goodbyes with this letter. He had angrily crushed the parchment in his fist, not wanting to read on. He did not want to hear those goodbyes… reading the warm-hearted goodbyes would hurt more than even finding Thorin back on that hill outside Erebor. Not Kíli too… he could not bear the thought.
It had been more a habit of obedience that he had gone to the cold forge – the very spell-forge that had been Kíli's home those first few years before the pressure from Dáin proved too great and he had left Cardemir. The sight of the lone spell-forge with the ash-cold fire, always sadden Dwalin. No matter Dáin's betrayal Kíli should have been the leader of Cardemir, not forced to wander the world alone, to never stay anywhere for too long.
The stone chest had been easily found, a simple one cut from the grey mountain stone with no adornments. He had pushed the heavy lid open, to gasp at seeing the content – two axes had been resting inside, both made of black steel, with curved double blades. It had not taken a second glance to tell him that they were masterful works… spell-smith weapons, imbued with powers only few could have wrought into steel. Only when he touched them, when he felt the tingle rising from them he had realized what they were. Blades to cut steel and stone. Awed he had stood there, trying to understand how and where Kíli might have learned the legendary secret. Eventually he had taken the crumbled letter and carefully straightened it out on the lid of the chest to read again.
But for your stalwart loyalty and friendship I would not be here today. You saved me more times than I can name and you brought me through the darkest days of my life. May a bright light shine on your path until we meet again in Mahal's eternal Halls. Farewell, my friend.
"No, Kíli," he had said softly. "I saw two Kings fall in my lifetime. I won't add a third." He knew that Kíli would never demand others to follow him to certain death; it did not mean that there weren't any who would proudly follow him anyway. And thus Dwalin had taken swift action, contacting Bofur, Bladvila, Narvi and many more; they in turn had called others. His son, Daroin, had seen to mustering Cardemir. Dwalin had known there were more that would follow the true Prince than it appeared and he had not been disappointed.
By the time he had been forced to inform Kíli, to know where to meet him, they had already been deep south, making use of long forgotten Dwarven roads to follow Kíli south and make up for the fierce travelling speed he had shown. Kíli's first reaction to this had come with a letter he had penned camping near Amon Hen, the first half of the missive had been phrased in deeply touched, angry, and sometimes so exasperated words, that Dwalin only needed to read them to hear the younger warrior's voice speak them, he could see Kíli's face in his mind, the blazing black eyes, the woken temper and in the end the resigned smile when he realized he might lose the argument. The second half of the letter had definitely been written a day later, because it was much calmer and much more focused on the changed situation, suggesting what roads to take and possible places to meet up eventually. The raven cawed again, preening, drawing Dwalin's eyes back to the bird as he tried to discern what message the black winged friend tried to give him But the bird only fluttered up and down, to land beside Dwalin and pick at the map Dwalin had been studying prior to his arrival, and suddenly he understood. The bird was not a messenger, but something had happened, something the black feathered friend could not convey to him. He rose to his feet. "I get it, friend," he said to the raven. He got to his feet, quickly rolling up the map stashing it back into his pack. "Bladvila, Bofur!" he called out to his seconds. "Rouse the camp, we will march within the hour." They'd have to be on the move quickly.
TRB
The horns of Osgiliath were ringing out into the grey spring afternoon, their call warning and call for help all the same, as Enemy troops were attacking the ruined city. From the western banks Faramir could see the situation dire; the orcs were driving forth in a three-pronged attack. He bit his lip, it did not take more than this one glance to tell him that this attack was not led by an Orc – it was too coordinated, too well thought out a strategy, and much too disciplined. He knew the signs; as a young Man, he had learned quickly there was more to the Black Lands than just Orcs. An Orc may hold command over one hundred of his kind and do reasonably well – an exceptionally cunning Orc might hold command over a thousand of his foul brethren and not make a total mess of it, but above that they were useless. Unfortunately, the Black Lands had Men in their thrall: Haradrim, Easterlings, Varigians, and others who filled the gap, and this was clearly their planning.
"Look out!" The yell rang out across the marching column only moments after they had heard the horns calling for them. Faramir saw a winged shadow drop from the heavy grey clouds and sweep across the column. Fear washed over him like a wave of black, poisoned water. "Nazgul! Find cover!" he shouted.
The Fell creature again swooped over the column, the large naked wings whirling above them and the long neck stretched forward, the beast lending it's eyes to the rider as it was diving directly for the Halflings who were at the center of the marching column together with Kíli who had not left their side. The creature came around, the wings pushed several soldiers off their feet claws stretched out to grab them it swooped close. Kíli pushed Sam to the side, the stout Hobbit collided with Frodo tumbling them both out of reach, while the dwarf still stood fearlessly in the path of the creature. . The Fell Beast missed the Halflings barely and grabbed Kíli instead, tossing him through the air.
Faramir had already reached for his bow, neither fear nor shock deterring his aim. The arrow flew straight at the beast, hitting the shoulder right underneath the wing. The creature shrieked and rose higher. Around him, his archers shook loose of their shock and they followed suit. Most arrows missed the Fell creature but they created enough of a threat to force it into retreat.
Kíli ignored the pain in his side where the Fell Beast's teeth had gnashed through his chainmail armor and scrambled back to his feet, sprinting uphill to reach the Halflings before the creature could make another pass for them.
Boromir too had hastened to Frodo and Sam; they were unharmed, but Frodo's expression was haunted. "They are coming for me, Boromir," he said in a hush. "I can't stay… they will crush Osgiliath if I remain."
Boromir couldn't agree more, and while the fight for Osgiliath would keep the Enemy's attention focused on the battle, Frodo would have a chance to slip away unseen, unnoticed. But how to get Frodo across the River now? The city was under attack, the Orcs already had footholds on the western shore – he could not risk taking Frodo into the battle, and neither of the Halflings would find the other places Gondor's warriors used to cross the Anduin. They needed a guide…
Inwardly, Boromir cursed his own weakness; if he were less susceptible to the Ring, he could guide them himself. But that was all but impossible. Whom could he trust to do better? Faramir? He knew his brother would never be tempted in the same way, but Gondor desperately needed the Captain of their Rangers, with the tides of War clashing over them Boromir could not afford to send the Captain of the Rangers on such a mission, he needed Faramir desperately. Kíli? Boromir glanced at the dwarf, standing only a few paces away, sword in hand, and ready to defend the Halflings against a repeated attack. He had proven before that he did not fear the shadow and while Boromir trusted Kíli absolutely, he was aware that Kíli did not know the borders of Mordor any better than Frodo. Veryan? The name was a painful thought; all too well did he recall the dreams. And the Swan Knight was no Ranger – he was not able to move unseen through rough country, nor was he as acquainted with the passes leading up the Mountains of Shadow.
Arrows hissed past them, the Rangers were firing barrages to keep the Fell Beast from diving at them again. Boromir saw Anarion kneel on the grass to his left, sending several arrows at the creature trying to swoop down again. The young Ranger's aim was steady, only his grim, shuttered face betrayed the fear he held at bay. He drew another arrow from his quiver, hands steady and his aim undeterred by the winged horror above. Boromir considered what he knew of Anarion beyond just his family, the Ranger might be young but he had been with them for nearly eight years now, capable, loyal and steadfast, he had fought hard to win his place amongst the Ithilien Rangers, it was the hardest spot to earn, the hardest spot to serve in and the easiest one to die in. He obeyed, fought and was not overly ambitious, his life had always been dedicated to serve, and serve well. That last thought sealed Boromir's decision. "Anarion!" he called out to him. The attack was breaking off, the creature turning towards the city.
The Ranger hurried over to them, bow still ready to fire if the Beast came close again. "Captain?"
"Frodo and Sam need to get across the River," Boromir told him quickly. "The Nazgûl came for them and he must never get them. I would bring them myself, yet…"
"I can guide them, Captain," Anarion volunteered at once. Gondor needed the Captain to lead the army, if they were to stand any chance at all against the storm rising from the East. "Where do they need to go?" Anarion asked, keeping his voice level, though he was more nervous than he would like to admit. That the Captain of Gondor would entrust such a personal task to him was maybe the highest honor Anarion ever hoped for, and he'd rather die than fail
"Deep into Enemy territory," Boromir explained grimly, the Rangers knew the borders and lay of the land beyond the mountains better than anyone else in the world, the war they had waged in the shadows had led them across the Mountains of Shadow all too often. "Anarion, I am entrusting them to you; you will guide them to whatever place they will name. You will not ask why they need to go there, but do you utmost to aid their goal. Our very lives depend on their success. You will protect them and fight for them, like you would fight for me. You will not allow them to come to harm. Swear it!"
"On my life, Captain, I swear to protect them." Anarion replied, head held high, his eyes meeting Boromir's gaze evenly, proudly.
With a heavy heart, Boromir looked at the younger Man's face, seeing only loyalty and great reverence in his eyes He would hold to that that vow, to his last breath, there was no doubt about it. Boromir knew that he was most likely sending the young Ranger to his death, but there was no other way. His eyes went from the Ranger to the Hobbits. He could see surprise and trust in Frodo's open features; the Halfling understood. "Frodo, Anarion will get you over the River and further. Go swiftly; the battle will distract the Enemy." He gently placed his hands on their shoulders. "May the good wishes of all Free People go with you."
TRB
Knowing that the Halflings were out of the battle's reach, Boromir turned to his duty quickly. From his vantage point on the hills of the western banks, he could see the Orcs had crossed the River at two places, using the ruined bridge and the southern collapsed towers as fords. Their attack was three pronged, one aimed against the Northern Wall, one on the main fortifications and one on the south end, the southern one not yet fully realized as that Orc column had yet to reach the walls. "Close ranks! Faramir, gather your archers and move them to the south tower!" Boromir knew the Nazgûl attack had cost them valuable time; they needed to aid their faltering garrison swiftly. The defenders of Osgiliath put up a valiant fight, the main fortification still stood, but Orcs were swarming it from two sides, and soon three if they could not secure the southern passage speedily.
The Men reacted swiftly, gathering up with him at the hill west of the city. "Gwynhelm, take half the Men and move into the city through the west sewer. The rest are with me – we'll take the north tower." This would be the hardest spot to retake, because the Orcs were attacking the building already and had control of the lower levels. But with the main wall under full attack and the whole fortification was soon faltering and once they were pushed back to the main tower of Celanost, chances of breaking the Orc ring would be slim. The North Tower was the only viable access point for the coming aid, from which they could access both of the walls and the yard at once, the sewers was the other option, which could get troops into the very heart of Celanost.
Boromir and his Men had to fight for every step they took deeper into the city. Reaching the north tower proved harder than expected: the Orcs had moved in flank troops, hiding in the ruins of the former market halls. Their commander understood that the tower was the best chance to move reinforcements in, Boromir thought grimly as he fought his way through another skirmisher group of Black Mordor Orcs, the Market Halls were crawling with them!
"Away from the hall! Run!" Kíli's voice snapped over the noise of the fighting, he was with another group of soldiers still deeper in the halls. Boromir saw the warriors run, the Orcs rushing behind. Kíli was the last of the group, racing in only a short distance ahead of the Orcs, he whirled around between two of the last columns of the hall. Winterflame cutting the stone as easily as it would cut through the armor of the Orcs, two cross cuts per column and Kíli sprinted towards them. Behind him the stone roof of the market halls collapsed, burying half a Fist of Orcs under tons of stone.
Wings swooped above them; Boromir ducked in reflex but this was no Nazgûl – no terror rode with these wings. Looking up, he saw a creature, with powerful green scaled wings and a long elegant tail with drooping red fins swinging in the air, sail in and drive its huge claws into the sheer wall of the tower. He had seen such a beast before – it was even larger than the winged terrors the Wraiths rode, with green shimmering scales, a huge horned head and a wing span to double that of a Fell Beast, they were impressive monsters, home in the far of fire mountains of the Eastern Empire and often employed by the Easterlings in their warfare.
This one was perfectly perched with only the purchase its claws had found in the wall, the creature fluttered its wings for balance, while the warriors moved from its back right into the tower through a broken window. Without archers at hand, Boromir could only watch as the winged beast unloaded the troops and then pushed off the wall again. Heavy and large, it lacked its natural running start, but the handler did a marvelous job of redirecting it back into the air. In the moment the beast took flight again, Boromir could see the handler of the creature, and he was not surprised to see it was no Orc. The armor of black scales and blood-red cloak was that of an Easterling, who brought the creature around with practiced ease. Looking down he spotted Boromir and threw him a challenging salute with his fist in the air. It did not take that greeting for Boromir to recognize the face of this Easterling. Shakurán, he knew he should not be surprised, losing Osgiliath again must have been a serious blow to Shakurán's impressive record of victories and damages done to Gondor – he was here to make up for a failure, which meant he would fight twice as hard. Boromir raised his sword, answering the challenge.
The Tower's lower level was a chaos of bodies, blood and Orcs, Boromir launched into combat with cold purpose, they could not waste too much time on one single target, they needed to gain ground rapidly. The moment they had regained a semblance of control of the lower level, Boromir sent part of his remaining Men past the tower to reinforce the wall defense, he wished he had more fighters he could send. Gesturing for Veryan and Kíli to follow him with the rest to clear out the tower, he mounted the long stairwell that led up to the higher levels. It was bloody work, cutting through the Orc troops and forcing their way up the stairs. On the tower's middle levels, the defenders were still battling the Orcs the flying beast had set down. When Boromir reached them, there were only few defenders left – most lay dead and those still standing had led a fierce if desperate fight. . He sprinted forward, attacking the Orcs before they could destroy what was left of the defenders, knowing Kíli and Veryan behind him, the three of them cutting through the remaining Orc troops.
The Defenders, seeing them fought with new hope, pushing the Orcs harder. "Kallio – gather what you have left and secure the tower," Boromir ordered, once the last Orc was down. Kallio was the most experienced of the survivors, and Boromir could not leave anyone with them.
Boromir heard the flapping of wings to his right. Coming about, he saw the winged creature land again under the shattered window. It was a brightly blue claw this time, another Drakár, he noticed grimly, the Easterlings had really brought their best this time. He sprinted to the shattered wall of the window and brought down Truefire squarely on the first claw, then the wing and a third hit to the other claw. The winged beast screamed as it lost its tenuous hold on the wall and tumbled down towards the ground, smashing the troops it had carried with its own weight
Knowing Kallio was securing the tower best as he could; Boromir cast a quick glance out of the hole in the wall to assess the situation. The north wall was still failing, but Faramir's archers had secured the south wall again. The River wall, the main fortification looked equally as bad, the Orcs swarmed the wall, cornering the remaining defenders. And there were more of those beasts circling above, deploying troops, one had just landed at the bastion where the North Wall and River wall touched. The fresh troops flanked the defenders, quickly gaining ground.
"Kallio, help me with these beams," Kíli called out to the Swan Knight on the lower level. If they wanted to hold this tower for long they needed to prevent the Orcs from rushing it again. Blocking access by collapsing parts of an old ceiling would do, at least for a few hours. The soldier hurried to help, using his spear as a lever to break lose the beam, the rubble came down, blocking the tower entrance. Kíli responded with a curt nod. "Good, that will allow you to focus on the broken tower side solely, if they bring another of their beasts." He said before hurrying back up, where Boromir was.
Boromir saw several Gondorian soldiers pushed off the wall, either dead or dying, the bodies crushed on the flagstones in the yard behind the wall. His hand closed hard around the hilt of his sword, when he saw how quickly his men were slaughtered. Not looking away, he forced all feelings out of his mind, no pain, no anger, no despair, he needed a clear head. The North Wall had the gauntlet with the wall of the former treasury behind, that could be used to slow down advance on that side, though it would come at a brutal price.. "Veryan, leave the wounded fighters at the tower, and then move your Men to the north yard and prevent a breakthrough there. I'll take the others and get back the River wall." It meant sacrificing the Men on the north wall. If they deterred the Orcs long enough, it would give Boromir time to save the main wall and then flank the Orcs. He knew that the Swan Knight had to see the same result, but the Man only nodded curtly.
"As my Captain commands," he said, taking his Men to follow the orders.
The main wall had been overrun through the use of ladders and those damned beasts dropping troops right off on the main rampart. Boromir was the first of his Men to force his way up the bloodied stairs, pushing the Orcs back step by hard-earned step.
The wall was slippery with blood, corpses piling upon the battlements, fighting on the narrow grounds of the River Wall was bitter, but they were gaining ground. Kíli saw Boromir kick an Orc that had just climbed up the ladders, toppling the ladder and several more of the black bastards, sending them screaming down into the ruins by the river, coming about the next moment to behead another Orc, that had tried to get into this back.
Winterflame was heavy in Kíli's hands, each new strike another orc, he would have dropped from sheer exhaustion, but hope still kept him standing. A part of him was still fazed, unable to believe what he was seeing. Boromir was pushing them back! He had known Boromir had a courage that bordered on crazy sometimes and was a superior fighter, but this… this was beyond that. Through his example, his will, Boromir was turning this battle around. He had been the first up the bloodied stairs of the wall, Truefire reaping the Orcs like a harvester might reap ears. The defenders were taking heart to fight back with all they had, and the Orcs were losing their foothold on the main wall. Kíli had a hard time to keep up, because Boromir went against the Orcs with the anger of a wounded lion, and all those that followed him became a storm that the Orcs had not expected to face.
The main wall was marred with black blood, the bodies of friend and foe littering the ancient stones. Boromir did not know how many Orcs he had killed; Truefire in his hands was gory, but luckily had not gone blunt yet, the blade did not even dull, no matter through how many Orc armors it had cut.
Peering down towards the River Faramir could see the Orcs retreat from the Southern Crossing, but it was the least bit of relief right now. "Damrod, hold the position here." He ordered, taking the rest of his archers from the Southern position to the River wall and main yard. The touch of a wing nearly swished him off the wall, Faramir ducked, finding cover behind a broken battlement. Another of the beasts, the blue one again, was swinging in with a fresh load of troops. Faramir yanked an arrow from a dying Orc, bent his bow and fired, the gory shaft hitting the creature's eye. Like halted by a giant hand the beast stopped in the air, before crashing down on the fortifications of the Sunset Gate.
Faramir got up and moved further along the wall, swiftly gathering up more arrows as he went. Another beast came flying across the river, it moved slowly, in a wide swooping bow. The rider aimed his bow and sent a series of arrows at them. Faramir ducked, hearing them clutter against the battlements. As he came up again he saw Aglaron ripped away by another arrow beside him, tumbling from the battlements. Angrily the Ranger Captain raised his bow. These beasts had killed more than enough of his men, he would not let another come close to the walls. He raised his bow to shoot another of those things from the sky.
Veryan stumbled under the brutal hits of the Orc axe, he nearly fell, his sword catching the deathly hit before it could land. He pushed against the heavy blade, struggling back to his feet. Hot blood drenched his left arm, where an arrow had pierced his armor. He advanced again into the breach, keeping the Orcs bottled up in the smaller courtyard had turned into a bloody struggle in close quarters. Beside him Mablung was cut down Veryan's reaction one second too late to save his comrade, another fighter closed the gap in the breach, but the Orcs kept coming, they were trampling on the corpses of their own fallen, as they pushed forward.
The River wall was clear of Orcs, the last ladders and ropes were cut off and for the moment the Orcs had retreated from the main eastern wall of Celanost. Boromir's breath was going heavy, but he had no time to catch his breath or register his own injuries, his eyes going to their Northern flank. Veryan and his troop had the harder stand down in the yard at the old treasury where the north wall had been breached. The Swan Knight delivered a stand worth of legend, holding the Orcs bottled up in the smaller courtyard. But he could not hold out much longer. Boromir saw why the Orcs were leaving the River Wall alone, they were sending their troops towards the North wall, the black mass of their legion rushing towards the breach and they would bring additional pressure on the breach.
An ear-splitting sound like angry thunder erupted from the lower parts of the northern wall along with a bright flare shining into the grey afternoon – the wall itself ruptured, coming apart with loud cracks. Huge slabs of stone where whirled up into the air, crashing down on defenders and retreating fighters, like a merciless rain of stone. Boromir saw Veryan hit by a stone spike, falling to not get up again. The Orcs howled triumphantly and stormed through the wide new breach. Boromir knew that Veryan's Men in the north yard would be overrun momentarily. With the Men he had, he could hardly hope to hold out now that their citadel had been breached.
The call of a horn echoed from somewhere outside in the dark. It was a deep, bronze horn, nothing like the cold signaling horns of Mordor. The Orcs shrieked, some turning back as their troops ready to storm the breach where attacked from the northern riverside, they had enemies in their back!
Someone was attacking the Orcs outside! Boromir could hardly believe it. Cair Andros could not have sent troops here that fast, and there was no other garrison close by – but someone had flanked the Orcs! He raised his blade. "Gondor!" he shouted as he charged at the Orcs pouring through the breach, the defenders behind him. This city would not fall today.
TRB
Mounted on his green scale Drakár, Shakurán watched the battle unfold, his keen eyes rarely missing a detail. "Send in more Drakár and pour troops on top of them," he said, his iron-clad hand pointing out the locations to be used. His words were heard by the veiled sorcerer sitting atop a Fell beast, Shakurán was glad that Khamûl had not stinted on sending some of the half-ghostly sorcerers with the army, they were useless in direct combat but their unheard voices could convey orders directly without the need for signaling. The veiled sorcerer beside him heard and obeyed at once, conveying the orders to the correct sub-commanders. Not that Shakurán had expected anything less from any of his troops, he had held command in the Tas Nazg Drakhur, the Black Vanguard, for more than ten years and had served in the same formation for most of his life. When Shakurán spoke, his orders were followed swiftly.
Osgiliath put up a better fight than he had expected, and after seven battles for this city that he had seen he was not prone to underestimate them in any way. The city had been reported severely depleted of troops by their top spy in Minas Tirith, who had provided them with a full listing of troops stationed along the border. It seemed Denethor was not truly willing to commit fully to the defense of Gondor any more… but then, it had not been in charge of said defense for years now. Still, their own spies flying over the city in nightly scouting missions had confirmed that the numbers in Osgiliath where lower than even a year ago when Shakurán had taken and held the ruins for a while. But it seemed they were compensating their lack of numbers with new strategies. Originally, Shakurán had planned to invade the city from below the waterline – he was loath to expose the Drakár so early – but it could not be helped, all the underground tunnels had been blocked are rendered unusable, and the Gondorians had found all them, to the very last secret passage. It had been infuriating, Shakurán and other Easterlings had held back on making use of their knowledge of those passages – some of the knowledge dating back to the very building of Celanost, to use it in one decisive moment, only to find out the enemy had managed to find the tunnels. But no one had ever claimed that the Gondorians were not resourceful.
Their main wall was in trouble. How had Gondor's troops managed to regain footing there? "Fifth and Seventh Fist to advance," he ordered, sending more Orcs to storm the main walls. Narrowing his keen eyes, he could see one particular figure leading the fight on the walls: one tall warrior cutting through the Orcs like they were blades of grass in a summer meadow. The figure was familiar – very familiar.
Shakurán had spotted him before briefly, when he had been deploying the first wave of fresh troops to the North Tower. He had been surprised then, only half believing what he had seen, by now the doubts were gone. "It's the great Captain himself… Now I understand why they are doing so well."
A near-anticipatory grin rose on Shakurán's lean features. According to their spy, Osgiliath had been under the command of the little Captain. Not that Shakurán would underestimate the cunning Ranger General, but he did not regard him as highly. Faramir was a good Ranger and courageous Man, but he was in no way his brother. Shakurán had been looking forward to capturing Faramir; he had been promised permission to keep him if he could grab him alive. Breaking the Ranger General would have been a pleasure.
Contrary to his brother, Faramir relied more on stealth, on cunning and on swift action to achieve his successes and Shakurán also knew the little Captain to be not as hard and ruthless like his brother. Faramir had a gentle soul, he did not belong in war, while his brother was a warrior born and bred. It seemed ironic, twenty years ago, Shakurán had gone as far as arguing with Mekhalîl, Nazgûl No 4 as the Orcs termed him, to not having Boromir delivered to Minas Morgul. That young warrior should have been brought East, to the City of Tears or maybe to the Firelands Citadel, to be turned to the Shadow. It would not have been easy, Shakurán would not underestimate the stubbornness of Gondor's true blood, but a year or two in the Firelands, with the right people around and the right influences… it would have been possible.
But the Witch King had thought differently, and ultimately Shakurán had been given the order to bring his captive to Minas Morgul and hand him over to the Nazgûl. It had angered him, because it was a waste, but he had obeyed. He had done as he was ordered, no one could ever claim otherwise. And no one had ever asked where he had been on that other day nearly a month later. He shook his head, Khamûl's promise that he would be permitted to keep Faramir was a reward, some would say a reward well earned… only that Faramir was not worth the turning… at least not for the war. More for the company. Looking up he forced himself out of his musings, the Great Captain was in command of Osgiliath and this meant gaining the city would be all the much harder.
In a way, Shakurán was delighted: he had heard that Snaga, that little good for nothing rat of an orc, had claimed Boromir of Gondor killed by his troops up north. To Shakurán's eyes, it was a shame that their great opponent should have found an ignoble death on an Orc blade in a meaningless skirmish. No great warrior should perish like that. Shakurán had crossed blades with Boromir of Gondor on numerous occasions. While he had lost Osgiliath to the Man only a year ago, he still could claim to have won half their conflicts. No other foe ever had forced so many draws and retreats on Shakurán's career. All the more he respected the great Captain. Boromir of Gondor was the ultimate warrior: strong, cunning, a brilliant strategist, and a great leader. He led by example, his Men revered him, and he still was not shy to make the necessary sacrifices, as he had just proved by leaving the north wall to fend for themselves while retaking the heart of the fortress.
"First and second fist, regroup and flank them," he ordered, knowing he still could crush Boromir's valiant retake of their fortifications. The Man had done admirably, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. Shakurán too had not as many reserves as he'd like, but Khamûl had been unwilling to commit half a legion of the eastern Elite, and Orcs were… they were Orcs, useless pack. At least there was no shortage of them, and what they lacked in skill they'd have to make up in numbers, and more likely in the body count.
Shakurán itched to join the fray and confront Boromir himself; he'd enjoy another go at the Gondorian Captain. Being about the same age as the Steward's son, they had been enemies, rivals for all their lives; their first encounter as youths was a skirmish near the Black Pass.
"Shakurán, they still hold the breach – we need support there!" ThShakurán did not need to look; he knew that clear, hard voice. Jadhur was the Zigrán Drak'kar, the leader of the Drakár riders and, unlike Shakurán, he was not an Easterling. His homeland lay beyond the borders of the Easterling Empire, in a fiery mountain chain to the far east; his people, like the Easterlings, were the servants of the very first darkness, surviving and serving faithfully since the dawn of time. Jadhur had brought up his wounded Drakár beside Shakurán's Drakár "They still hold the breach, Commander," he reported, a bit more formally.
The Easterling could see that Jadhur was injured: an arrow had been broken off in his shoulder and his beast did not look well either. His eyes went out to the field. And truly – Boromir of Gondor and his Men were bottling the Orcs up in the breach. The Man was unbelievable. Would that it had been possible to convert him after his capture as a youth, if only the Witch King had been convinced then... He would have made a formidable champion for the Dark Lord.
He looked down. He had not many reserves left and what he had had were mainly Orcs, more Orcs and number of additional Drakár. He shook his head. Once you are committed, there is little use in holding back the reserves, as his mentor in the city of tears had always put it, and he was committed to this fight. "Jadhur, pick up all the Orc archers you can and fly them onto the western gate. We need to deal with the little Captain and his Rangers first. All others fists are to advance. Storm this breach!"
The orders were carried out: Jadhur effectively placed the archers in the enemy's back, forcing the tired Rangers into a two front fight, and the Orcs pushed again into the breach, gaining ground slowly but with disproportionate losses on their side. Shakurán put his hand on the reins of his Drakár, guiding it down towards the fortress. He could leave the little Captain to his men, the great Captain deserved his undivided attention. As the Drakár swooped down, he saw Boromir having saved some of his men – along with that Swan Knight – from the Orcs' advance.
He too must have seen the Drakár coming close, and he reacted fast. He yanked an Orc spear from the ground and threw it, with all his strength. Shakurán heard the pained shriek of his mount and jumped off, freeing the beast to escape. He drew his sword. "I should have guessed it was you, when the first wave was too slow to gain ground," he greeted him, his first attacks light, testing Boromir's defenses.
Each of his strikes was parried by a heavy axe. "I should say I was surprised to see you," Boromir advanced, forcing Shakurán to parry heavy hits, the blade of the axe eating deeply into the Easterling's sword. "they might have executed you after your failure one year ago."
Shakurán dodged the next attack before turning into the offensive again. "One does not die easily in the City of Shadow, Boromir, and I promised I'd come back to put a dent into your ranks."
"And you always keep your word," Their weapons clashed again and this time the brutal hit of the axe broke Shakurán's sword, shattering the blade entirely.
Deftly the Easterling rolled over the ground, evading a new attack and picked up the sword of a fallen Gondorian. What kind of weapon was this axe? "I told you, Osgiliath will be the new Black Capital before long."
"You have told me that before, remember?" Boromir had allowed Shakurán to pick up the new weapon before attacking again, their fight became quicker, both now truly pushing at the other's limits. "and it has not become more true by repetition."
"You are losing, Boromir," Shakurán pushed forward his blade grazing Boromir's arm, only moments before the axe cut through his spaulders. He stumbled, forcing himself to stand and fight on. "I will not shame you by asking for your surrender… thought I'd be glad to see it."
Before Boromir could answer or attack again they both froze when they heard the horn -– a deep bronze sound ringing out against the darkening skies. Shakurán frowned, turning his head towards the breach to see what was going on.
The standing stone, a large monolith upriver of the city, was aglow in white lines, like a suddenly woken work of strange art. Only Shakurán knew this was no art, his mind was racing to find an answer – the stone marked the entrance of an ancient Dwarven trade route hailing back to the Elder Days. Panic rose in the Easterling, if the road was opening, and there was no doubt that it was, something was coming through and he had doubts it would be reinforcements. The road should be blocked or at least impassible since the Balrog took Moria. The horn rang again, and now Shakurán could see a troop moving, flanking the Orc troops.
"Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!"
The battle cry was echoed by many voices as the Orcs were suddenly attacked from their flank. Shakurán spat a curse. Dwarves! So that had been the purpose of the great Captain's journey north – not some wild tale of dreams and Elves but finding capable allies. Khamul would not like this at all.
Trapped between the Dwarves and the Men, the Orcs were beginning to lose ground in massive chunks, and the Rangers had finished off the archers faster than Shakurán liked. He hated defeat, but he had no reserves to pull this battle around.
Boromir had actually not attacked him again, though he had the axe ready to strike at him anew. "I will not shame you by asking for your surrender, Shakurán…" he said, as he advanced anew.
"And you will not have to," Shakurán dodged the attack sprinting across the yard, he could already hear the flutter of the powerful wings above, as Jadhur's Drakár picked up from the ground. Using one hand to push himself up on the claw, he reached for one of the horns on the neck swinging himself up on the beast's back. "Drakár-riders are to take our Elite and retreat," he ordered coldly. "Leave the Orcs to cover us." They were losing this time, but they were coming back… and soon.
TRB
The Orcs were turning tail! Dwalin laughed grimly, burying his axe in the next Orc skull. "Drive them to the River – let them drown!" he shouted at his Dwarves, as he pushed after the retreating Orcs. Dwalin fought with his two new axes in each hand, slicing his way through the Enemy with a brutal efficiency, honed by years of fighting in other people's wars. At least the Gondorians had an intelligent commander in place, because they pushed through the breach and joined in driving the Orcs off the shore. In the midst of the fighting, Dwalin saw him: Kíli, covering the back of a powerful Gondorian warrior, putting a good dent into the Orc ranks. Sword in his hands, striking mercilessly at the fleeing troops of the Black Lands, a whirl of dark hair and relentless energy – he vividly reminded Dwalin of an old friend who lay in his eternal sleep under the pines of Erebor for many decades now.
They met at the waterline. Dwalin had already been looking for what of the Orc boats could be used to cross the River and pursue them further, but a quick hand signal from Kíli stopped him. "Secure the shore!" Dwalin barked at his Dwarven warriors. "Bladvila, take a squad and search for wounded. Bofur: upriver; make sure our provisions don't get stolen by the Orcs."
When he turned around, he saw Kíli approach him walking with a slight limp, like he was trying to keep strain off his left leg. "Dwalin," Kíli's voice was warm, as he greeted him. Their hands touched in a warrior's clasp: hands around the other's Kíli drew Dwalin into a full hug, their forhead's touching, not quite the usual dwarven headbutt, but a greeting reflecting more relief and emotions than words would let on.
"That was a rescue in the nick of time," Kíli said softly. "we couldn't have lasted another hour."
In the soft words Dwalin could hear so many emotions, and an echo of the horror of past battles, that must have clawed itself back to the younger warrior's mind when he was faced with another battle against endless numbers of Orcs. Dwalin understood all too well, the sheer mass of Orcs would always bring back that day by the gates of Moria to him, and no matter how many horrors a warrior had seen – the first battle was one no warrior ever forgot.
"I am all the more glad I arrived in time." He grumbled, his own voice gruff, hiding his own feelings a little better. They both were relieved to find the other alive, no friends dead, no burials this time. "You did not think I'd let my Prince go to war while I sit home and pretend to be a respectable old Dwarf?" He pulled back, letting go of their embrace as he felt Kíli steady himself, overcoming the moment of weakness.
"No, I'd never assume that." Kíli smiled at him, a true, genuine smile that reached his dark eyes and made Dwalin's heart nearly stop. He had not seen Kíli smile like that since… since before the Battle of the Five Armies. "It is so good to have you here, Dwalin."
"It is good to have you back too, Kíli," Dwalin replied, unable to look away from Kíli, fearing that if he did, it might prove an illusion of sorts. Blessed Mahal, had it truly taken another war for Kíli to be returned to them?
TRB
Boromir watched Kíli greet the other Dwarf. Their close hug bespoke relief and a great deal of familiarity. The other dwarf was older than Kíli, bald and grey bearded, maybe he had been a mentor to him? The warrior's appearance was vaguely familiar, though. He frowned; he had met this mercenary before, but not really registered him as a Dwarf. So this was Dwalin… it was strange, because he it was exactly the warrior Boromir had seen in his dreams about Moria too. Or had he heard Dwalin's full name at some point in the past, just never really remembered it?
He approached both Dwarves, when he saw them let go of their embrace, their greeting had been unusual but he had noticed before that Kíli would express his thoughts often through a more pronounced body language, maybe it was part of his culture, of the way dwarves interacted?
When he noticed Boromir's approach, Kíli straightened up, giving up on his casual, personal stance, while he still stood right beside his friend, the relaxed stance made way for a warrior, standing straight, tall in his own way, head held high ."Boromir, this is Dwalin son of Fundin: a mighty warrior and very loyal friend. Dwalin…"
Dwalin inclined his head, forgoing a formal bow.. "It'll be an honor to fight for you again, Captain," he said with an amused grin. "Only you'll have more of my kind to deal with this time."
Boromir grinned back, vividly recalling his own words that while Dvalén, under which name he had known Dwalin, was a great fighter, he'd not want any more of his caliber on any of the mercenary units. "I had not known you were a Dwarf."
"I never said I was." Dwalin had never been shy to talk back, even to the Captain of Gondor, and he had not changed in that. His eyes went to the River. "They pulled their forces quickly against your city, Captain."
"And the next time they'll be more thorough and less surprised to see you here," Boromir pointed out. "How many fighters are with you?" He had seen a number of Dwarves and his estimate was at several hundred but did he dare hope for that many? He hardly believed that the Exiles – and that's what they must be – could muster such numbers, or afford to do so. With Eriador being a worse chaos than Boromir had ever dreamt it could be, they had their own people to protect. And while Osgiliath could desperately need a large number of fighters Boromir would always respect the need to defend one's own people. Still, every warrior more was help, be it ten or one hundred.
"Nine hundred total," Dwalin told him. "Eight hundred of them field fighters; the other hundred can be used on the front but will be more useful in forges and stonework. We'll need them sorely once the real siege of your city begins."
Boromir's eyes went from Dwalin to Kíli and back to the old grizzled warrior. He had always felt bitterness that so few appreciated Gondor's sacrifices in holding the Shadow at bay. After his own journey across the lone lands, he had begun to understand the horrors the north had to deal with alone. But seeing them here, having brought so many of their people to the fight, in spite of what they were faced with at home, warmed his heart. It was truly a noble and brave decision of them to come here and fight. "Gondor never knew it had friends among your people, Prince Kíli," he said, for the first time using the formal title. "'Tis all the gladder a moment that you are here now."