Disclaimer: Fortunately for you all, I don't own LoTR or its characters, marketable material, or plotline.
Chapter VI, Ashen Resurgence
X-X-X-X-X
The metal clanking was unmistakable. One doesn't live for some years -decades?- around a person without learning the particular sound of their gait. The Witch-King was close, and coming straight for me.
I put my hammer away, not bothering with the item I was trying to make before. It was a failed product, through and through.
"My Lord," I greeted at the Witch-King's entry.
"You have been reinstated. The Dark Lord requires your services."
My eyes widened. I had always known that, someday, I'd be getting back in action. Today didn't really feel like the day though.
Odd that Sauron sent a messenger rather than telling me himself. Too busy, or was talking to me that exhausting?
"My thanks, and may my services be rendered duly." Yeah, pretty sure that one's not in the official textbook of acceptable responses.
"Follow me."
So brief, my dear Head of the Nine. With that, he led me out of my workshop and further out of the citadel proper.
There, standing in twenty-five rows, with one hundred a row, were iron-clad uruk-hai. My formation. It ought to have been destroyed in Khand, but there it was, neatly awaiting me, its general and creator... its generator. Heh.
I turned to the Witch-King slowly, slightly confused, "My Lord, this is not an illusion, is it?"
"No."
Still terse, the Witch-King marched on to where several other of my brothers in death were waiting on horses. After he'd mounted, he turned to me, "Definite news of the Ring has reached our Lord's ear. We," And here he obviously meant those behind him and himself, not I, "Shall retrieve it. We must take a circuitous route to avoid Gondorian rangers, in the interim, you shall take charge with your troops as a core, and capture East Osgiliath. Do not cross the river without instruction from myself or our Lord."
Surprisingly long-winded for him, but I suppose the gravity of the instructions merited such a tiring of his tireless vocal chords. Funny how Nazgul were.
"I shall take it within the month."
He narrowed his eyes at me, "Do so then, and do not fail to keep it. The Dark Lord's plans move to completion."
Yeah, right. Oh, rather, well, I guess so? I'd been out of the loop for the last few years, to say the least. I didn't even know how long it had been, or how many weapons I'd forged, or how far I'd come. What I knew seemed natural now, and I'd grown comfortable..ish in my own skin.
But whoa, if we're taking East Osgiliath... actually, I have no idea what that means, timeline wise, and for all I know, this definite news is not "Baggins, Shire" from Gollum.
That being said, it's good to be back in action? Dang, I still can't drop that question mark. I just don't know how to feel about killing Gondorians. They're the good guys, right? I just hoped I didn't end up killing someone with Numenorian blood.
Why? Well, why not? I have to worry about something.
Without further ado, the Witch-King and the Nazgul with him rode off, not galloping in the least, and heading east of all directions. He did say circuitous though, and Minas Morgul was already terribly close to Gondorian outposts.
I turned to survey my troops more thoroughly, noting with some slight pride that their primary weapon was something I had 'designed'. It was a pike modeled after the Chinese Halberd, with a long handle fitted with a bladed head, some eight inches long, at whose base was a five inch blade, fitted at a right angle to the main head. Directly opposite the five incher there was a somewhat oddly shaped protrusion designed to be used in catching enemy weapons, and with skilled use, it proved the deciding factor in polearm duels.
Needless to say, I'd forged the first one. Somewhat less obviously, I forged all of them. I hadn't really thought too much of it when Sauron told me to practice by making that particular breed of halberd head for some ungodly length of time. His training was like that sometimes.
But I was happy with it, of course. Still, this was a siege, or perhaps better put, an assault that we were preparing for. Not exactly ideal pike-warfare if it turned into house-to-house. Street fighting should still be fine though.
The all new action game: Street Fighter Osgiliath! Play as an Uruk and use the Chinese halberd unique weapon!
Sounds fun.
If memory serves, we, being the Sauron side, are 'supposed' to win this fight.
But, well, for all I know Akhorahil was 'supposed' to win in Khand, or even never go at all. Whatever I thought I knew was almost useless anyway.
Best to work on strategy.
With many advisors victory is certain, as Solomon said. Too bad he ended up taking the advice of the many advisors in his bed, eh? Victory... Yeah, sure.
We want military victory here, but beautiful females may still be on the short list.
X-X-X-X-X
"I'll put it bluntly, my dear, I want to hire you."
The line she was expecting when I visited off schedule? Probably not.
The she-elf looked at me blankly, not even comprehending it for a moment.
Then, "As what exactly?"
Ah, yes, that bit. So good of you to remind me.
"As an," How best to break this to her and still get an affirmative? "Adjutant."
"Adjutant." She repeated skeptically.
"Militarily. I want you to serve as my second in command." Right. What was I thinking again? Gee, I'm off to fight Gondor here, the good guys, hello.
"And why me?" Her left eyebrow quirked a bit at me, as if mocking my idiocy.
"I need someone I trust."
"And that's me how exactly?" She asked, almost rhetorically, gesturing to her cell.
Ah, but it's good to say my way of speaking infected her so thoroughly over the years. Such casualness. I think I may succeed. Whatever else we might have been, and she not even giving her name once, we were friends.
I spoke again, "I don't trust you to serve the Dark Lord," She seemed slightly dumbfounded there, "I trust you to serve as a voice of reason. I don't want to wage wars of slaughter and destruction. Winning without fighting is the ideal."
Perhaps she still couldn't connect my personality to my visage, because she took a moment to accept that I was actually serious.
Khand had taught me many things, among them my inadequacies as a diplomat. That situation should have never turned into armed combat. Never.
I couldn't hope for that here, but forcing a retreat was still preferable to a costly assault. Lucky that there were no civilians in Osgiliath at any rate.
"And how do you know I wouldn't simply run away?"
"And forfeit your pay and honor? Please." I pulled out a blank scroll, I always kept some on me in case I randomly wanted to jot something down, along with a personally designed pen, which, yes, included a spring. It was clunky, but it came close to modern equipment. The ink wasn't always perfect though.
"A contract?" She queried incisively.
"Just so. I'm sure we can find some agreement."
"A dead man's deal? I'll decline."
I furrowed my brows, "Ridiculous. This puts you in the position in which you can expect the highest positive impact on events. Frankly put, outside my offer, you'll rot in this cell until the Dark Lord chooses to end your existence. With this, you have a chance to influence major events. Who knows, perhaps you can trick me into a foolish strategy that results in Mordor's demise."
There really was no option here, if you asked me.
"And," I amended, "Your pitiful worries about working for the evil side are meaningless. To do nothing is also reprehensible. At least try, elf."
She looked at me, conflicted.
"You chose not to fade for something."
Her fingers twitched and she looked away briefly, "I accept, in my name I shall render just and righteous advice and service."
I grinned, finally, "And what name would that be?"
"Aemorniel, at your service," She smiled sweetly, the name seeming to cause a small tremor in the room.
Funny to say names have power, but for spiritually attuned beings like us, they did, so it was technically possible.
Drawing up the contract was completed smoothly from there, and I could rest eas- no, no rest for the wicked, I could have no rest easily.
X-X-X-X-X
With Aemorniel just behind me, also on a horse, though hers was soft beige, I rode to survey Osgiliath, the main force following slowly under command of the competent quartermaster. Logistical operations were truly his forte.
Ithilien was a rocky place, between Minas Morgul and Osgiliath, not fit for human habitation, and any animals that would have lived here had long since been hunted by either Gondorians or Sauronese.
Suffice to say, it was a barren wasteland second only to the territory around Mount Doom, which was too hot of soil to permit plant life.
Osgiliath wasn't terribly far, but it was two days on horseback away. The army would take at least three to arrive, likely four, as they were carrying supplies and half-constructed siege weapons. The counterweights were fortunately everywhere, along with ammo, so there was no trouble with that, but the timber was necessarily transported.
Osgiliath wasn't precisely a sight to be seen for its grandeur, but it was no less impressive. It impressed one with the ravages of time. Clearly once a great city, every single building sat in shambles, and half the streets were covered with rubble.
It represented Gondor as surely as I represented Sauron. It was old, worn-down, and spoke of glories past. I was hollow, dead, and needed a ring to survive.
And Osgiliath, like Sauron, was old news. The army we had with us would have been scoffed away by friend and foe in the Second Age, but here men quaked in their boots at the sight of it.
Osgiliath's defenses were poor. Stacked up rubble protected the city from a cavalry charge, but orcs could clamber up it unaided by a ladder, or even boots. There were watchmen posted approximately every 100 feet. Not enough men on the walls to repel even the slightest attack, relying instead on a quick response time by the central force and expert scouting by the Ithilien rangers to alert them to major forces.
Motion from the front 'gate' drew my attention.
And that'd be the rangers bringing news of our attack, judging from the exhaustion evident in the newly entered rider's horse. One doesn't ride that hard without cause.
Still, I must say, very efficient scouting.
"They'll have learned of the advance then," Aemorniel reminded.
"Just so. Not that I mind, I had zero chance of preventing the report from reaching them, and they have not the time to receive reinforcements from Minas Tirith."
"Then why the siege gear?" She queried pointedly.
I turned deliberately to her, "Because without seeing it for my eyes, I'd never believe that a central defensive location like this would have such murderously bad fortifications. I wanted to believe in Gondor."
A quarter smile of amusement floated across her face at that line
Yes, yes, me wanting to believe in the good guys. It's rather incredible to the residents of this world, but to me, it was as natural as breathing.
We rode around a bit more, until a sentries' call alerted us to the fact that we'd been seen. With that as our catalyst, we turned, and returned to the main force. We were not harassed.
In my case, I can understand their reluctance, but Aemorniel was a perfectly handsome woman. I'd want to harass her, if I was a guy.
Wait.
I am a man, still, aren't I?
Well, I did harass her enough that now she works for me. Heheh. Still a man.
X-X-X-X-X
It was the day after the she-elf and myself's little scouting adventure that the arrows started coming. Sparse and annoying at first, the march grew wearisome as my column approached Osgiliath.
Nevertheless, between what warg support we had and the numerous archers -of varied but decent skill- in my regiment, a considerable portion of the fool Rangers were obliterated, and casualties were low. Overall, the Ithilien raiders killed slightly less than two of my soldiers for every one of them. Not a bad rate for the Uruks, if you take the movies for reference.
Plain Ork casualties were not recorded.
Still, refilling empty slots in the ranks was always a pain, so I preferred zero casualties. War was war then as now, however, and blood was necessarily spilt.
Well, not actually necessarily. Gondor could just pay nominal tribute to Mordor and get on with their lives. Seriously.
To convey my point of view to the Gondorians was precisely my intention. To that end, as the troops saw to pitching camp as for a siege, I prepared a white flag, disarmed myself and my aide-de-camp, and rode towards the gates, if they might be called such, of Osgiliath.
Aemorniel was neither enthusiastic nor opposed. It worried me, somewhat. That was the careful deliberance of a plotter.
But if she meant to betray her solemn contract, then I had misjudged her, and I deserved to be betrayed.
I was halfway surprised and doubly impressed that the Rangers did not shoot us as we approached. Perhaps parley was still used by men of honor here. It boded well.
"Halt, in the name of the Steward!" The guardsman hailed us, his voice narrow with concealed fear and hate.
"We come in peace, to discuss terms!" Aemorniel replied for us. I was grateful for her acceptance of the role she was given. My voice tended to make western men quail.
The guard said nothing in reply, but called out to the other side of the wall, over his shoulder. I did not make out his words, but I was sure the she-elf had. If they meant to shoot, she would have warned.
An expression of shock came to the man's face at a yell from behind before he recovered and instructed loudly, "Dismount, disarm, and approach the gate! Captain Boromir will meet with you personally!"
I dismounted with a calm and unhaste not felt within. Boromir. Could it be the same? Son of the Steward and Heir of Gondor, meeting me? It seemed unlikely. The man on the wall ought to have reported my nature.
No, I realized. He sought to inspire his men. If he refused to meet me, a Nazgul, he showed fear. He likely considered this the entire purpose of the meeting. Unbidden, a curse came to my mind.
If I was right, he had no intention to negotiate or surrender. He intended to parley merely to prove he had the steel to face down a Nazgul. But, also, if I'd sent a lesser messenger, he'd have merely sent them away or shot them.
At least like this, I had a chance to meet him and present my case.
As I approached the gate, Boromir's side of the issue turned in my mind. He could not surrender to the Dark Lord here, or anywhere. Gondor teetered on the edge of collapse, the so-called Princes paying less respect to the house of Stewards each successive generation. Each no doubt internally coveted the throne, but would not move for fear of the others.
To move aside for the Nazgul here would be seen as a vile weakness in the Stewards' line, if not outright service to the Dark Lord. No, he'd send me packing soon enough, after saying some courageous lines for the people on the wall to hear and spread among their own.
But perhaps, I chuckled, he was not counting on the elf. Few elves served the Dark Lord, and fewer still were known to. I glanced at my compatriot. To these men, she would represent her entire race to them. Would represent the surrender and submission of all elves to Sauron.
I saw now the price I'd really asked her to pay. To be hated, reviled, and scorned, by men, by her own, by dwarves, and hobbits, by trees and all things light. Hosts of evil! What had possessed her to agree? Was I really a friend to her, in her heart?
The gates, raw lumber, thick and untreated, swung open to reveal a young man, too young to be a commander of the White Tower through merit alone, with his second, an elder man with the stiff air of a noble soldier.
It was Boromir. As handsome as any tale could paint him, and taller than most men, with a bearing of nobility so naturally expressed it belied comprehension. I drew to my full height, increased by the hood I wore over my mail, and looked the Steward's son in the eye. He did not flinch.
"Glory to the line of Stewards, may the land of Gondor prosper ever." I greeted steadily, without mockery.
Boromir hesitated at my greeting, far from a customary line from a foe, "What brings you here, dead man?" He finally decided.
"The Nazgul are not dead, nor are they living. You should read more books, young man." I corrected him smoothly.
Boromir showed little of the irritation he felt, "I ask again, Nazgul, what ails you that you come for parley? There can be no peace between Good and Evil."
I smiled a little, not that anyone could see, "And yet here we are, talking. May it ever be."
His eyes narrowed, as if only now realizing his mistake, "A man of honor respects the rites of war, even when abused by Lords of Evil."
I leaned in an inch or two, for intimidation, "I've abused nothing but a few scraps of metal. But I did not come here to brag about my many talents, nor lecture you on Gondorian propaganda. Surrender the fortress, and tell your Lord Father that Gondorian Lords may rule Gondor for as long as the sun sets in the west and rises in the east, if they will but pay homage and obeisance to the Lord of Mordor."
"Gondor will never surrender to Darkness."
"Then call it by another name, if you wish to keep your country's legacy pure." I said dismissively, "Will you surrender to me?"
"Never in a thousand years or a hundred battles." He returned sternly, "Not if all my men lay dead and wounded, and not a man woman or child was left to my house but I, not even then, would I surrender."
"I pray that you may live to eat those words in full, but soon you shall in part. This fortress," I raised my voice so that the soldiers could hear, "Is but a ruin of an age gone by. No one lives in it, no one trades in it. No one cares for it. I should not have come here but for one reason: The Dark Lord demands it. This fortress is claimed by him, and he shall have it. And when," My voice had drifted down a little, but I picked up again here, "Boromir flees from it, as my Uruks pour into this pitiful city, you, Gondorians, will lie dead in the streets, and I will give leave that you may be eaten, your armor stripped, and your weapons taken. Hear now my words, that you all living now may yet live hence, if you retreat across the river now." I quietened, "Tomorrow, I attack."
With such said, I turned and left, Aemorniel pausing to give a mocking nod to Boromir before she turned to follow.
I hadn't so much lied as I had misled Boromir. I was indeed attacking tomorrow, from the modern perspective. I knew not how the Gondorians told time, but for me, the day began at midnight.
It was then I would attack. The choice was clear and certain. Uruk-hai had superior vision in the dark, as compared to men. Some part of me pitied the men that would die for my vain ambitions, but I had given them the chance to retreat.
War was, is, like that.
"You mean to attack tonight?"
I turned to Aemorniel, surprised by the question, "We did discuss that, yes. Why?"
"They are ready for it."
I saw no sign… forget that, I hired her for this. I would have quirked a brow, and honestly, I did do so, but she obviously couldn't see it, so I spoke, "What tells you this?"
"The firewood, pitch, in places, arrow supplies on the 'walls'."
"He has had days' notice of my coming."
She looked me in the face, "You do not mean to turn aside, do you?"
"If I meant to turn aside, I should have done so long before I stood before Osgiliath's ruins."
"So be it." She turned to leave.
"Thank you, Aemorniel," The name rasped from my wraith-tongue like a curse, but only because elvish did not agree with me. I could learn it well enough, but it was quite literally painful to speak it, "Rest up, you'll need to watch the fighting."
She smiled a small and bitter smile at that, nodding as she turned to ride to her tent.
I hoped she didn't think it a form of cruel and slightly subtle torture by me. A grim reminder of her place and new service. But even if she did, I would not go out of my way to attempt to correct the notion.
It was well enough if she was reminded occasionally. For now, at least, we both served Evil.
X-X-X-X-X
War wasn't easy. I told myself that every day I mounted my horse as a general. I did it because I wanted it to be true.
But, truthfully, a wee bit of me knew that statement for a lie.
War was plenty easy, so long as you had willing soldiers.
And Darkness of the Tower were orks willing to kill. They'd fight each other with next to no provocation.
It was kinda gross to watch. Cookpots had to be filled with something, and orks vastly preferred meat. They didn't have a lot of internal moral dilemmas about the subject of cannibalism.
We'll leave that thought there. Hanging. Like a leg over a fire. Just waiting to be ready.
And then… crunch.
I tore my eyes away, focusing on my trained Uruks. These were the guys who would win the fight, and I expected Capitan Boromir, Heir of the Steward, Temporary Defender of Osgiliath, knew that.
Well that he did.
My plan was fairly simple: a force of orks to the gate, warg-riders with orkish archer support to the north side, just by the river, and another swarm of ork rabble to the south.
Boromir, smart fellow that he was, would hold a good portion of his troops in reserve, waiting for the inevitable hammer blow from the heavily armored Uruk formations.
Sadly, he would be very disappointed. The Uruks would maintain token readiness to fool him into thinking I was fooling him, but would largely be resting until dawn. Then, with all the defenders tired and stiff from waiting and fighting, we'd rush the little slope of rubble they called a wall, and end things.
And if the orks broke through before that? So much the better. I could rouse the boys and adapt.
Ah.
And there was his plan. He'd let one of the groups in, feigning, prepare his reserve, and just as I committed my Uruks, he'd turn and crush the irregulars, just in time to send them swarming back over the wall, breaking my trained but not battle-tested organization…
It was a good plan, I thought.
That said, I didn't know how much he knew.
Still, assuming the worst wasn't a bad course.
If one group broke through, we'd instead send the Uruks to a whole new attack point, between the gate and the river on the north side.
I shared my thoughts with Aemorniel deliberately, not leaving out a whisker.
The she-elf nodded along, frowning at all the right points.
"Would this Boromir take such a risk as you propose, however?"
"If he does not, plan A it may yet be."
"And if you are right, and he does do this thing, is it not possible that if you send no help to the 'breakers', they may yet be defeated by the initial retreaters, needing to assistance from the assumed reserve?"
It was. "It is." I answered emotionlessly.
"And what then? 'Assuming the worst isn't a bad plan'." She quoted back at me.
Darkness, but she could be lovely annoying.
"Then I can't say. I'll have committed almost all of our forces at that point."
"Perhaps we should revisit the plan from the top. Why are you so opposed to a general assault across the whole face?"
I know I hired her for disagreeing with me, but it sometimes really sucked. Explaining was what a good fellow; a good boss; did, though.
"We don't have the numbers. With that long a stretch, we'll be spread thin."
She waved a hand dismissively, "Boromir has far fewer. Far."
True. Getting needlessly complicated when you had an obvious advantage with no real counter wasn't the wisest, perhaps.
"I won't have the Uruks break up smaller than half-rows."
"You're far too attached to your formations."
Ugh. I was too attached, and I knew that.
But that regiment was kinda my baby, if you will. And finding it restored to me when I thought everything was lost? That meant something.
"Finally, and most importantly, that would spread the combat out over too much ground to get any kind of accurate information on our side. Boromir, on the other hand, will have established names for locations. His men can say 'the south watch post has fallen' and he'll know exactly what they mean. I don't have a clue. If I order a general assault like that, I give up control, leadership, everything. It's set and forget." I glanced up to Aemorniel's face, waiting for her return argument.
She just looked at me with understanding, "You hate how he controls you, don't you?"
I glared at her.
"You hate not being in control, in the know, because it reminds you of your time there. Under him. You hate how he keeps secrets and uses you, manipulates you."
I held up my hand there, "Do not attempt to hypnotize me. I do not hate anything, or anyone. Hate is something I have chosen to reject. It is easily twisted, and never righteous."
I may have been trying to convince myself, to lie to myself, but I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe I could still live, and love, and feel compassion, pity, and remorse. And hate went against that. To hate anything, even Sauron, could compromise all my internal debates and resolutions in a heartbeat.
So I would be calm, and rational, and right. Even here, in the command tent, as I contemplate ending lives, I would do it with understanding, and regret. Not hate. Never hate.
I could see the irrational hate in orks' eyes towards humans. They wanted them all dead. It clouded their judgement, and prevented right choices. The same hate, reflected, did the same thing to Men.
Aemorniel stared, whispering something that my wraith-ears couldn't make out.
X-X-X-X-X
I could stop this, I knew.
Watching the troops ready and march to their locations, that was almost all I could think of.
I could call this whole dreadful affair off, for one more night.
But procrastinating wouldn't make anything better. The logical choice was to pull the tape off quickly, even if you lost a few hairs.
And I really believed that. I would have felt a chill of realization in my spine if I had one, but it was the thought that counted.
And so it came to pass in those days, that a decree went out from Akhorahil the un-Dead, that all the orks should advance upon the ruin, and push the defenders across the river.
Horns sounded from the points of assault as the orks approached, to rouse the defenders and give them courage.
A good system, if a little flawed.
Following a little whit of Aemorniel's advice, I'd sent hornblowers to sneak next to the wall, where they now blew their horns in supposed warning. The call was a little off unfortunately, but it might still spread some mild confusion.
I turned my attention to the southern assault on the wall. Rangers had begun to thin the horde with well-aimed shots, rarely missing even in the dark. With the moon a bare sliver, and the Mordor side clouded over, there was plenty of light for an ork to make do, but not nearly enough for the average human to be comfortable.
To my eyes, there was basically no difference. Thanks, wraith-hood.
No, not my hood, my being a wraith.
Sometimes I could really be an idiot.
At that thought, the first ork to reach the wall began scrambling up and the horde soon began to press up against the wall, spreading out laterally and finding places to climb.
Soon enough, a small portion of hell erupted as the defenders lit pre-placed pitch on fire, covering some of the easiest ways up in a strong blaze that no one was about to go through. Oil flasks were thrown like some sort of ancient Molotov cocktails into the mass at the base of the wall, lighting up the night and giving the defenders a better view.
A good plan, and expected from a defending force in any night assault.
Still, I did wonder how much fuel the good Captain had to burn.
Just as quickly, bow-carrying archer orks in the back became to fire arrows; some poisoned, some flaming, some plain; at the defenders on the wall, creating the first Gondorian casualties.
Gondorian Pikemen came in, shoving and stabbing at orks as they scaled, hurling them down easily from their precarious perches. But a few of the orks dodge and continued, whist others grabbed firmly to their foes' polearms, hurling themselves back down.
Sometimes they failed, more often they took the weapon with them, and sometimes the human didn't let go. Let's just say those poor fools didn't last the night.
All-in-all, it was about as I expected here.
Riding at a trot to the gate, I found a similar scene, but with more desperate attempts by both sides at one crucial location: The gate itself. Several battering rams, whole trees, really, fitted with sturdy handles and an iron cap, had been prepared for the purpose. Most were lying on the ground, abandoned, but one was being swung at the gate, new orks taking the place of the rapidly withered carriers.
The initial rammers, clad in armor, all lay dead already, peppered with arrows.
Still, several rangers had been felled by orkish bow… bow-ork-ship? Bowmanship, yes, and while the kill ratio was admittedly depressing, with the ram stealing the attention of the Gondorians, my archers had a nearly free hand to work.
The gate was simple wood, if sturdy, with no plating or real metal support, and with the area completely swamped with orks, a sally seemed unlikely.
Not trusting the battle to continue further with me as a simple observer, I retreated to my base command and relied on scout reports for the rest.
The north had gone poorly for the defenders and attackers both. Wargs, incredibly agile as they were, had easily ran up the slope, steep for a hill, but pathetic for a wall, and completely overwhelmed the few defenders already there.
Then, a strong response from the defenders had come, sweeping up the scattered warg-riders – who had pursued fleeing victims independently of each other - pushing the attackers back to the wall, which the orkish archers still held tenuously.
It wasn't the little plot I'd imagined in my opponent's brain, but perhaps… the archers were still on the wall, after-all.
Was he waiting for my response?
Over-caution destroyed the general.
Boldness won the day.
But could it win the night?
I wondered.
"Quickly go and tell the archers to retreat, go out of bowshot from the wall, and support the gate assault. The wargs will remain out of bow-shot, threatening but not attacking, until I or Aemorniel gives the word."
The messenger first in line saluted and ran for his warg, followed a minute later by a second, and then a third in a few seconds who headed the other way first. He'd use a circuitous route and would hopefully be unnecessary, but I had the numbers to permit a little caution.
"Command the southern force to retreat from the wall slowly, spread out quickly, and assault the whole face on their side from the river to the gate."
I never did like using a plan I'd already thought of.
Somehow, if I was a wee bit rash and lost, I felt I still had an excuse.
A weakness, or a strength, time would tell.
As my orders reached their respective fronts, the night transformed. The view from the sky would have been a sight, I was sure.
The whole southern wall, alight with fire and blood, and the north, quiet like an owl waiting tensely for unwary prey.
And at the gate it was fiercest, as the wooden obstacle gave way to the beatings, its rough hinges unable to stand, its foundation too shallow for sufficient purchase. Even braced as it was from behind, the gate tilted backwards, until it looked more like a steeple roof than something that ought to be vertical.
Then, with a subtle snap, scarcely audible above the ferocious din of metal on metal, of metal on stone, of metal on bone, the main brace on the left side gave way, and the gate awkwardly twisted, still held up, but forced to swivel. It opened a way large enough for a single man, plenty enough for one, but no more than one.
Dead bodies that should have clogged the opening were instead dragged out of the way by orks, eager to breach the point.
All who tried, died.
"The Uruks are to attack the northern side, just above the gate. Some of them can come down to the gate if I manage to break through. I give you command, and don't forget to send the wargs in at the perfect moment." I turned to Aemorniel for acknowledgement.
"You're going yourself?"
"I must see this through."
I grabbed my mace and gripped my longswords' hilt, reminding myself it was still buckled on. On impulse, I also took my round shield, and headed off to the breach.
X-X-X-X-X
Author's Note: So, it's been a while huh? You thought Akhorahil had bit the dust? Yeah, so sorry. But I regret nothing, I write for my own reasons, and not man's approval.
That said, your opinions, dare I say it, are welcome. What do you think about what I've done with the she-elf? Have I missed some important plot-point from canon for no good reason? Am I demonstrably silly?
And as ever, I do hope you enjoyed it,
-Iamwhononofyouare