Storming the Tower
Maeglin knew a great many things. He knew craftsmanship, of more kinds than just the forge though that was his speciality. He knew trade, politics and all the many methods by which goods worked their way from Beleriand to Ered Luin and back again. He also knew mining, and tunnelling.
That had been why he was in the tower when the attack came. Undermining was a strategy that should, in theory, be highly effective against fortresses. He was unsure if it played out in practice due to the fact that it was never employed in Beleriand. The orcs and trolls were just better tunnelers than the Eldar, and the Dwarves had no interest in getting involved in a costly siege of Angband.
Still, Bann Loren had insisted it could not be done in the marshland, that any mine would fill with water. Current circumstances indicated that he was a complete imbecile.
Maeglin hacked the head from one of the smaller orcs and kicked it into the face of one of the larger breeds. What they were doing in the bright morning sun, he did not know, but presumably with sufficient encouragement, and tunnels to shield their approach, it was manageable.
Of course, logically, it was obvious the land could support tunnels. Maeglin had yet to find earth that could support a fortress that could not also support a tunnel, even if digging through rock was annoying. He would have pointed that out to the Bann, but the bastard had the temerity to die early on in the battle.
The initial assault had been by far and away the worst. While most of the warriors in the tower were armed and ready for battle, they were still caught by surprise. Helmets made conversation difficult, so most were not wearing them when the attack came. Fighting helmetless was almost always a bad idea.
They had been forced to cede the lower floors very quickly, fighting up the stairs to make use of the design of the tower to stem the sheer numbers. They had been further aided when the majority of the darkspawn had turned away to attack the rest of the fortress.
The warriors of Ferelden had rallied around their captains or officers and made a valiant stand on the third floor. The numbers of darkspawn managed to extract a toll, but time was bought and the floor was fortified. Maeglin felt an itch on the back of his neck that had him glancing back to the roof as though some kind of flying beast might come from above.
Why he thought that he did not know, but paranoia was drilled deep into him at a young age, and the habit had served him well. Until he was captured, but that really only showed a lack of paranoia on his part.
No such attack came, and Maeglin acquitted himself well, fighting fiercely at the barricade. However, slowly, it became apparent some intelligence greater than any orc or troll was directing this battle. First was Sir Leroy, who was slain by an ogre, then Bann Caulfield's wife was hit by an arrow. One by one, the commanders of the garrison fell.
They were being targeted.
Anguirel cleaved through chain, plate, sword and shield. Maeglin had managed to place himself at one of the weakest positions in the line. Unlike the other parts of the defences, which were made of heavy tables and loose building materials, he stood behind a loose hedge of interlocked chairs. It was an obvious weakness, and the darkspawn clearly prioritised it.
Which suited him fine.
Orcs clambered over the barrier at first. Most of the trolls were attempting to break through the stronger parts. Maeglin was not an experienced enough warrior to be certain of the wisdom of that choice, but it seemed poor to him. Still, he had no compunctions about slaughtering orcs. He could do so for days.
After the first dozen or so, he started to get a little creative. Venting no small amount of frustration at his circumstances in general and the forces of Morgoth in particular. He would cut them down with great two handed swings, screaming at the top of his lungs.
Traitor, liar, lord of deceit, backstabber, oathbreaker and other insults of that nature were among the more polite things he hurled at the shadowy figure in his mind. Was the Enemy here? He hoped, nay prayed, he was not, but still he hurled insults at him.
As though He had heard Maeglin's insults, the trolls started coming.
They smashed through the chairs and Maeglin was left in a precarious situation. Anguirel was more than capable of cleaving their stony hides, and doing serious damage, but with so many on all sides, getting that decisive blow in is rather a challenge.
"If any of you worthless mortals would be able to lend a hand, we might manage to survive this!" Maeglin called.
The mortals grumbled among themselves, and probably glared at him, but he cared not. The only thing he cared about was that they helped, and sure enough they did. Spears and long swords, hammers or axes were levelled at the trolls, none of so fine a quality as Anguirel, but more than good enough to force them to turn away. That meant Maeglin was able to get blows in.
First, he struck at the legs of the most exposed troll, leaving it to fall and be swarmed by humans. Then he stuck at the arms of the next, letting him actually get a killing blow on a third. This still left five to deal with, but he managed those in a similar fashion.
Also the humans killed some. He wasn't really counting though.
After the last troll falls, there is a slow trickle of other orcs that are quickly dispatched. It continues for a while, but the attacks are now coming slowly enough that there is time to step back and take a breath.
The defences are in a sorry state, all but torn apart. Many lie dead, in the shattered defences, nearly a third of the defenders slain. So grievous and heavy was the fighting, so desperate the defence, that only a handful of injured are not either attempting to repair the defences or fighting despite their injuries.
Some people are discussing potentially falling back to higher floors for a stronger defence, but no action is being taken. Maeglin's attempts to weigh in are not welcomed.
"Looks like they've got the courtyard secured." Someone says from a window. "Rounded up those mages and making for the tower now."
"Reckon they'll reach us before the darkspawn do us in?" Someone else asks.
The silence of the response is telling.
Maeglin slides up to the window subtly and eyes the drop. The third floor is certainly dangerous, but it would certainly be survivable, especially for an elda. Plus, the stone is old and pitted, there are plenty of handholds and cracks. Someone sufficiently agile and athletic could absolutely descend without too much trouble. Could an untrained human do it? Almost certainly not.
But he could.
He can almost see how he would descend; the route is almost presenting itself in his mind. It would not be easy, not exactly, but it is well within his abilities. Nobody could stop him.
It would mean abandoning the humans to a likely death. Without leadership or defences, and far fewer warriors, the next wave will likely be the last unless he does something. He could almost certainly make Nelyafinwë believe he fought until all was lost and escaped only when there was no hope.
He has done it before.
He leans forward to get a better look out of the window. For a moment, the angle is perfect and he can see his reflection.
He looks like his father.
Recoiling as though struck, Maeglin nearly tripped over his own feet. A few humans glance his way, but mostly they ignore him.
The elf's chest heaved and his heart raced. He feels ill, as though something oily is working its way through his veins. The feeling is familiar, an image of a towering darkness and the terrible weight of His burning attention.
Unconsciously, Maeglin's hand comes up to clutch at his heart.
'Tell me Maeglin, how do you answer Turgon's blood? What do say you to Ecthelion, dead in the very square of the king, slain by Gothmog himself? What of Glorfindel, who died defending those who fled the destruction you wrought upon their home? What say you to the Gondolindrim, whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead before the Gate of Steel?'
Guilt gnaws at him.
"They're coming again!" Someone wails from the shattered barrier. "There's more of them… Oh Maker, they have mages!"
Anguirel's weight is comforting as Maeglin turns back to the defences.
Everything is hazy as he walks back to the barricade. Idly he hears someone shouting about needing to kill the mages before they blast them away from a distance, but the words make no sense.
Orcs and trolls are before him, in numbers he has seen only once before. They crush forward, contained only by the white walls on either side. In the distance he can see their dread commanders wielding their fell arts.
He slowly raises his father's sword and takes a deep breath. Then he leaps over the barricade.
"What are you doing you crazy elf?" A human yells after him, but he heeds him not.
Orcs are barely worth a mention, for all their cunning with metal they cannot match the black blades of Eöl. He hacks them apart, cuts them down without mercy.
'Do not feel pity for them, they have none for you' Father said.
Trolls, on the other hand, are a greater threat. They have reach and strength aplenty. If they reach the defences they will brush them aside and all within will die. He has not worked so hard on them to allow a monster of the Enemy to destroy them.
Black blood stains white stone and still Maeglin pushes on. He is alone, none of the Gondolindrim fight beside him, not a single Noldo or Sinda or even a human. For a moment it is confusing, but he soon recalls why.
They are dead, and it is his fault.
More, he demands of his body. Faster his blows come, stronger too. He hews first one troll, then another. He leaps up a third and over, deeper into the enemy formation. Dimly he is aware of the sounds of battle behind him and arrows glancing off his chain mail.
He ignores them.
He carves his way to the dread commanders.
Like great beasts they seem to his eyes, shadows wrapping about like great wings. Within glows a fire that cannot be smothered and the air is filled with the oily sensation of their dark magic.
He hews the head from the shortest.
A fiery whip cracks in the air.
Fire blasts towards him.
This time, he does not cower.
A second is felled, even as the trolls turn about and rush to the defence of their masters.
He has tasted the 'kindness' of the Enemy and he knows to trust it not.
Soon his world is filled with fire and steel. He cannot even think, lost in the reflexes of combat and desperately relying on the strength of his blade and armour to carry him through. Often, he will only realise how he has managed to survive something several seconds after it has happened.
The Enemy diverts all His attention onto the last of the lords of Gondolin. Ecthelion, Turgon, Glorfindel, Duilin, all had fallen now. Only he remain, him and the last of the Seven Gates. Here he stood, and here the enemy fought, but every second he held was another second of life for the people he had come to consider his home.
"None may pass the Gate of Steel while Maeglin son of Aredhel defends it" He cried. "Come and taste black iron!"
The last of the dread balrogs falls.
Whatever else is happening, he knows not. He is fighting his way back to the lines, and his only input into the defence is telling the idiot human not to try and mount a rescue.
Idril would be heartbroken if he died.
How long they fight Maeglin does not know. He is in a fugue, lost in memories of events that never transpired. When he finally awakens, comes to see that the walls are more pale grey than white and that he is at Ostagar not Gondolin, he is stunned.
Every muscle in his body aches and his hands are numb from repeated jarring of his sword hilt. Half the remaining humans are dead, but it matters little. The barrier has held, they still have room to withdraw and the attacks have halted for a moment.
Most importantly, from the floor below, comes a cry.
"A Varda Elentari!" The first, and last, son of Fëanor cries.
New energy flows through Maeglin's veins.
"A Elbereth Gilthoniel!" He cries. "Hark, do you not hear? The House of Fëanor rides to our aid!"
The humans look at him as though he has gone mad, but it is hardly his fault they are deaf and uncultured.
The darkspawn come again, but it is clear that they are hard pressed below. Their hope, he thinks, is to break the defenders up here before the assault arrives. Probably to turn the defences they have against them, or perhaps merely in spite, hoping to end their lives before they can be rescued.
Whatever their reasons it does not matter. Maeglin has a rush of new energy and the advantage of all Eldar. He can push his body well beyond its theoretical limits, not for long, but it does not need to be long. Maedhros is a far better swordsman and has several thousand warriors to aid him.
There is a generally lacklustre response from the other humans, so Maeglin attempts to cajole them into helping him.
"Our allies are nearly here; we just have to hold on a little longer." He cries.
It does not exactly get a rousing response, but morale does seem to solidify. If for no other reason than the reminder that they do not in fact have to hold the darkspawn off forever.
The fight feels as though it goes on forever. There are few if any trolls, and the darkspawn's numbers are positively miniscule compared to the enormous push of earlier. Soon, even the humans can hear the battle cries of Ferelden and the clashing of weapons.
With renewed heart and vigour, they dig deep into their reserves and push themselves right to the very brink. Unfortunately, so too do the darkspawn. The fighting becomes a fierce brawl. Some of the defenders are fighting with knives, weapons lost earlier. It is brutal, bloody work.
Then suddenly Light envelops them.
Like a king of elder days Maedhros storms up the stairs, a brightly glowing gem in his hand. With the Light of Valinor burning in his eyes and flaming sword he appears like, well like a hero of legend.
The darkspawn practically melt away at his coming, leaving their corpses faintly smoking and blood staining the ground red rather than black.
Maeglin dropped Anguirel's point onto the ground, arms trembling with exhaustion. Then his legs give out from underneath him. But he does not hit the ground.
"Rest, Lomion." Maedhros' Sindarin is almost flawless, though his Noldorin accent is rather prominent for how good his pronunciation is. "You have fought well, worthy of a prince of Gondolin."
"I'll rest when I'm dead." He retorts in the language of Thedas.
The cheers that followed were rather excessive in his opinion.
Counting the Cost
Closing the tunnels was relatively easy, between yourself and the mages. It needs to be watched, admittedly, as much of the tunnels are in fact beyond your reach. They could be reopened with enough effort. Still, it will not happen quickly, and Maeglin has a great deal
Over a thousand. One tenth of all the forces brought to Ostagar. That is what this surprise attack has cost you. Burying them is going to be a nightmare, with the swamps all around. It might prove necessary to burn them, which is always a fun conversation to have.
"Why the glum face?" One of the Banns asks you. "We won, killed ten thousand of the bastards and only lost a tenth of that number. While surprised and out of position no less."
"Only because those two elves managed to hold incredibly precarious positions without aid." The Bann who followed you to battle, and whose name you need to learn, replies. "Without them this would have been much worse."
"Sure, full credit to them, but I mean, come on." The first Bann states. "Ten thousand dead already, and in such adverse conditions. This Blight is all but over!"
"Over?" Your voice cuts through all the celebrations with its grim and cold tone. "This is not over. Not even close."
Maeglin nods tiredly from where he is leaning against a wall. "Far too few for the main stroke."
You gesture agreement. "The main strike will come at night. This was but a test to see how strong we were, how ready. The enemy will sense weakness, and bring his main strength to crush us now, before we can recover."
Before anyone can doubt either of you, Solas enters. Obviously he is not running, because Valar forbid he reveal that he is as mortal as you are, but he is definitely hurrying.
"Where have you been?" Morrigan asks archly, the first thing she said since you accidentally forced her out of her spider form.
"I thought to scout the area, perhaps set up some magical alarms." He says. "I see you encountered the darkspawn already."
You sigh through your nose. "How many are coming?"
Solas grimaces. "I fear if I stopped to count them I would be counting still."
Even Morrigan looks surprised by that. There is a palpable atmosphere of fear in the room. Men and women look at one another in uncertainty. Some look to be on the verge of accusing Solaas of lying.
"Everyone, gather your officers and commanders." You command calmly, breaking the tension. "I want everyone who commands other warriors and does not report to someone above them in here for a strategy meeting."
You ignore the stupefied looks of confusion from those around you and turn to Paloma. "Retrieve spent arrows and give us a count of what we have. Go through the stores while you are there and make sure we have not lost anything."
"Sir." She salutes and departs.
"Morrigan." You turn to the heartless witch. "Burn the bodies."
"Who are you to give me commands?" She asks hotly.
"Do you want to live through the night?" You ask calmly.
She tries to hold your gaze, but you are not bluffing, nor exaggerating. She sighs and turns to go. Meanwhile you turn back to the others who are still standing around gaping at you.
"After we have divided up responsibilities I shall be inspecting the defences and doing what I can to repair them. If you have ideas, I welcome them, but remember we only have…" You glance up to the sun which is now high in the sky. "Six hours at the most."
There is a moment of silence as everyone stares at you.
"Well?" You ask. "Are you so taken by fear that you cannot move? Hurry! Every second is precious, we will be besieged in less than six hours!"
That gets everyone moving, perhaps they have finally remembered that you are, in fact, in command of the fortress. Perhaps they are more scared of the darkspawn than you. Perhaps they just don't want to be around an elf who smells of blood and sweat.
You did seriously consider ordering Maeglin to take a bath, so you cannot blame them.
Speaking of which. "Lomion, you have fought long and hard. Go, rest. We shall need you come night."
Maeglin nods and wearily climbs up the wall to stagger towards bed. Solas watches with a neutral expression.
"Solas, if there is anything you can do to strengthen our defences I would appreciate it." You inform the elf.
"I will." He replies evenly. "Should you not also sleep?"
You cannot help the slightly bitter, slightly wild bark of laughter that escapes you. "I am more used to the rigours of war, and in better shape besides."
"If you are certain." Solas turns and departs.
For just a moment you are alone and you let the mask drop.
Your eyes ache and your muscles are definitely feeling strained. Yet, you know the limits of your body better than most. While you are in fact tired, and you have pushed yourself hard this last day, you are not at the end of your strength. In truth, you are not even that close. Even if it was, you have operated in such conditions before.
Still, you desperately hope this does not turn into another desperate month-long defence. Once in your life was bad enough, even discounting the madness that had followed the fall of Himring.
In this moment of quiet though, you take the chance to briefly close your eyes and run a hand over your face. Then you rise and stride out of the room, there is work to be done and you will not grow less tired allowing it to pile up.