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arvanion898

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The Siege of Gondor
on: May 02, 2009 05:43

March 9, 3019, Third Age

Osgiliath was silent.

The night-darkened waters of the Anduin wove through the ruins, cutting the city neatly in two. The ruined pilings of the great bridges could be seen when the water was clear, but at night they were almost invisible, emerging above the water like jagged teeth of stone. Once, it had been a thriving settlement, the bustling capital of Gondor. Back then, its streets had been filled with laughter and talk, men and women on their way to market, and children playing in front of their homes. The spirits of its citizens had long ago passed into the West, and only their homes remained, slowly turning into rubble as the sands of time moved over them. At the center of the city, only blackened ruins remained of the Dome of Stars, and the master palantír was long ago lost in the deeps.

In one of the forbidding towers, riddled with holes like dark eyes transfixing the river with their gaze, the light of a small fire glimmered. A pair of heavily cloaked men gazed out of a now-derelict window, watching the eastern shore carefully. Both were tall, goodly men, grey-eyed and noble. Both wore the brown and green of forest fighters, and each had a quiver of green-feathered arrows slung across his back.

The taller of the two men sighed and sat down beside the fire. “This silence is no good,” he said to his companion. His face was weathered by many seasons in the wild, and bore the scars of war. His companion, several years younger than him, nodded in agreement.

“Indeed, the silence of the enemy unnerves me. They did not attempt to cross the river today, and I have seen no movement on the eastern shore. Perhaps they have retreated?” he said hopefully. The older man shook his head.

“If there is one thing I have learned from years of fighting the Dark Lord in the wilderness, it is that his minions are persistent,” he said. “Many of my friends have lost their lives for believing otherwise. The accursed orcs are wily: they know when the moment is right to strike.”

“Still, they were grievously reduced yesterday, and Captain Faramir thwarted the Harad’s attempts to reinforce them.”

“They will return in greater numbers than before,” the veteran predicted. “Mark my words, young Dalahir; you’ll soon see the truth of this.”

Dalahir shrugged. “Our watch is almost over; I can see the relief sentries on their way. Whatever their plans are for the morrow, all is quiet tonight.” Carefully, he began to pick his way down the crumbling spiral staircase. The other ranger cast a last suspicious glance over his shoulder before following.

In one of the ruined buildings, a makeshift armory had been set up. Sparks flew from the hammers of the blacksmiths on duty as they sweated to repair a damaged suit of armor. As their hammers rose and fell, a third man entered. He was clad in the black and silver livery of a Gondorian soldier, and wore a trim beard underneath a leather cap.

“Well?” asked one of them, pausing in his relentless smithying to listen to the other.

The soldier bowed his head. “He will need his armor no more,” he said. “The healers did all they could, but alas! it was not enough.”

The blacksmith bowed his head. “That is grave news, Sorontil.”

“Indeed, it is. We can make the enemy pay dearly for their crossing, causing them to lose a host for every company of ours, but we can rue the exchange nonetheless. We can ill afford more deaths.”

“Have you another message for us?” asked the second blacksmith.

“Yes,” replied Sorontil. “Captain Cunir is in need of two more swords to replace those broken in battle, and three men of the Sixth Company are still in need of armor. I myself am one of them.”

“Since its former bearer needs it no more, this armor shall be yours,” said the master smith, picking up a vambrace with his tongs and thrusting it into a trough of water. The water steamed and hissed, but the glowing red metal cooled quickly to dull silver.

“Return tomorrow for your armor,” said the second blacksmith. “May the Valar rest your companion’s spirit.”

Sorontil nodded and, throwing open the door, was swallowed by the night.

Halrohir

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 02, 2009 09:19

March 9th, in the year 3019 of the Third Age

The day was proud and glorious. The afternoon sun shone warm upon the great Pellenor Field before the gates of Minas Tirith, driving away the winter chill from the throng of people gathered outside the gate. All along the paved space before the gates, where the roads from north, south, and east all converged before running into the City, the people clustered and packed closely, waiting for some sign from the rising cloud of dust visible along the south road. And then, horn blasts filled the air, followed by the cheers and shouts of the people as they welcomed the approaching guests to the City.

War was approaching Minas Tirith, the city of the kings of Gondor. The Lord Denethor, Steward of the Realm, had issued his desperate call in this dark hour: gather your forces, and march to the City to prepare for the invaders from the East. And the Outlands of Gondor replied, though not along with what the Steward had expected; for not only the East was moving, but the South came against Gondor as well. All along the great southern coasts, the Outlands were assailed by the marauding ships of the Corsairs of Umbar. No city had been spared their wrath: Pelargir, the fisher villages of the Ethir, Linhir in Lebennin, and even as far as Dol Amroth to the west. So much was the threat from the black ships of Umbar, that the lords of the Outlands sent to the City what was required of their allegiance; not due to sloth, but simply that no more could be spared from their own walls.

So it was that, before sundown on this day, the Captains were commanded to arrive at the gates of the White City with what strength of arms they could muster and march. File by file, company by company, the Outland captains arrived and passed through the gates to be met by cheers and cries of welcome. But even among the glad shouts came the mutterings of men: so few, fewer than called, our need is great.

And then, as the last company approached, the gladdest shout of all rose from the crowd, nearly drowning the high-voiced song that rose to the rhythm of marching feet. The men of Dol Amroth had arrived, seven hundred well-equipped soldiers marching beneath the banner of the Silver Swan. A strong company of horse trotted before them, mounted upon grey horses and armored in full harness, lances held aloft each bearing a fluttering gold banner. And before them all rode Imrahil himself, the Prince of Dol Amroth, and no lesser lieutenant.

Two knights rode in the foremost rank behind the Prince, one older, the other a man in his prime. The younger turned to the older saying, “How glad they are to see us! Even as we come in last of all, they cheer loudest for us.”

“Let them cheer now, Mallach my boy”, the elder said, “for the time of weeping and cries of battle will follow soon enough. I look forward to the end of this march, and a tankard by the Lord’s kindness.”

“Always it is with you, Celegol, my old friend”, Mallach laughed, “always the next bed and sup. One would think you are an old campaigner, but I know better. You only left your quiet house a month past to take up the lance again.”

“And how many times did I take up the lance in my younger days?” Celegol replied. “Especially to teach young bucks like you which end of the lance to point towards the foe!” Both men laughed.

“Well, this young buck is not so young”, Mallach said. “I have seen far more than my share of battle these past months, with the black ships touching our lands. If anyone has a claim to call himself an old campaigner, it is I!”

“And if you feel the need to claim it, chances are you are not”, Celegol said. “You are proud to wear the armor of the Swan-knights, Mallach, my former squire. But there are times that you might be my squire still, the way you speak. Do you wear the armor, or mayhap does the armor wear you? May you find the difference before the battle is upon us.” Celegol fell silent, his gaze turned away. Mallach said nothing, but followed his former knight‘s eyes, and saw the reason for his silence.

The column of the knights of Dol Amroth had reached the joining of the ways before the gates of the White City. As the mounted company wheeled left and lined up to enter the City, the riders were treated to a compelling view. For even though the afternoon sun shone brightly upon the Pellenor, as the eyes traveled eastward, the gloom deepened until the River was lost to shadow. For above them in the skies a great darkness grew, spreading as if a grey blanket had been cast over a blue field, shutting out light and color below. The gloom covered the sky down to the tops of the mountains to the east, the Ephel Duath, the Fence of Shadow upon the very edge of –

“Mordor. The Black Land”, Mallach breathed softly. “Never was a name for a place more right.”

“Our journey takes us to this city, but our doom awaits us there”, Celegol said. No more words passed between them, as the company now passed beneath the gates of the City of Gondor, the glad shouts of the people fading behind them, the dust hanging in the still airs and the fading light. The strength of Gondor was marshalling behind the walls of the White City. But there would be no more coming, no more friends expected from the south. All that could be expected to approach the City would now come from the east, beneath the wings of the Darkness.

ToRivendell

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 02, 2009 03:51

March 9, 3019 of the Third Age

Close to the river a lone figure walked, stalking amoung the buildings of Osgiliath dressed in the green garb of the rangers, carrying a sword on his hip and a bow strapped across his back. He wore worn black boots that came almost up to his knees, and brown leather armor on his torse, with the white tree of Numenor emblazened across the front in silver.

Tenuvian walked silently amoungst the ruined buildings that lined the shore of the river Anduin. Much of the city had been razed by the enemy's seige machines since the arrival of the Dark Lord's armies, including the western shore still controlled by the forces of Gondor. Two days earlier had been especially brutal as orc seige weapons had hurled boulders across the river, crushing building and man alike. Several of his companions had perished, and the weight of their deaths was still upon him. Still, his years in the service of Gondor made such burdens lighter. Over the years he had lost many friends to the weapons of the enemy.

Tenuvian paused for a moment and listned to he absolute silence, letting his green Ithilien cloak swish past him briefly before coming to rest behind him. He stared across the river into the blackness that clung to the city. It was pitch black, even more so than usual. The black clouds from Mount Doom covered the night sky, removing the stars and replacing them with inky darkness.

This night was different, however. Not a sound came from the opposite shore, which was unusual as an army of orcs tended to make a great deal of noise. But no sounds came, no fired burned, and no sign of the enemy was visible. It didn't unnerve the veteran Ranger, though it did make him uneasy. It was not in the enemy's usual tactics to be a cunning foe, but it now appeared that they were not even present on the eastern shore.

Tenuvian turned and made his way further inland and away from the river. Soon the light from small fires danced around him and reflected off the stone walls. He nodded curtly to a few of his fellow soldiers as he passed them, moving toward a group of his companions who sat in a ring around a fire. He sat down between two of them and they nodded to him. No one seemed to be talking at the moment, and Tenuvian was content with the silence both sides seemed to be observing at the moment. He didn't speak a word to his fellow soldiers, but pulled out his sword and began to sharpen the blade.

[Edited on 6/5/2009 by ToRivendell]

Passepartout

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 04, 2009 11:26

March 9th, year 3019 of the Third Age...

The city of Minas Tirith shone under the great sun and looked beautiful to all that could see it. Though the great weather warmed the spirits of those in the great city, the threat to the East left them discouraged and scared at what would come out of the foul realm of Mordor. Their current position was grim. Osgiliath was the only last defense that the city had before orcs would come pouring out into the Pellenor Fields to destroy all that is rightfully good. The only thing that the men of Gondor could do was pray for a sudden spark of hope.

Two soldiers stood posted by the Great Gate. They were dressed in the black surcoat of Gondor with the image of a white tree on the front. Their silver helms over their heads gleamed in the sunlight. One of the soldiers leaned over to the other.

"The day is bright as it is beautiful, Alasdair!" said the shorter one with the small beard and a happy look on his face to the grim soldier next to him, "The White City is a marvel to look at in its glory and it is a privilege to wake up every day to see it gleam!"

"Do not get used to it, Erthad," said Alasdair, the grim faced soldier, "Soon this great city will no longer be able to be marveled at by its people, because soon its people will be destroyed."

"Why do you speak with such woe, my brother?" asked Erthad incredulously, "You seem to have no hope!"

"It is because there is no hope, Erthad," said the grim brother, "Look around you! The army grows thin! We will not ever stand against a force that has been brewing in the East for years. Osgiliath will not hold. No matter how much courage they have, they will be overwhelmed and soon the White City itself will be crawling with orc scum."

"We have called out for help from our allies," Erthad stated, "There still is yet hope, and I believe that our friends will give it to us. We have Mithrandir in the city! That is a great gain on our part."

"There is only so much that one wizard can do, Erthad," Alasdair said, "But we shall see how much aid will receive for the defense of this city."

After that was said, the clear sound from a horn came from above. Reinforcements from the Outer realms of Gondor came to aid their ally. The soldiers and other folk in the city cheered the names of the commanders as they came through the Great Gate. Forlong the Fat, Lord Lossarnach and a few other commanders from Ringló Vale, Morthond, Anfalas, and Pinnath Gelin. Also coming to aid were a few men from Lamedon and Ethir that had had no captain to lead them. The greatest to come of all was Imrahil, from Dol Amroth, with his tall, dark haired soldiers.

Erthad cheered for every captain, but Alasdair showed as little hope as he could. Erthad looked over at Alasdair to see him scowling.

"What is the matter this time, brother?" asked the happy brother, "Can't you see that our brothers have answered our call for aid?"

Alasdair nodded, "I see that they have come with help," said the grim faced brother, "But what you fail to see is that there are only about three-thousand men in all that enter through the Great Gate to aid us. That is not close to the amount that I was hoping for."

"We should be very grateful for the amount that has been given!" Erthad said sternly, "Three-thousand men is greater than none."

"Yes is it," replied Alasdair, "But you cannot hope to go against the armies of the East with such few numbers. It is foolishness!"

"The only foolishness is coming from you, Alasdair," said Erthad angrily, "It is not foolish to believe in hope."

Alasdair did not reply to Erthad's remark. Hope had left his soul many years ago and did not have any intentions of coming back. Erthad knew that he would not be able to change Alasdair's mind about it, so he left the subject of war behind.

Many other people seemed very discouraged at the small amount of reinforcements and most stood silent after the armies had marched into the White City. Erthad looked into the sky to see the flaming Sun going down under the Mountains.

"I guess I shall go and finish my patrol duties," said Erthad.

Alasdair nodded.

"I shall see you tomorrow, my friend," Erthad said with a smile, "Farewell!"

Alasdair smiled grimly and gave his brother a slight wave, "Farewell, brother," he said to himself.

[Edited on 5/5/2009 by Passepartout]

Halrohir

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 05, 2009 03:27

Evening of March 9th

A trumpet sounded in the gathering dark above the gates of Minas Tirith. The last rank of the men of Dol Amroth passed beneath the archway, and the gates closed with a solemn boom. The contingent following Prince Imrahil began to divide along separate ways, each to their lodgings as needed. The men-at-arms were quartered in the wards behind the Gate, with stores provided them and a hall for the daymeal already prepared for the end of their march. Soon, as the bells tolled the evening hour and the lights began to spring into the windows and doorways, the sound of song echoed off the walls.

The knights and their mounts wended their way through the streets and up the hill to the Sixth Circle, wherein the horses needed by the Lord of the City were stabled. In better times, these were fair stalls for a favored few steeds. This night, the horses of the company had to be stabled wherever room could be made; some within the stables themselves, others in makeshift pavilions leaning against the walls. When no more space could be had, mounts were tethered in courtyards of empty houses or wherever room could be found. Fodder was not in short supply at least, and the knights brought grooms in their own service to care for their mounts.

Prince Imrahil himself was summoned almost immediately to the Citadel to meet with the Steward. As Mallach and Celegol tended to their own horses and gear, a page came bearing the news that Celegol was to attend the Prince during his council with the other captains.

“Go, friend”, Mallach said as the page departed, “I shall see to both our steeds. The grooms have what they need, and I shall find lodging for us both. Go see to your errand; but keep an ear open for news.”

“What is said in the closet of the council mayhap must stay there, and unsaid elsewhere”, Celegol said, “but I shall report back as I may.” And Celegol left to follow in the Prince’s lead. That was now two hours past. Mallach had found that the knights were being lodged in a fair but cramped hall near the stables. He had Celegol’s groom bring his friend’s gear in addition to his own, and made sure there was a place for both of them. The daymeal was also served here as well; Mallach had a portion held back for Celegol’s return. That was now a further two hours ago. As he sat in the hall with his fellow knights, listening to the tales and the rumors they themselves were sharing, the door opened and at last Celegol entered, to be greeted by all there.

“Enough! Leave me be a moment, wagging tongues, and I shall make answer!” Celegol exclaimed as Mallach pushed the saved plate and cup across the table to the older knight. After several mouthfuls of bread and cheese, and draining the cup, he sat back and stretched his legs out beneath the table, clearly stiffened.

“That is much better, ah! But standing beside the Prince in that hall is a sore trial”, Celegol said. “And with such tempers and wills. Mithrandir is there, and the tension in that hall could be cloven with an axe. News aplenty is within the Lord’s reach, it seems. For one thing I have learned: Rohan has been summoned.”

The murmur of the other knights died away before Celegol went on, “Yes, the Red Arrow was dispatched some days ago, and the beacons were fired as well; and by the count of days, the summons should have reached the Lord of the Mark by yester eve. But the miles are long between the lands, and the Rohirrim may not arrive soon enough.”

“What of the other captains, the Outlands, the southern fiefs?” the knights asked.

“Many have sent strength of arms, but most only a tithe of their number”, Celegol said, “and no more will come. Our own host alone made up more than a third part of the Outland companies; but with our arrival, we have doubled the toll of mounted men in the City, and that is to the good.”

“We may not have only the Rohirrim and the fiefs to count upon”, Mallach said. “I have heard strange rumor from the Citadel, and among the stable hands. Earlier today, before our arrival, another had come with Mithrandir. A Prince of the Halflings, it is said, has spoken with the Lord Denethor, and offered his peoples’ alliance and swords!”

“Aye, so the tales tell”, another knight spoke up. “And they ride with the Rohirrim, so they say, each rider bearing a halfling yeoman beside him!”

“The Halfling-Prince was in the company of Boromir, I am told”, said another, “and the Lord pressed him for desperate news of his son’s fall.”

“Halflings! Princes! Rumors only”, Celegol scoffed. “No mention was made of any “halfling host”, with the Rohirrim or otherwise, in that council. All the numbers we have are what are counted within these walls. And that tale speaks of less than five thousands all told – with some at Cair Andros, and others in the garrison at Osgiliath, to say nothing of the tiny posts along the Rammas walls.” Celegol looked around at the faces staring at him. “Look to your mounts, all of you. Tonight we rest from the march, but tomorrow’s demand will be stern indeed. The Prince is summoned again to council when the day’s bells sound, and so shall I go as well.” With that, Celegol rose, and left the room to step outside. Mallach followed him.

Standing outside the pool of light from the windows and the doorway to the hall, Mallach thought he had stepped into a cavern, for the lack of light. It was utterly dark in the street; no stars could be seen, no light save for the gleaming of windows. No sound was to be heard either; the air did not stir, and the horses in the mews were also silent. When Mallach spoke, his voice sounded dull and whispered in the air.

“I know why you did that, back there”, he said to Celegol, “to stop rumor and put aside false hopes. Take care, though, not to crush all hope. I take comfort that Rohan will come; and five thousand is still a fair host, especially within the walls of Minas Tirith.”

“It may come to precisely that”, Celegol said, “fighting on the walls, instead of the fields. The full count of the Enemy’s host is not yet known, but there is no doubt among the captains it is many times what we possess. We would march out to be overwhelmed. Therefore the walls, and our own valor, are our best defense against the East.”

“Nonetheless, I shall have hope”, Mallach said firmly. “No foe has yet passed the gates of the City, and now our strength is being marshaled. Tomorrow will bring what it may; I shall go to rest this night, and face it squarely when it comes.” With that, Mallach thumped the older knight’s shoulder and turned to find his cot for the night.

Passepartout

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 05, 2009 05:13

The Night of March 9th...

The whole city of Minas Tirith was covered in a dark blanket of the night. Most of its inhabitants slept on their beds tired but nervous for what would happen when the morning of the next day drew upon them. The conflict of the East upset the minds of many and none eagerly wanted to get up the next morning to witness what move the Enemy would take next.

No lights shone in Minas Tirith. The eerie dark seemed to consume the whole city all for but one area on the walls. The soldier Alasdair leaned over the top of the bottom wall, as if trying to peer out into the black distance. His pipe gave a dim light that allowed the man to see everything in front of him but no more. He was in deep thought. The shadows of his past and the Enemy clashed together as one and conflicted his mind until he could sleep no more and instead face his fears with intense thought.

As Alasdair battled against his mind, he heard footsteps coming towards him. Alasdair was about to walk away until he saw that the footsteps belonged to his brother Erthad. Erthad had a worried look on his face.

"Are you alright?" he asked simply.

Alasdair nodded slowly but did not answer.

"I was wondering where you went on this black night," Erthad said, "You should sleep as much as you can for tomorrow. You never know what might come out of that evil land!"

Alasdair sighed, "I gave that up a little while ago, brother. I have too much flowing through my mind to fall upon my bed and sleep. I fear that we have no chance of winning this war that will soon come and destroy the White City. All that was beautiful, Erthad, is now failing. I simply cannot find a light in this dark hour to show me encouragement."

Erthad looked over to his brother, "Though the times be dark, we must not give up hope. We may not survive this great war that will come upon us, but we can still try to stop it from hurting our friends. We cannot lay down all arms and give up, for that is folly. A true warrior will stand by his lord and fight until he can no longer lift his arm to swing his sword again. If the soldiers against a great enemy have no hope, then is there any hope to win? "

"You are right," answered Alasdair, "People like you are the reason that battles are won, Erthad. If anything gives me hope now it would be you, brother. You will survive this great battle that is coming, I am sure of it. As for my part, I fear that death is ready to take hold of me soon in whatever way it will."

"Do not speak like that!" Erthad said angrily, "We will both survive; we will win this war. Rohan will come and then hope will be restored! I'm sure of it."

Alasdair smiled grimly at his brother.

"Go get some sleep," he said eventually, "Great soldiers like you will need their rest for what is coming near," Alasdair sighed, "I don't know how I would survive this dark age without you helping me back up off my feet, Erthad. No matter how far I fall, you are always there to help me up and urge me to start following the path ahead of me once again."

Erthad smiled proudly.

"Be sure to get some rest yourself," he replied, "Until tomorrow, brother!"

Erthad left the wall and went back to retire into his bed. Alasdair put his pipe away and sat against the edge of the wall. Suddenly the weariness of the day rushed into his body and it took great energy too keep his eyes open in the great dark. Slowly, Alasdair got up and walked after his brother with a tired look in his eyes.

arvanion898

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 08, 2009 11:50

Dalahir’s heart lightened upon seeing the glow of his company’s fires. After hours of standing watch in a drafty tower, he was only too glad to relinquish his duties and attempt to sleep. He was tired, the air felt oppressively heavy, and not even the moon shed light upon the ruined city. He halted outside the camp, trying to descry light overhead.

“The stars are veiled,” he said aloud, striving to find some glimpse of a glow in the vault of the heavens. His efforts were vain: no glimmer was to be seen.

“So dark a night bodes not well,” said his watch-companion, emerging from the shadow of a nearby building. Dalahir, highly strung, jumped in surprise. Seeing who it was, he relaxed perceptibly.

“Oh, it’s you, Falborn.” He shivered, drawing his cloak tighter around him, and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

“Are you well, young one?” asked the senior ranger with some concern. “It would be ill if you were to sicken.” Dalahir smiled faintly at the pun, but shook his head.

“Nay, I am well,” he said reassuringly. “’Tis the darkness… I like it not.” He gazed across the River towards the jagged peaks of the Morgai, almost invisible against the gathering gloom.

“Under the shadow of the Black Land, one might fear that the dawn may never come,” said Falborn gravely.

“I doubt it not,” muttered Dalahir. “Perhaps this unnatural silence is a ploy of the Enemy.”

“If it is, he shall not catch us off-guard and unaware,” said Falborn. “We shall hold our defense of the River against whatever devilry he throws at us.”

“Aye, but for how long can we last?” asked Dalahir, voice filled with a quiet desperation. “The Enemy’s forces are great, and his means of conquest manifold. How can we hope to stand against his hosts, endless as they are?”

“Do not lose hope, young one,” said Falborn. “Captain Faramir bears a charmed life, and he has never been defeated by any of the Enemy’s foul servants. He will lead us to victory here; of this I am sure.” He laid a hand on Dalahir’s shoulder, willing the younger man’s melancholy away

“I hope you are right, Falborn,” said Dalahir. “It is my heart’s dearest wish… but my mind tells me otherwise.”

Old and young, the rangers stood together, gazing into the East as darkness stole across the sky, blotting out the light of the Evenstar in its hungry depths.

Morning, March 10th
The Dawnless Day

Sparks flew from the grindstone as Sorontil ran his sword along its surface, honing his blade to a razor edge. The master smith, Barangil, rapped his shoulder, snapping him out of his trancelike state.

“We worked through the night repairing your armor, and it is now ready to be fitted,” Barangil informed him. Sorontil nodded gratefully.

“Shall I come now, then?”

“I would be grateful if you did,” replied Barangil. Sorontil followed him back to the armory, brushing past a pair of rangers on patrol, and entered the makeshift workshop. Barangil walked over to the corner and pulled a canvas off of a man-shaped bundle, causing Sorontil to gasp with amazement. Restored to its former glory, the armor glittered silver in the light of the torches that Barangil had been obliged to light against the unnatural darkness.

“Truly, I am astounded at the care and speed of your work,” he said as Barangil helped him with the leather straps that secured the breastplate over his padded tunic. “Such quality armor is rare, and to have it repaired in so short a time is unheard of. Very few weapons could penetrate this steel.”

Barangil beamed. “Your compliments are appreciated, but let us hope that it is never tested beyond its abilities.”

Sorontil fastened the chin strap of his new steel helmet, appreciatively taking in the vision range. “I would have to be in grave danger indeed, if even this armor could not protect me,” he said appreciatively. After pulling on the greaves, vambraces, and pauldrons, Sorontil gave his sword a few experimental swings. “I’m fairly free to move in this, and the metal is quite light,” he reported. “I could fight for hours.” Sorontil slipped his shield over his mailed fist and adopted a fighting stance. After going through a series of battle maneuvers, he finally let his sword-point drop, satisfied.

“This is a truly magnificent piece of craftsmanship, sir,” he said to Barangil. “I am in your debt.” The blacksmith bowed in reply and returned to his anvil, a sword taking shape under his hammer blows.

As Sorontil stepped out of the armory, he heard a long, drawn-out wail, like the cry of some evil and lonely creature. A whooshing followed, and Sorontil felt rather than saw some giant beasts flying over him at a great speed. They were making for the City!

“What is this devilry?” he shouted to Cunir, who was running past. The captain’s face was pale with terror and worry.

“The Black Wings!” said Cunir shakily. “Captain Faramir left the city with three riders to bear a message to Lord Denethor, and those beasts are pursuing him!”

“We need to help him,” said Sorontil decisively. Cunir nodded.

“I’m gathering a company of archers together. If we can reach him before they harm him, we can—”

Panicked shouts filled the air as men ran to and fro, trying to see the cause of the tumult. “Look to the North! There are orcs upon the western shore!” Cunir cursed.

“The host from the Morannon!” shouted a young ranger, perched precariously in a ruined tower. “They drive the garrison of Cair Andros before them! Some of our comrades may yet be saved from the foul orcs.”

“Look!” Another soldier ran up, panting as he delivered his report. “The enemy are on the eastern bank as well! They’re trying to cross!” Cunir hesitated, then shook his head in despair.

“We need to save Tenth Company, but we can’t reinforce Cair Andros until we’ve dealt with this threat,” said Cunir. He raised his voice. “Men, to battle positions! We shall hold the River to the death!”

A great shout went up from the host of Gondor as captains dashed to and fro, bellowing orders. “Eighth Company, move out!”

“Arm up, men! We march north!”

“Sixth Company, stand by to repel assaults on the bridges!”

“To the river! They’re launching rafts from the other shore!”

Sorontil, following the captain, saw the dust of the fleeing company rising and bowed his head. The battle for Gondor had begun.

[Edited on 12/5/2009 by arvanion898]

ToRivendell

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 08, 2009 02:41

Tenuvian finished sharpening his blade and placed it back in its scabbered. The men around him were still silent. Most had fallen asleep. He let them be, as they would need their rest in the coming days. The battle for the city was far from over.

He made his way back to his billet, set up in the ruins of a small tower and took off his gear.

"How long will this gloom last?" he thought to himself.

"Even the stars themselves aare blackened out by the smoke from the mountain of fire."

Dropping his boots on the ground, he rolled over and went to sleep, dreaming of happier days when the sun still shone.

Morning March 10th

Tenuvian awoke to one of his men shaking him.

"Sir! The enemy is crossing the river on rafts! They will be upon us shortly!"

"Muster the men!" he replied, pulling on his leather armor and grabbing his sword. His Sergeant ran back out of his billet as he rose.

His gear strapped on he marched outside into the dim light. Men were scrambling together, forming up for the attack or collecting their weapons.

"Fifth Company!" He shouted. "Arm yourselves and move to defensible positions on the riverbank! The enemy approaches!"

A cheer rose from his men, and they girded themselves for the coming battle.

Drawing his sword Tenuvian set off at a run towards the river, his company following behind or on his sides. He knew the orcs had to be halted at the riverbank. If they made it out into the city, holding the western shore would become extremely difficult.

Arriving at the shore, he skidded to a halt and stared out into the gloom. Rafts were barely visible in the dim light, but they were many in number. This fight would not be easy.

"Archers! Open Fire!"

Halrohir

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 09, 2009 05:20

Morning of March 10th
The Dawnless Day

Mallach was roused by the activity in the hall. Indeed it was difficult to get much rest, cramped as the hall was with men sleeping so close together. His fellow knights were keeping as quiet as possible to avoid disturbing sleepers, but to no avail. Mallach looked round him in the gloom. Snoring next to him showed where Celegol still slept, despite the commotion. Mallach rose and stopped a passing figure in the dark.

“What news, and what is the hour?” he asked.

“Past the second hour already”, came the reply, “and there is no dawn. Some fiendish broil from the Black Land takes away the sky and sun, not to mention the will. Look outside, and see.” The figure moved off.

Mallach looked outside for himself, walking barefoot to a window overlooking the courtyard. If this was day, it was a mockery; the air seemed brown and hazy, a smoke or fog that weighed on the heart. Voices and calls from men outside were muffled as if in fog. Horses were being readied in the street, four riders preparing for some errand of the Lord of the City. One rider he noticed was a tall man, clad in the livery of the Tower Guard, high helm and blazing tree and stars on his chest. With a shout, the riders moved off, and headed for the tunnel leading down into the City, and presumably on their errand through the gate and beyond.

Word came to the barracks from pages of the Citadel, to have a party of knights ready at all hours to do the Lord’s bidding. All riders were to be prepared to mount and ride upon order, but the assembly of the whole company would take time; a score of hardy riders would remain set to ride forth at a moment’s command, harnessed and armored and holding themselves in readiness. Mallach and Celegol both would stand this duty after the noon bells rang, so there was time for food and speech. Mallach returned to his cot, began dressing, and woke Celegol, telling him of the duty to come. Celegol roused slowly and stiffly, pulling on his clothes and gear as Mallach spoke.

“No light, little meal and less news, it seems”, he said. “Food is now being parceled out, only what is issued to you by the butteries. We had best look to our mounts and gear before the duty begins. Standing around in full harness will be more of a chore than riding or fighting.”

“I expect that tidings will come in the form of ill news”, Celegol said as he pulled his tabard over his armor, the emblem of the Swan-knights showing on his breast without its usual luster in the dark. “At least I do not have to stand by the Prince in council this day, as that is now some younger man’s task. Let us see what the board has for us.”

Milk, bread, and butter was all the fare the two could expect, until noon. Breaking fast and the nuncheon were spare, but the daymeal that evening promised to be more hopeful. Mallach muttered half-jokingly, “Our mounts will be fed better than this. Do you suppose we could slip into their manger, to ease our hunger?” Celegol grinned, but said nothing as he ate.

Afternoon of March 10th

The noon bell rang, and the comings and goings of the soldiers to their posts were quiet and subdued, little talk and few words exchanged. The day wore on with deepening gloom, both of light and of the hearts of men. The board at the barracks of the Swan-knights was also quiet, conversation muted and all of the business of war.

Mallach and Celegol reported at the hour for their duty with the ready-mounts, as they were being called. Four hours were their turn of watch, and as it ended, they gratefully stripped their horse’s harness and sent them to the stabling yard. Riders returned just then, the same ones who rode out earlier that day, the tall Tower Guardsman leaping from his horse and vanishing into the tunnel to the Citadel. An hour after their watch ended, the two knights joined others in the hall for the daymeal, and what news could be heard, especially from those just coming off-duty from places about the City.

As Celegol has surmised, the news was not good, but neither was it all of woe. The reason for the firing of the beacons came with the news that a new fleet of black ships of Umbar had been sighted drawing nigh the mouths of Anduin, near the Ethir in Lebennin. The walls of the Rammas that enclosed the Pelennor had been completed at last, and the men who labored upon the wall could now strengthen the garrisons elsewhere. And word had reached them that Faramir, son of the Lord Denethor and cousin to Prince Imrahil, had returned from some hidden errand away East, and was due to arrive in the City as early as that evening. At that word, many hearts were uplifted. Lord Faramir was a beloved captain, less in esteem only to his brother Boromir, he who would never return.

“He was at Cair Andros yesterday, so the messengers tell”, said the knight who attended the Prince this day, “and that would mean he is at least at Osgiliath even as we speak. Valor such as his is worth many men by itself, and he will be needed there and in many places.”

“What other news have you”, they asked, “what of the Captains, the Lord Denethor?”

“The council of the captains was somber, even stern”, he replied. “Mithrandir himself was cross about something, or many things. But the Lord of the City was in no mood to brook debate; if he cannot master the world, he at least masters his own council. Mithrandir stormed out of the chamber before the nuncheon without a word, as if some purpose called him. The Prince himself merely bids us all stand ready, for whatever lies ahead.”

At that moment there was a commotion and clamor outside, men shouting and running in the yard. All inside jumped to their feet wondering at the cause. Mallach and Celegol rushed to the door. As he stepped onto the street, Mallach felt his heart stop, and his knees grow weak. A rending, shrieking howl filled the air, the cry of some wilderness beast or creature in some agony, it seemed. Celegol leaned against the threshold for support, his hand clutching his chest, panting.

“What manner of voice was this?” Mallach gasped, his throat tight in dread.

“I know not, never have I heard such a thing”, Celegol wheezed, mastering himself. “Let us go and find out.”

On the sixth circle near the stables, there were embrasures in the wall, allowing a view to the south of the City, and a little east. Mallach and Celegol reached one and looked out, straining over the parapet to get as much a view eastward towards the gate and beyond. They needn’t have tried, for the source of that perilous cry now came into clear view. A hideous shape, a beast winged and dark, flew in a long circle over the City, just out of bowshot from the towers and the walls. A figure rode astride it, darker than the beast, and from its unseen mouth came a second shrieking call, closer now and more terrifying. Mallach leaned heavily on the wall, gasping through a tightening throat, unable to swallow or speak. But next to him, Celegol was totally unmanned. He slid down to the stones shaking, legs curled beneath him, hands pressed upon his ears, shutting out the noise.

“Valar preserve us”, Mallach finally whispered, as the cry ended, but faint now could be heard a high horn sounding a desperate note, echoing off the walls. Voices could be heard: “Nazgûl! The Nazgûl are upon us! Faramir! That is the Lord Faramir’s horn! The beasts are after him! Someone help him! Faramir!” There was a clatter of hooves in the street behind him; the ready-mounts were now riding to Faramir’s aid, whatever aid they could afford him against the Nazgûl.

As Mallach strained over the battlement once more, he could make out horsemen on the plain far below, and no less than five winged shadows pursuing them. It did not seem possible that Faramir and his riders would reach the Gates in time; but incredibly, help unlooked for came. Mallach saw a stabbing burst of light, as lightning would tear the night apart, and the shrieking voice rose again, but this time filled with woe and dismay, holding no terror. Celegol rose, seeming to have been released from the grip of fear, and the two men watched the Nazgûl swerve and mount the high airs, speeding back eastward and vanishing into the clouds. At their passing, the weight on their hearts lifted, and they found their voices once more.

Without a word, they ran back to the barracks and stables. Presently they heard rumor and cheers coming from the streets below, calling “Faramir! Mithrandir!” And soon a crowd approached the stables, led by two horsemen; one shining white upon a magnificent white stallion, the other dark and swaying in his saddle. They dismounted at the stables, the horses taken by the grooms, and the two passed through the tunnel and onward to the Citadel.

“Ah, there will be more news coming, and no mistake!” Mallach said. “Mithrandir, and that could only have been Faramir. I wonder what the grooms will tell? Come old friend, let go of the fear and let us learn what we can.” He took two steps, then turned round. Celegol did not move, but stood staring out into the dark, looking eastward.

“Celegol? Celegol, hearken”, Mallach said, laying a hand on his mentor’s shoulder. Celegol started as if from a dream, and stared at Mallach for a moment, then said, “Yes. Yes, let us go inside. There is nothing out here.” The older knight walked toward the barracks, Mallach watching him before following.

This was something almost as dreadful as the winged Nazgûl; for never, in all the years he had ridden at his side, had Mallach ever seen Celegol cringe.

Passepartout

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 10, 2009 12:12

The Afternoon of March 10th...

A dim twilight covered Minas Tirith like a heavy blanket. Though it was about afternoon, the gloomy clouds in the sky stood in place. This weather caused the people of Minas Tirith to become uneasy. No one knew when the enemy would suddenly strike, but they knew that it was coming closer to that time, and the clouds seemed to act as a sign of it.

Alasdair and Erthad stood at duty by the Great Gate of the White City. Erthad looked anxious and alert to anything happening, but Alasdair stood still with a hard look on his face. Erthad looked up into the sky and signed.

"Why do these gloomy clouds block the beautiful sunset?" asked Erthad.

"Some vile sorcery from the East must be at work to cause this," replied Alasdair, "A little darkness will not weaken the great White City with all its men."

"Yes, I suppose so. I do wonder how things are at Osgiliath, though."

As soon as Erthad finished his sentence a chilling, high pitched scream pierced the air. To him it felt as if his very soul stopped cold. Alasdair and Erthad covered their ears as the shrill cry passed away.

Without speaking, both of the soldiers a few others ran up to the top of the wall to see what was going to befall them. They leaned over the edge to barely see a small group of horsemen being chased by some of the darkest creatures out of the Black Lands that they had ever beheld. The beasts resembled great birds that had been bent into some foul shape by evil itself. On top of each one was a figure cloaked in black. The sight caused Alasdair to stiffen.

"We need someone to help them!" yelled Erthad.

"Its too far away," replied Alasdair grimly, "They are out of bowshot and horseman will do no good against it. We cannot help them."

They heard a horn being sounded. Instantly they knew that it was Faramir's call for aid. Erthad leaned over the edge to see a white figure rinding out towards them.

"Look!" he cried.

As soon as Alasdair looked to see what was happening a bright flash of white shot through the air, blinding him and causing him to look away. As soon as he regained his senses he saw that the evil beasts were turning around and heading back to their masters defeated. People shouted "Mithrandir!" constantly.

"The wizard has saved them," Alasdair said in awe, "I clearly have underestimated the power of Mithrandir."

The Great Gates were opened and Mithrandir, Faramir, and the company of horseman came trotting in. They looked upon Faramir's face to see a face hardened by great fear. Mithrandir trotted beside him, garbed in his great cloak. The other green-clad horseman followed in rank up the street.

"Why has Faramir taken the risk to ride to the White City?" Erthad asked Alasdair.

"I fear that it is not for a good reason," replied Alasdair gravely, "There must be a problem at Osgiliath, they don't have enough men there in the first place."

"At least he is safe here."

"I fear that soon no place will be ever safe again, Erthad."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Night of March 10th...

The night came upon the White City soon enough as the soldiers grew weary. Erthad and Alasdair stood at the wall in silence.

"Alasdair," Erthad said, breaking the silence, "What will you do after the war is finished?"

Alasdair laughed, "I don't know if I'll survive that long, Erthad. The days grow dark and I fear that we shall have to be on guard for a movement by the Enemy. They will strike soon. Osgiliath will never hold if they send out their whole army at them."

"Osgiliath may not have much hope," replied Erthad, "But they will never be victorious against the White City with Mithrandir behind its walls!"

Alasdair nodded without remark this time. The boys hope lightened his spirits, but he knew that this force would overwhelm them. He, however, did not want to take away Erthad's hope.

"Go get some sleep," Alasdair eventually said.

Erthad nodded, "Farewell for now, brother!"

Alasdair smiled slightly, lit his pipe, and stared off into the blackness over the wall.

[Edited on 10/5/2009 by Passepartout]

[Edited on 11/5/2009 by Passepartout]

arvanion898

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 11, 2009 04:38

Midmorning, March 10

A large detachment of the garrison of Osgiliath marched northward up the bank of the Anduin, hurrying to save their comrades from their pursuers. Sorontil, looking ahead, turned back to Cunir with a puzzled look on his face. “There aren’t enough of the scum to have taken Cair Andros…”

Cunir blanched suddenly. Sorontil, looking troubled, drew level with him as Seventh Company led the way towards the orc force. “What is it, sir?”

“This is only a feint! The rest of the Morannon-host will be attacking the Rammas as we speak!”

Sorontil cursed volubly. “We can’t allow them to gain the Pelennor, or the battle for the White City will be over before it begins!”

“Ninth Company!” bellowed Cunir. “Reinforce the Causeway Forts; the Rammas must hold, no matter what!”

Two hundred men broke off from the main group, marching steadily towards the frowning walls that loomed over the distant Pelennor. The remainder of the Gondorian force continued northward, breaking into a run as the noise of combat grew louder. Sorontil found himself running alongside a pair of rangers, his blade out and ready as he yelled a war cry. “For Gondor!”

The brown gloom seemed to press even more heavily on the soldiers, weakening their morale as they charged. However, their resolve stiffened as they engaged the orcs, fighting to reach their exhausted comrades who had been cut off by the fresher, faster enemy force.

Swords clashed on crooked scimitars as the lines drew together. A flint spear skated off Sorontil’s shield-boss, showering sparks that were quickly extinguished in the maelstrom of trampling feet. The younger of the two rangers beside Sorontil stumbled over the corpse of an orc and was immediately set upon by another pair of them as he struggled to pull himself upright, hampered by the body. He managed to deflect one of their blows despite his awkward position. Sorontil sprang to the young man’s defense, hewing at the sword arm of the nearer orc. The creature fell back, howling and clutching at the deep slash on his arm, as his companion struck out at Sorontil. The Gondorian parried and counterattacked, his silver sword clashing with the crude blade brandished by his opponent. They exchanged blows for several seconds before Sorontil, spotting a weakness in his opponent’s guard, drove his blade in between two of the brass plates sewn on to the orc’s tunic. Pulling his blackened sword free of the body, Sorontil hauled the young man to his feet as more Gondorian soldiers surged past.

“I am in your debt, noble sir,” said the young ranger breathlessly. “I am Dalahir, a ranger of Ithilien.”

“And I am Sorontil, of the bridge guards,” said Sorontil in a friendly tone. “There’s no need to call me sir.”

“Very well, sir—I mean, Sorontil.” The older soldier stifled a smile at the earnest nature of the young man. Dalahir covered up his embarrassment by retrieving his sword from the ground. “We must press forward: I fear Tenth Company is in dire danger.”

As the pair moved forward, Dalahir noticed Falborn fighting grimly with a tall Uruk. He leapt forward, his long sword moving in a blurring pattern of steel as he thrust it hilt-deep into the monster’s chest. “Falborn!”

The older ranger’s look was one of relief. “I thought I’d lost you,” he said.

“Thanks to Sorontil, I live yet,” said Dalahir gratefully. Falborn shot a respectful glance to the armored soldier before taking charge once more.
“Tenth Company lies ahead, and the vanguard has broken through the circle of the enemy lines,” he informed the pair. “The enemy is on the verge of breaking.”

The shouted orders of the captain of Tenth Company could now be clearly heard, and Sorontil could see the distinctive standard of the White Tree emerging above the chaos. Tenth Company, though grievously reduced by the long pursuit from the island, was still fighting gamely, rallying around their Captain. The orcs now outnumbered the Gondorians by less than two to one, and their advantage was rapidly decreasing as fresh troops from Osgiliath entered the fray.

With Falborn and Dalahir flanking him in a wedge formation, Sorontil cut his way through to the Gondorian banner. He saluted Captain Arafin of Tenth Company with his sword. “What are your orders, sir?”

Although he looked haggard from the long battle he’d survived, Arafin still retained his air of cool command. “Two score of our men were cut off from the main company when the lines were broken,” said Arafin, gesturing to the northeast. “They’ll be driven into the river if they don’t get help soon.”

Sorontil saluted again. “We’ll rescue them, sir… or die trying.” He motioned to his squad of ten. “Form up, men, and follow me!”

Forming a solid block with shields facing to all four points of the compass, Sorontil’s squad waded into the battle with swords swinging. A thrown spear ricocheted off of Sorontil’s shield, sticking in the ground at his feet as he urged his troops forward towards the desperately struggling knot of men being driven inexorably towards the river.

“That way, men!” shouted Sorontil, sword whirling as he fought back an armored uruk warrior. Using his shield as a weapon, he bludgeoned the enemy with it. The armored warrior sprawled backwards over a body, and Falborn ensured that the uruk would never rise again with a quick stab.

Although he was tiring, Dalahir continued fighting mechanically, sword arm endlessly rising and falling on orc soldiers. They were drawing nearer to the force that had been cut off, and he could see their ranks ahead: ragged, but still holding strong. Dalahir shook off his own weariness and continued forward, holding his longsword before him with both hands. An orc raised a club at him, but before it could smite him Dalahir brought his sword across its neck with a ferocious chop. The monster fell headless as Dalahir followed Sorontil onward.

“Sorontil, watch out!” shouted Falborn. The soldier whirled, barely managing to block a heavy axe-stroke from an uruk captain. Although his shield-boss was heavily dented, the seasoned wood held. Sorontil aimed a thrust at the uruk’s throat, but it reacted with snakelike speed, knocking his blade aside effortlessly. Sorontil staggered under the force of a second blow, backtracking desperately to stop himself from toppling. Another bash forced him to his knees. His shield-rim stuck deep in the ground as it was knocked to the side by the monster’s powerful fist. Sorontil, knowing that he had only one hope, swept his sword across at the feet of his enemy. The uruk yelped in pain as it stumbled forward. Falborn swung his sword with all of his might, biting deep into the uruk’s chest. As it fell lifelessly to the ground, Sorontil heaved his shield-edge clear of the ground and, with a last push, they were through to the trapped Gondorians.

“Soldiers!” shouted Sorontil. “We must fight our way back to the main company. Help has arrived!”

The soldiers, hearing the hopeful tidings, began fighting with renewed energy. Gradually, they were pushing away from the river. The gap between the two forces diminished, wavered, and finally vanished. As the Gondorian soldiers converged, the orcs lost heart. With fearful cries, they fled north, back towards Cair Andros. Breathing heavily, Sorontil bent down to wipe his sword clean on the tunic of a dead orc.

Cunir watched the enemy retreat with satisfaction and turned to Sorontil as the men cheered. “How many did we lose?” he asked.

Sorontil did a quick mental calculation and answered. “I reckon four squads, sir. At least five of the men lost were from our company.”

Arafin limped up, nursing a long slash on his right leg. “Tenth Company lost five squads at the island, and another two during our retreat. Sorontil winced: that was over a third of Arafin’s company.

“We can’t afford to take losses like that again,” observed Dalahir gravely. “But if the enemy crosses the river, we will.”

“Captain Faramir will lead us to victory,” said Falborn with stubborn conviction. “He has not failed us yet.”

“But who among us knows how he fared under the shadow of the Black Wings?” replied Dalahir.

“Come, friends, we must still have hope,” said Sorontil, clapping Dalahir on the shoulder. “One thing is certain: while we still draw breath, we must defend the White City with all of our strength. He saluted both captains and walked off to tend to his gear. After a moment, the rangers followed him. Shooting a glance back over his shoulder, Dalahir could see that Arafin and Cunir were deep in earnest conversation. Both men, seasoned as they were, looked genuinely worried. Disturbed by their show of fear, Dalahir turned back to follow his companions.

[Edited on 16/5/2009 by arvanion898]

arvanion898

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 15, 2009 04:06

Midday, March 10
Belegaer, South of Gondor

“Bend yer backs and row, yer scurvy slobs!” The slavemaster of the Great Eye cracked his whip across the backs of his unfortunate captives. Row upon row of ragged, half-starved men, young and old, bent their backs and rowed, powering the huge ship across the dark surface of the sea. Behind them, the black fleet spread across the waters like a creeping darkness on the surface of the sea, spreading ominously towards the distant green shores of the Falas.

Chained to the oars in pairs, the slaves were forced to work tirelessly for hours on end on starvation rations. Their bodies were hardened from years on the oars, but many of their spirits were broken by the brutal treatment of their callous corsair masters.

Garamond was not broken.

As a young man, he had been captured by the corsairs during one of their coastal raids. He had been on the same bench for over a decade, enduring the worst sea weather and the most brutal treatment. His hatred of his captors had kept him alive long after he should have been dead. Hearing that the fleet was sailing to Linhir brought a fresh wave of mixed emotions upon him. He yearned to see his home again, but he felt fear for the city and a deep, angry wish for the demise of the attackers.

The hours stretched endlessly on; evening fell, and the unnatural darkness deepened. Garamond’s rowing partner Erboron, a youngster in his teens, stumbled over his oar-stroke and accidentally entangled their oar with the one in front of them. Garamond quickly tugged it free, but the keen-eyed slavemaster had already noticed. With a glint in his eye he uncoiled his whip and stalked towards Erboron, grinning cruelly.

“Missing strokes, are yer? I’ll flay the hide from yer mangy back!” The whip cracked: Erboron screamed in pain, the ragged remains of his shirt stained red by the blood flowing from the long whip-weal. As the slavemaster raised his arm again, Garamond straightened, unflinchingly taking the full force of the lash across his own back.

“Aren’t we the brave one, threatening beardless boys chained to oars,” Garamond said in a dangerous voice. “Why don’t you try someone closer to your own size?” The whip lashed out again, but Garamond held firm, staring challengingly at the slavemaster. The pirate finally broke eye contact and turned away to find an easier target to bully.

“Thank you,” panted Erboron between oar-strokes. “You… stood up… for me.”

“It’s no less than I should have done,” replied Garamond. He noticed Erboron’s laborious movements and looked at him in concern. “Are you well?”

“I’ll… live,” said Erboron, gritting his teeth. The sea-spray had entered the wound already, filling it with salt and increasing the young man’s pain. Garamond knew that not all the moisture on Erboron’s face was sea water.

“The salt may sting, but it’s good for the wound. It’ll prevent the wound from festering, at least,” Garamond informed him.

“I think ‘sting’ is an understatement,” said Erboron, attempting a feeble laugh. His voice was tight with pain.

“Still, not much farther now,” said the older man encouragingly. “Eventually, even slaves are allowed to rest.”

The black fleet dropped anchor perhaps thirty miles off the shore of Gondor. The lights of Linhir gleamed brightly, shimmering across the sea through the brown darkness: a beacon of light about to be extinguished by the silent menace that approached.

[Edited on 16/5/2009 by arvanion898]

Halrohir

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 18, 2009 03:41

Evening of March 9th

Dunharrow. No walls, no towers, no mighty fastness of stone embattled. They were not needed, for the great towers of mountain rock behind the high fields were forbidding enough to halt whole companies in their march. Fear flew down from the heights more deadly than volleys of arrows. Terror rode down the gorge more fell than any press of mounted men. The people of Harrowdale were hardy and stouthearted in their own right, for none save themselves could dwell in the shadows of the three mountains that hid the skies from view: silent Starkhorn, jagged Irensaga, and the black wall of the haunted Dwimorberg between them. But even they could not shake free from the dread that flowed with the night-breeze from the heights above. For two weeks past, shadows and shapes walked the gorge and the paths leading to the Dimholt high above the valley floor, passing into the mountains but not coming out. The shades of Men, it seemed, also mustered in the shadow of the Mountain.

It was to this forbidding place that the Rohirrim marshalled and assembled, preparing the full muster at the command of Théoden King. Following his astonishing victory at Helm’s Deep, the tidings came by swift riders that the Lord of the Mark would arrive in three days hence, and come directly to Dunharrow and not to Edoras. That left little time to prepare. The encampment along the banks of the Snowbourn grew larger with each arriving éored, thousands already here, thousands more to come. Store and fodder had to be found, bedding and food for so many riders in one place; but all was ordered and made ready for the King’s arrival.

And this night, just at the gloaming when the last light faded beneath the pines, Théoden and his host arrived to command the muster. Glad shouts, horns lifted high, and the drumming of hooves made an eerie music in the mountains. As the captain of the men who guarded the ford over the Snowbourn, Déormund son of Éodwine was one of the first to hail Théoden’s coming. As the Westfolders and the riders of the King’s Household passed, he saw the lord of Harrowdale, Dúnhere arrive on horse to speak with the King. He told the King much of what Déormund had seen himself: the coming of Gandalf Greyhame with the news of victory, the word to begin the muster, and then the coming of the Shadow.

Déormund shuddered at the memory, of the black wings that brushed the very roof of Meduseld and the shriek of horror that froze the very blood. That was now three days past, and even the business of war and the muster could not drive the memory wholly from his thought. He almost did not hear the men speaking to him.

“Déormund? Captain, what news? Did the King speak of anything? What are our orders?”

“All I have heard is that Théoden King lies at Dunharrow this night,” Déormund said, “and we shall probably be marshalling tomorrow. Look to your horses, and be ready. For me, I shall take what rest I can before the march.”

Déormund commanded an éored, six-score riders as part of the host of Harrowdale, and followed the banner of its lord, Dúnhere. He knew that after three days, both horse and rider were restless and nervous. Dwelling beneath the Haunted Mountain was enough trial; standing ready for a summons to war not knowing when or where, was putting man and beast to the test. Déormund moved among his riders as they camped near the ford a single fire lighting their faces and their tents. The riders’ faces were blank, little talk, but their eyes showed the care and worry behind them, shining in the firelight. Déormund spoke to several of his riders as he walked among them, speaking words of encouragement, but also gauging their mood.

”How fare thee, Éothain? And you, Folstaf? Your mount’s thrown a shoe again?” Déormund asked.

“Nothing I cannot fix on my own, if there be light enough to see”, the rider replied.

“And Fenling, you are able to help in the smithy, still?”

“Aye, Déormund, the forge works dusk to dawn with all the work that is needed.”

A voice hailed him from the ford, “Déormund, come quickly, a rider has come, from Mundburg it seems!” Déormund strode quickly to where two riders were held up at the crossing by his guards on foot, spears set in a ring round the horses. He addressed the riders in the Common Tongue, “Greetings, riders! You are from Mundburg, say you? What errand have you in the Riddermark?”

One of the riders, clad in the silver and sable of Gondor, replied, “I have an errand from the Steward of Gondor to the Lord of the Mark himself. Hirgon I am, errand-rider of the Lord Denethor, and my full tale is for the Lord of the Mark’s ears. Shall I pass on, and where might I find the Lord?”

Déormund considered these words, and said, “You shall pass, under escort, to be the swifter for it. Théoden King lies in his pavilion upon the Firienfeld, and my riders shall take you straightaway. Ride now to good fortune, Hirgon of Mundburg!” After several salutations, the errand-riders passed on at a great pace, up the coiling road to the high hallow and the King’s camp.

[Edited on 5/20/2009 by Halrohir]

arvanion898

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 19, 2009 11:05

Evening, March 9
Dunharrow

Elfhelm looked carefully over the tack of his newest recruit and pointed out an error. “The saddle-girths are too loose; one good blow and you’ll slide right off. Horses have a nasty habit of breathing deeply before they let you put the saddle on. There’s only one way to fix that.” Elfhelm eyed the horse, which had a bellyful of air, and kneed it sharply in the stomach. As it gasped out, he finished tightening the girths. “Remember that, and you’ll do fine.”

“Yes, sir,” said the young man, hastily saluting. Elfhelm sighed: he’d been correcting young riders for the past three hours, and he was beginning to tire.

“Find Grimbold,” Elfhelm said irritably to the young man, who was leading his horse out of the tent. The rider saluted again, mounted, and walked his horse in the direction of the upper camp where the officers had pitched their tents.

Elfhelm followed at a more leisurely pace, stretching his legs after hours of idleness. He heard hoofbeats behind him and turned to see a group of riders behind him. Three were riders of Rohan, but the other two were strangely attired. Both wore light chainmail and riding cloaks, with star-browed helms. The foremost rider was tall and grey-eyed, and carried no weapon but a black-fletched, steel-tipped arrow with a painted red point.

“Hail, friend,” said the arrow-bearer. “I am Hirgon, errand-rider of Gondor. I and my companion seek Théoden King and a place of rest for our mounts. The captain in charge of the fords bade us to seek him upon the Firienfield.” Elfhelm gestured up the hill.

“His pavilion is at the top of the path,” said Elfhelm. “I will show you. As for your mounts, our stables are to the east of here, farther down the valley. A rider will tend to them, if you wish.”

“Nay, I shall tend to them myself,” said the second rider. “We are here at the bidding of Lord Denethor, and we may need to depart quickly.” Hirgon dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to the second Gondorian.

“Very well,” said Elfhelm. He motioned to Hirgon. “Come, then: I shall lead you to Théoden King.” Elfhelm nodded curtly to the other Rohirrim, who led Hirgon’s horse and companion off towards the stables while Hirgon himself followed the Rohirric marshal up the path. As they neared the top, they heard the challenge of the guard.

“Stay, strangers here unknown!” he called in the tongue of the Riddermark, squinting through the shadows cast by the mountains to see who approached the king.

“’Tis I, Elfhelm, and Hirgon, a messenger of Gondor,” said the marshal. “He seeks Théoden King, and bears the Red Arrow. Let us pass!”

The guard disappeared inside the tent for a moment to announce Hirgon’s arrival, then returned. “Théoden King shall hearken to your counsel,” he told Hirgon.

“My thanks, friend,” said Hirgon as he vanished into the tent. Elfhelm nodded in acknowledgement and walked off to his own tent. He was tired, and his éored would be in the vanguard of the host when it rode on the morrow.

Passepartout

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 19, 2009 12:31

Evening of March 9th...

The sight of black Dwimorberg chilled the hearts of the men of Rohan. The evil mountain was said to hold many black things that no man or elf were meant to see. The tents set up for camp were placed at a distance from the mountains entrance, because of the chilling breath that seemed to come out of it.

Guthláf the banner carrier and the house of Théoden were at guard near Théoden's main tent. Their golden hair blew in the wind and their helms gleamed in the setting sunlight. They held great spears their mail was of steel. Guthláf sighed at the sight of the foul mountains. It was one place that he had feared the most, yet it would be the place that they would rest for the rest of the day.

"This place seems to steal the soul out of my breath," he said to Grimbold next to him, "I cannot wait until we at last depart on the morrow from this foul place."

"Aye," Grimbold replied. Grimbold's golden beard fluttered in the wind, "I have never wanted to be here for any reason, but we shall have to persist and get as much rest here as we can."

"Yes, you are right."

The whole camp almost completely silent due to the Black Mountains that stood near them. Guthláf spotted a group of riders coming up towards them. Two of them were strangely dressed and one had an arrow in his hand.

Guthláf heard one of the guards call out to them.

"Stay, strangers here unkown!"

Guthláf looked to see Elfhelm in the group, announcing that a messenger of Gondor was amongst them and bore the Red Arrow. The guard had a look of surprise but nodded and went into the tent to tell the King of the arrival. He came back out a few moments later to let them in.

Guthláf left them alone as they entered and resumed his duty. The banner of Rohan that he often carried was not with him at the time, as it was not needed. It was somewhat of a disappointment as Guthláf loved to bear the symbol of their great kingdom. The Red Arrow had not been sent in many long years. Guthláf knew it was from Gondor, as their need was great. He finally understood now how great that need was.

The time for Théoden to raise his sword in battle was drawing near, and Guthláf would bear the banner of Rohan by his side in glory.

I shall protect King Theoden with all my might, he thought to himself, I do not care if the whole host of Mordor stands between me and my Lord, I will stand my ground!

[Edited on 26/5/2009 by Passepartout]

ToRivendell

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 19, 2009 01:52

Soon enough the rafts had reached the shore, and the orcs were spilling upon them, but Tenuvian and the men of fifth company were determined to hold their ground.

Tenuvian felled the first orc out of a boat as he sprinted into the city, cutting him down with a quick slash that the orc was not fast enough to parry. Soon after the rest of the boat followed him, and two armor-clad soldiers of Gondor arrived beside Tenuvian to aid him, the one to his immidate right sending an orc to the ground with a smash of his shield.

The three fought valiantly, though numbers were quickly turning against him. Tenuvian sidestepped a downward strike from an large uruk, his thick blade pounding into the stone near Tenuvian's feet. With a quick turn he put his own sword through the beast's neck and it fell with a gargled cry. He turned again just in time to see two orcs drag one of his fellow soldiers down. Tenuvian took three quick steps and took the head off of one of the orcs with a broad swing. With his arm free the soldier grabbed the other by the throat and threw him off, sending him colliding with a stone wall. The orc did not get up.

Tenuvian pulled the man to his feet, and the pair nodded at eachother. No time for words was available, and he turned his attention to the situation around him. Orcs were everywhere, but the fifth company was holding its position. The fight was brutal, but not unwinnable All around he could see his men fighting hard with their attackers, but not yeilding an inch of Gondor's soil to the invaders. His current position secure, Tenuvian jumped over a rock pile to aid a pair of his fellow rangers who were attempting to hold off a trio of orcs.

With a cry of "For Gondor!" Tenuvian jumped down and put his blade through the back of one of the orcs. It slide off the blade as he withdrew, and turned and faced the now outnumbered pair. The three men quickly cut them down, and Tenuvian rallied his men, shouting "Hold the line, Fifth company!" Stand and fight for Gondor!"

No sooner had the words left his mouth then he felt an earth shattering pain in his left shoulder that knocked him forward. He looked down and saw the end of an orc blade protruding from his leather armor. The orc that had creeped up behind him, unheard in the mayhem, was felled quickly by one of the Rangers Tenuvian had just assisted, unable to pull its blade out of Tenuvian's armor.

He fell to his knees, blood streaming down the front of his uniform. He started to feel cold, and the world aroud his edges of his vision started to become dark. No thoughts of death or life or country filled his mend. All he could think of was the chill creeping into him from the wound. Then he could feel himself being raised up and dragged back from the line, vaguely aware of the two shapes pulling him by his armor.

He felt the chill creeping up on him further, and he let his head sink as he fell into darkness.

Passepartout

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 25, 2009 02:57

The Morning of March 10th...

Guthláf woke with a start. His comrade Harding had shook him awake.

"Get up," he said gruffly, "We will be riding out soon."

Guthláf came out of his tent and looked up at the sky. The sky was still dark and had a brown hue to it. The sight of it combined with the Black Mountains of Dunharrow was unnerving. It seemed as if the night had not passed.

"Its still nighttime, Harding," Guthláf replied irritatedly.

Harding shook his head. "It is morning," he said, "These dark clouds seem to think otherwise, though. It has to be some work of sorcery from the East."

"Dunharrow is enough to scare the wits out of me," Guthláf replied, "Combined with the evil of Dunharrow it seems quite intimidating. The Dark Lord must think that he is cunning; but I know that worse things come out of that Black Land. This blackened air will not hinder the swift stroke of the spear." Guthláf looked up at Harding, "Go. Make haste. I will be ready in the meantime."

Harding nodded and left the tent. Guthláf put on his steel chain-mail and helm that would have shone brilliantly if the Sun was present. He put on his surcoat and all other necessary equipment and pick up the great banner of Rohan. He looked at its beauty as the green and white flag flew in the wind.

Guthláf arrived in the King's tent with all the other members of Théoden's house. They stood behind him and King Théoden briefed them on their journey. Théoden signaled for Éomer to ready the riders. Trumpets sounded outside and many answered with other blasts. Guthláf and the house of Théoden all departed from the tent with everyone and readied their horses. The men were scared. The dawn less day was taking the spirits out of the men but Guthláf scoffed at it. He was not fearful just yet.

Guthláf and half of the house of Théoden were postioned in the front of the army. Guthláf thought of it as a great honor and felt proud to carry Rohan's banner even in the deepening gloom. Théoden and Éomer were ranked behind them and Master Holbytla was ranked with the errand riders behind the King. Following them was an army that would seem almost uncountable to the Enemy. All of them rode great horses and had long spears raised up to the sky.

They would ride from Dunarrow to Minas Tirith. The first stop would be North at Edoras, where the King would gather up the remaining riders for his great army. A loud trumpet sounded from the host and they began to ride to the North. Guthláf waved the mighty banner of Rohan and led the army along with the household of Théoden.

arvanion898

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: May 28, 2009 11:33

Morning, March 10, the Dawnless Day
Dunharrow

Elfhelm was awoken not by the light, but by the neighing of horses outside his tent. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, as he muttered irritably to himself.

“It’s the middle of the night. Why would they be preparing to…” His voice died out as he listened. The soft talking of soldiers around the breakfast fires could be heard, and he realized that night had long been over.

“If it’s morning, why is it so dark?” mused Elfhelm, pulling on his cuirass and hurriedly buckling it. He drew aside the tent flap and peered up at the sky. It was gloomy and brown, seeming to bode ill news. Ahead of him, Théoden and Hirgon surveyed the eastern horizon.

“It comes from Mordor, my lord,” said Hirgon. “It began last night at sunset. From the hills of the Eastfold of your realm I saw it rise and creep across the sky, and all night as I rode it came behind eating up the stars. Now the great cloud hangs over all the land between here and the Mountains of Shadow, and it is deepening. War has already begun.” Théoden stood silently, pondering Hirgon’s words. At last he said something to the errand-rider in a low voice. After a moment of conversation, the king turned to Éomer, who had been standing by.

“Then call the heralds, Éomer,” said Théoden. “Let the Riders be marshaled!”

Éomer went off to do his bidding, and presently the trumpets rang in the Hold and were answered by many others from below. To Elfhelm’s ears they sounded muffled by the deep darkness. He went off to gather his éored, hoping that perhaps the sun would still rise. However, he knew that it would not, neither that day nor the next.

As he rounded the corner at the end of the path down, he ran slap-bang into another Rider. He recognized the eyes and voice and gave a surprised exclamation.

“Lady Éowyn! What are you—?”

“Marshal, please! I must ride. Lord Aragorn refused to allow me to ride with him; do not deny me as well!”

Elfhelm paused to consider. He knew that she was secretly a skilled warrior, and perfectly capable of defending herself, but in the heat of battle anything could happen to even the mightiest fighter.

Like many at the Rohirric court, he had been in love with Éowyn from afar. When her beloved uncle the king had sunk into madness after the death of his only son, Théodred, she had been consumed by a dark night of grief for what he had been. Elfhelm could not comfort her as he would have liked, having been far off holding the Fords of Isen against Saruman’s hordes. Aragorn had been her sunrise; but her passion for the grim Dúnedain lord was unrequited. If he could fulfill this request for her, perhaps he could take his place in her favor…

“You can’t go in your current guise,” he found himself saying. “Your brother and uncle would never allow it.”

Éowyn’s smile had a hint of steel in it. “I had prepared for that.” She slipped on the helm she had been carrying under her arm, bundling her long golden hair beneath it. Within a moment, she looked the same as any green young rider going to war for the first time.

Elfhelm nodded approvingly. “Very impressive, Lady—”

Éowyn’s smile grew harder. “Call me Dernhelm.”

The Rohirric host was assembling in the valley below the Firienfield when Théoden rode down the winding path, passing the mournful shapes of the Púkel-men. Elfhelm rode up to him and saluted with his sword.

“The éored are ready, sire,” he said. “We await your orders.”

“Guthláf, sound the advance,” said Théoden to his banner-bearer. The somber rider raised his horn and blew a deep note that was echoed by the host. The horn-calls echoed in the mountains as if the Shadow Host themselves had come forth to ride to battle. As the Rohirrim moved forward, Elfhelm noticed the Halfling sword-thane riding between the errand-riders of Gondor. Théoden and two dozen of his household knights rode before and after them. The Rohirrim were making first for Edoras before riding to war.

Dernhelm’s great grey steed, Windfola, pulled up alongside Elfhelm. “Thus, the last host of the Mark rides forth,” said Dernhelm in a quiet voice. “Whether to death or glory, I care not.”

~~~

Midday, March 10
Edoras

It was near noon when Meduseld rose out of the plain before the Rohirric host. Its golden roof gleamed not, though the sun was at its zenith behind the choking darkness. Elfhelm yearned for the light, yet he knew that the greatest hope for secrecy lay in the darkness.

A further threescore riders joined them at the Golden Hall, having come late to the muster, and after a brief rest, Théoden ordered that they ride again. The Halfling sword-thane Meriadoc begged Théoden to allow him to come, but the king was adamant. He refused the Halfling’s demands, albeit reluctantly, and rode down the hill towards the main gates. As Elfhelm turned to ride after him, he saw Dernhelm whispering in Meriadoc’s ear. After a moment, she helped him up onto her horse and drew her cloak over him, hiding the Halfling from sight. Elfhelm felt some misgiving about letting Meriadoc go to war, but he quickly quashed the feeling and followed the king.

The darkness deepened; the Rohirrim pressed on, past the beacons that had long died into ashes. No flame glowed there: they were desolate. The errand-riders of Gondor were long gone, riding ahead to bring Denethor the tidings of hope.

Elfhelm felt none of the hope the others believed in. Although the greatest host the Mark had ever assembled rode around him, Elfhelm knew that it wouldn’t be enough to break the lines of Mordor. We ride to war, but I fear it is only to our deaths, the marshal thought bleakly. The dawn may be red, but only our enemies will live to see it.

Forth rode the king, fear behind him,
fate before him. Fealty kept he,
oaths he had taken, all fulfilled them.
Forth rode Théoden. Five nights and days
east and onward rode the Eorlingas,
through Folde and Fenmarch and the Firienwood
six thousand spears to Sunlending,
Mundburg the mighty under Mindolluin,
sea-kings’ city in the South-kingdom,
foe-beleaguered, fire-encircled.
Doom drove them on. Darkness took them,
horse and horseman; hoofbeats afar
sank into silence, so the songs tell us.

~~~

Morning, March 11
Western Osgiliath

Dalahir sat up in his bedroll and yawned. The unnatural darkness told his sight that it was still night, but the camp around him was already coming to life. Cook-fires had been re-lighted, and a pot of stew was already simmering. Dalahir rose, yawned, and stretched, feeling a dull ache from the bruises he’d taken during the battle. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he walked over to the fire. Falborn rose to meet him, handing him a hunk of bread and a steaming bowl of stew. Dalahir accepted it gratefully.

“What news this morning?” asked the young ranger, tearing off a large piece of the bread and scooping up some of the stew. “Why the hearty meal?”

“Captain Faramir’s orders,” replied Damrod, one of the rangers of Faramir’s company. “He sent word through a courier that he was arriving today, and expected to see us well-fed.” He ladled himself another bowl of stew and brushed bread-crumbs off his tunic.

“The remnants of Tenth Company have returned to the Causeway Forts,” reported Falborn. “Captain Arafin was none too happy to abandon the bridge-guard, but when he heard tell that the Rammas was under attack he gave in; albeit reluctantly. Faragon and Ninth Company still man the walls, so there is still hope they’ll hold; but it’s unlikely that any of his men will return to aid us.”

“The orcs are busy at work on the eastern shore,” contributed Mablung, the watch captain. “They’re trying to rebuild the bridge. Our archers have kept them at bay, but it seems that they are building siege engines out of bowshot.”

“If the towers and catapults reach the walls, the Rammas cannot hold long,” said Dalahir morosely. “Still, while we hold the River, the enemy’s siege engines cannot cross. If the force that took Cair Andros has any siege weapons, they must have built them after crossing the River.”

“Always prophesying doom,” said Mablung, shaking his head. “It is not well to have so little hope.” They sat in silence, each intent on his own thoughts, before they heard a great cheer go up from the western edge of the city. “Faramir! Faramir!”

Mablung’s face brightened. “Captain Faramir has returned! Truly, fate smiles upon us. As long as he leads us, we shall have hope. I must alert the other captains to his arrival, so that they can turn out their troops.” He strode off towards the River while Damrod and Falborn jogged towards the western edge of the city. Dalahir followed at a slower, more reluctant pace.

The others stake their hopes on Faramir, the young ranger thought. But he is only one man. If he falls, what shall become of the rest of us? I fear that without him, the battle shall be lost before it begins. The Enemy must know that the fate of the White City depends on his leadership. The Dark Lord has more potent weapons than force at his disposal: fear and despair.

Dalahir was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice the soldier walking in front of him. He was so taken by surprise when he ran into the man’s back that he stumbled and began to fall backwards. The soldier caught him by the arm and helped Dalahir regain his balance.

“Lost in the domain of the Dream-king, Dalahir?” asked Sorontil with a grin. The young ranger sighed.

“Not quite… I was merely wondering how long we could last. It seems useless to attempt to resist.” His shoulders slumped.

Sorontil looked at him seriously. “You’re too young to have lost all hope,” he said. “You can’t last long in the darkness if there is no light to cling to. Falborn, Cunir, Arafin… they all know our cause is lost; yet they still fight on. To give in would only fulfill the wishes of the Enemy.”

Dalahir straightened. “You’re right, Sorontil. I must not give up hope.”

An hour later, Faramir arrived at the River for inspection of the defenses. Dalahir, once more in the watch-tower with Falborn, was surprised to see the Captain himself at the head of the stair. Dalahir had only spoken to Faramir once before, when he joined the company of Henneth Annûn, so he was astounded at the Captain’s memory.

“Greetings, captain,” said Falborn, saluting Faramir and half-rising. The Captain motioned for him to sit down again.

“Please, Falborn, I don’t stand on ceremony. May I sit?” Falborn nodded, and Faramir slid down, leaning back against the wall.

“Dalahir, isn’t it?” said Faramir. “I’ve heard that you’re one of Damrod’s best watchmen. How goes the vigil?”

“Well enough,” said Dalahir carefully, not sure how he should speak in the presence of one of the greatest captains of Gondor. Sensing his tension, Faramir smiled pleasantly.

“Don’t worry, you can speak up,” he said encouragingly. “I can tell that you’re worried about something.”

Dalahir hesitated. Then it’s true what the others say: Faramir can truly read the hearts of men. “I don’t think we can win this battle,” he finally blurted out.

Faramir’s grey eyes were sad. “Neither do I,” he said. Knowing that the commander of Gondor’s forces didn’t believe they could win was a sobering thought to Dalahir. “The River has been strengthened by our labors, but the Dark Lord’s armies are far greater than our own. We can make the Enemy pay dearly for the crossing, and yet rue the exchange. He can better afford to lose a host than we to lose a company.”

“What of the Black Captain?” asked Dalahir anxiously. Faramir’s face shadowed.

“Even the strongest and most courageous of men cannot stand under the shadow of his wings,” said Faramir darkly. “If he comes to the crossing, there is no doubt that we will fall. And come he will: the Dark Lord will stop at nothing to see Gondor fall. Still, we are soldiers of Gondor!” he cried suddenly, making an effort to shake off his dismal thoughts. “No matter how many hosts he throws against us, we will hold to the last.” He clapped Dalahir on the shoulder, nodded to Falborn, and descended the stairs with a purposeful tread. Dalahir stared after him.

“An uncommon man, the Captain,” Falborn said. “Wise, kingly almost, and honorable.”

“Perhaps too honorable for his own good,” said Dalahir, turning his gaze to the window. Looking towards the River, he gasped.

“The enemy are bringing catapults up to the River!” he shouted. “They’re launching rafts from the eastern shore! To arms! To arms!” The peace of the early morning was shattered: soldiers dashed for their weapons, ran to positions, and ran for the ballistae that Faramir had set up along the riverbank. The massive crossbows shot huge iron bolts, large enough to hole a raft or impale several orcs. They were the Gondorians’ main hope against a water-borne invasion, but the orc bombardment could easily destroy them.

Dalahir heard loud footsteps at the foot of the tower and saw Faramir and three rangers run up the stairs, reaching for their quivers. “A good vantage point,” said Madril, Faramir’s aide.

“Indeed,” said the sharpshooter Anborn with a wolfish grin. “Our arrows may even fly across the River from here.” He drew an arrow and aimed at one of the catapult crew. The orc fell with the shaft between his eyes as the others drew their bows. Below him, Dalahir could hear shouting.

“To the River! To the River, quick!”

~~~

Midmorning, March 11
Eastern Osgiliath

Gondor. Long I had hated it, and long I and my subordinates had worked silently to destroy it. The Steward’s sons defied me the crossing of the river, but I and my servants prevailed, and rode like a storm into the northwest reaches of Eriador, the ruins of the kingdom I destroyed long ago. The pathetic plans of the Elves and the petty sorceries of the Grey Fool foiled my plots there, but I had returned. Re-horsed on a winged steed, I brought the reek of blood and death to the remains of the West. To my faded senses their terror is a feast, one which I would never cease to partake of.

Mine was a world of shadows, obliterated only by the ghastly, accursed light of day. In the darkness I was far-sighted, and my power of fear grew greater. Under the light of the Sun, I was all but blind, but it would not help the enemy against me. My life was charmed, or cursed, and no living man could slay me.

The city before me stood strong, but I had the will to break it. The Steward’s remaining son was no challenge to me; I, who killed the last king of Old Gondor, I, who slew the last Prince of Cardolan and drove the king of Arthedain into the north to die. Only the intervention of the Elves saved the remnants of the North-kingdom from my wrath. I have killed the greatest captains of the age. This Faramir was nothing; merely a corpse who did not yet know he was dead.

“Lieutenant.” My voice was a voice heard only in nightmares, deep, hissing, and full of millennia of hatred. A fearsome, badly deformed orc stumped up, one mutilated hand resting on the hilt of a massive scimitar.

“The Morgul-host is ready, my lord.”

“Send forth all legions,” I directed. “Do not stop until the city is taken.”

“What of the Wizard?” he asked. I remembered, as if out of a dream, white light and flame piercing across the sky, blinding me and defying my destruction of the Captain of Gondor. I remembered the darkness, the power that had returned to me with the Ninth Ring of Men, which my dark master had returned to me. Suddenly, the wizard’s flame seemed less terrible, paling before my own power.

“I will break him,” I swore. “Give the order.”

“Yes, my lord,” said the orc. “Hola! Gazmog, Zaglûn! Move out, you slugs; now! Ballung, begin the bombardment!” The orcs in question kicked their warg mounts into a trot, bellowing orders to their forces. The ruins on the eastern side of Osgiliath echoed with the tramp of heavy hobnailed boots.

Still, I stood, statue-like, urging my forces on with dread. Implacable, I commanded them as I had commanded the hosts of Angmar and Carn Dûm when Fornost fell. Gondor had driven me back, defeated, to the mountains, but this time there would be no outside help. The Riders of Rohan would never come; a host of the East far greater than theirs already blocked their road south through Anórien. None would come to the aid of the city: Gondor was alone. The Southern Fiefdoms were held in thrall by fear of the Black Fleet that even now assailed their shores. All the power of the Dark Lord was in motion, and I was to command the destruction of his last enemy.

I took to the air, shadowing the host of Mordor with my mount’s black wings. Like an unstoppable tide of darkness they flowed toward the River. I led them, greatest of the Dark Lord’s servants.

I was the Witch-king.

[Edited on 28/5/2009 by arvanion898]

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: June 02, 2009 05:44

The Morning of March 11: Minas Tirith

The soldiers of Minas Tirith woke up to a cold and dusky morning with no comfort of Rohan’s forces yet. The recent activity in Minas Tirith caused by Captain Faramir’s return and sudden departure were being whispered about through the streets by many men. The soldiers believed that Lord Denethor was pushing his only son too hard, and they were right. Many hopes of success against the host of Mordor were going away swiftly.

Even the bright Erthad was beginning to feel his doubts about this war. Alasdair’s already negative output for hope had been enhanced, but Erthad still tried to believe in the little hope that they had. Alasdair stood upon the wall with his pipe in his mouth and Erthad leaned stood next to him. The fear of the dreaded Shadows that attacked Faramir and his company still stood in Erthad and Alasdair’s mind. Alasdair tried his best not to show it, but Erthad’s face was still white from the terror they had seen.

For one of the first times Alasdair broke the silence.

“I cannot believe that a father would send in his only remaining son into that city!” he said with a look of frustration, “The stewards heart has been black of late. I am beginning to lose all hope in that foolish man.”

Erthad was surprised that Alasdair would say something like that in the open, but instantly agreed.

“It was definitely not a wise move on his part,” he replied darkly, “I fear for our Lord Faramir’s life, for he is our only hope.”

Alasdair shook his head, “I do hope that Faramir is not killed, but we have one other to look upon for help,” he said, “Rohan will answer. The Red Arrow has to have been delivered by now and I believe that they could be coming here at this moment. We only have to worry about the time of their arrival. Let us hope that Minas Tirith isn’t overrun with orcs by the time they arrive at the Fields.”

Erthad nodded but did not answer. They stared out in the distance towards the city of Osgiliath and only prayed for the safety of their captain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Night of March 11th: Minas Tirith

Before Alasdair and Erthad new it, night had come. They still sat at the same spot on the wall by the Great Gate and looked out at the Pelennor Fields; fearing about what was going to happen next. The White City’s men remained restless and no one could find the comfort of sleep.

As Alasdair and Erthad were talking about recent events, they heard the horns of arrival sounding. They looked over the edge to see a single rider coming through the gates of Minas Tirith. The rider was bearing news about the situation in Osgiliath.

“A great host is coming from Minas Morgul,” he said breathlessly, “And we have learned that the Black Captain leads them!”

There was gasps of horror from the men. The Black Captain of the Shadows had finally come forth to lead his Lord’s army to destroy Gondor once and for all. Erthad had tears in his eyes. He couldn’t take all of this anymore.

“Not even Faramir can defeat the Black Captain!” he exclaimed, “He’ll never make it!”

Alasdair grabbed Erthad by the shoulders, “He can still survive,” he said, “It’s not like you to give up hope this easily! If Faramir is slain, it would be his final wish for us to hold the black army at the Great Gate and prevail against them!”

Erthad calmed down slowly, “I’m sorry, brother,” he said after a pause, “I don’t know what came over me. I think that it is because of those foul Beasts that fly in the air. They unnerve me.”

“Do not worry about it,” Alasdair replied, “But don’t throw away the hope that you have, for I have little of it myself. I fear that Faramir may die at Osgiliath, but that does not give us a reason to give up and throw down our swords in defeat. I am sorry the way that I have acted these past months. The recent events in this past year have been the worst in my life. I can’t hold onto thoughts of defeat any longer. I know that things will get better after we vanquish the Dark Lord and cleanse his Black Land.”

Erthad was surprised to be hearing Alasdair talk like this to him, “I know this too,” he replied, “Thank you, brother.”

Alasdair nodded and resumed looking out into the sea of darkness.

“You should get some sleep,” he said.

Erthad shook his head, “I don’t think that it would help me any,” he replied, “I don’t think I could close my eyes that long without the image of those Fell Riders in my mind.”

“I cannot rid my mind of them either.”

They both stood on the wall for the remaining of the night, fearing about what would overtake them on the next day.

arvanion898

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RE: The Siege of Gondor
on: June 07, 2009 03:14

Midmorning, March 11
Linhir

At the convergence of the rivers Gilrain and Serni, the waters were red, garishly reflecting the light of the fires of the beleaguered town. The Black Fleet had attacked at dawn, with the Great Eye in the vanguard of the attack. The main fleet, fifty great ships and countless smaller vessels, was attacking Pelargir, but ten of the galleys and fifty of the smaller ships now covered the waters outside Linhir. Corsair archers crowded the decks, lighting their arrows before firing them into the buildings. The crews of five ships had taken the longboats to the shore and were fighting hand-to-hand with the defenders. Angbor, the Lord of Lamedon, fought alongside the common men of his host, rallying them again and again to drive the attackers back. Archers, conscripted from the hillmen of Lamedon, returned the fire of the corsairs.

In the midst of the chaos, the slaves cowered at their benches, trying to avoid the arrows that whizzed this way and that. More than one was struck by a stray arrow, falling from their bench to rise no more. Erboron was weeping softly in terror, trying to make himself as small of a target as possible.

Garamond saw an armored corsair struck by an arrow and smiled fiercely as the pirate fell screeching into the water. His arms thrashed wildly for a moment before he went under. He never resurfaced. I suppose there are disadvantages to wearing armor on board a ship, then. The slave smirked.

On the shore, it was obvious that the corsairs were gaining the upper hand. Angbor fought with the strength of three men, and man after man fell to his whirling blade. However, the corsairs, greater in numbers and fired by the prospect of plunder, pushed him and his militia back. The men of Lamedon fought fiercely, knowing that the lives of their families depended on their victory. Behind their lines, the women and older men had organized a fire-fighting crew. Their efforts were paying off, but for every building they extinguished another flamed up.

Angbor’s men were tiring quickly, while the battle-hardened pirates fought tirelessly. Some of the militiamen were already fleeing, with corsairs in hot pursuit. Angbor rallied them again and again, but before long they were fighting in the very heart of the city. Another shipload of corsairs had landed on the western side of Linhir, and had cut off Angbor’s escape. Although the militia’s numbers were still great, they were disorganized, with no hope of defeating the encroaching host. Garamond closed his eyes in despair as he saw Angbor trying to rally his men again. Truly, Lord Angbor is fearless, he thought. But not even his courage will avail him against the storm that is at hand.

Instead of the roar of onset, however, Garamond heard cries of fear. “The King of the Dead! The King of the Dead is upon us!” The corsairs, rather than attacking, were scrambling for their longboats. The folk of Lamedon were doing no better: all that could were fleeing for their lives, though Angbor still held his ground with a few men that could be inspired to courage. Garamond, straining his eyes, could see only a small company of dark-cloaked riders, with two in shining silver armor, and a dark shadow behind them. He felt a deep chill of fear: he had thought the King of the Dead to be merely an old tale to frighten fractious children. Whoever this rider was, his powers must have been fell indeed to summon the Shadow Host to him.

Already, all of the black ships that could were weighing anchor. The men that had been on shore were calling desperately to their comrades, terrified of being left behind, but the men on the ships did not heed them. The Black Fleet was in full retreat. Garamond felt the sting of the lash across his back as the slavemaster urged them on.

“Row, you curs, or we’re all dead! Row, curse you, row!” Beside him, Erboron’s terrified sobs grew louder as the boy heaved at the oar for all he was worth. The shore, with its masses of horrified corsairs, receded into the distance with the flames of Linhir as the Great Eye pulled away, out to sea. They were headed to Pelargir with all speed, anxious to get away from the terrible army that pursued them.

“What—what was that?” panted Erboron after several minutes of frenzied rowing. His voice had steadied slightly, but it was still fearful.

Garamond looked grim. “The King of the Dead,” he said shortly. “I’d thought he was a myth invented to scare the children of Gondor, but he’s all too real.”

“Not all of them looked like phantoms, though,” said Erboron. “Some looked like mortal men.”

“Maybe,” said Garamond. “They were clad strangely indeed. Perhaps they are wights.”

Erboron made no answer to this, but shuddered. At last, the drum stopped pounding. Pelargir could be seen in the distance, but the Great Eye was not to attack that day. Its terrified crew slept uneasily, recovering from the events of the morning. The slaves, too, slept at their oars, but Garamond could not. He was remembering the imposing figure on horseback, and the light of the fires on silver armor. At last, he sank into an uneasy sleep, full of unsettling dreams.

Hanasian

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on: March 02, 2024 12:31

OOC: I know it's uncouth to post OOC tyo IC Roleplaying threads, but being it's been nearly fifteen years since the last post, I just wanted to say that the four writers who participated in this for the five weeks it was active were really good writers!

Eighth King of Arthedain - It was in battle that I come into this Kingship, and it will be in Battle when I leave it. There is no peace for the Realm of Arnor. Read the last stand of Arthedain in the Darkest of Days.

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