Defense of the Poros RPG

[Novnarwen]

The sun reached its highest point at the sky, dazzling the poor Haradrim who felt huge pearls of sweat run down his neck. It made him feel extremely uncomfortable, since he was shaking with fear already. However, as Frôzhal discovered that the battle was slowly turning to their advantage, he guessed that he should come forth again. He stood up and looked around; no one could be seen. Anxious to get back to his platoon, he drew his sword; just in case. He trudged away from his hiding spot, being slightly nervous and hands wet with sweat. What if someone had figured him out? He shook his head, feeling odd about himself and the situation he found himself in. He'd been a coward, yes, he realised that. But, who could blame him? Frôzhal couldn't really explain how he felt. At least he knew that those blood-thirsty Gondorians were the last ones he would want to meet in battle. With this, being determined to go back and pretend that he was a true hero; returning from the battle plain, he headed for the battle; his platoon and Erfâzh.

He climbed the path, which was sloping its way closer to the plain. Squinting his eyes, he tried to get used to the sun, which he so deeply hated. He tried to focus on what he was going to say if anyone dared to ask where he had been, during the most violent part of the battle. He couldn't quite figure. The Haradrim wasn't at all pleased with this, and due to the pressure he was under, his neck turned fiery red and the veins in his forehead grew thick and turned purple. Still being on guard, trying to avoid everyone and anyone, he ran for it and threw himself to the ground. He breathed heavily, being relieved. He was there. Frôzhal became immediately aware of the danger he had put himself in, as some Gondorians ran by, but were killed shortly after. He looked again with disgust at the bodies which lay scattered around, as if they were worth nothing.

****

He lay amongst the bodies for at least twenty minutes. Seeing no opportunity to get away from this brilliant hiding spot, he started to get used to lying amongst dead people. But as soon as he realised that he was thinking this way, he shook his head in mere disappointment and started reproaching himself for this. Surely, this was wrong; lying on the ground, meanwhile his platoon fought for their lives. The worst thing was that he actually started enjoying it; he actually liked to lie amongst these dead, motionless Gondorians. He grabbed one of dead ones’ knives. It hung in his belt and was quite sharp. Frôzhal looked at the little blade. It was sharp and very shiny. Frôzhal liked shiny things.

Frôzhal smirked. Finally getting himself to get up, looking for more useful weapons first though, he started looking for Erfâzh. Few minutes had passed when the Haradrim could get a fair glimpse of Erfâzh. The other Haradrim stood with his face turned towards himself, and by this he took cover. However, there was something else which, he figured, concerned him more. Erfâzh wasn't alone. By the look of his mouth moving, he looked as if he was eagerly talking to someone else. Frôzhal shrugged. Since the man, who Erfâzh talked to stood with his back towards Frôzhal, he couldn't quite see who it was. This bothered him more or less, and he grew even more nervous about grabbing the hold of Erfâzh, asking how his platoon had done during the attack. What if Erfâzh was telling the truth about Frôzhal now?

He frowned. A peculiar smile appeared at the Haradrim's face, as his plan had been formed. Erfâzh was after all just... a soldier in his platoon.

As the Haradrim approached Erfâzh, looking as if he had been fighting for his life, he glanced downwards where the Gondorian knife hung in his belt, not being visible by others. "Hope you and your friend are well prepared," Frôzhal muttered, drawing closer and closer to Erfâzh and his mysterious friend.

[Daniel Telcontar]

Khalad looked at Astalder briefly before resuming to gaze towards the pillar of smoke. He held his arm across his chest, right hand upon the hilt of his sword. Ready to draw it at moment's notice.

"The messengers could not tell much more than what you heard. They fought valiantly yet had little chance. At least when it came to this tower the Haradrim were numerous enough to easily defeat our soldiers. And rather than using stealth they did it openly, knowing that it would alert us. They must either know our numbers and that we are not a strong force in this area to protect the settlement; or else their numbers must be so great they do not fear meeting us in battle."

Khalad waited for a few moments before continuing to speak.His logic and conclusions did not bode well and he began to fear for defeat. "At any rate, we can only mount a proper defence with chances of successfully defending Poros if we scout their army; we need to know what kinds of troops they have, and how many. Furthermore, I think the two messengers that came from the watch tower should return to Poros. Somebody must alert them even now, and perhaps prepare to evacuate if need be."

The young Roquen took a firmer hold of the reins of his steed, and let go of the hilt of the his sword. Whatever must happen, happens, Khalad thought. "We await your command," he said to Astalder.

[Nerindel]

“Then we ride!” Astalder cried with a nod to the young Knight. Turning his steed he led them towards the smoking tower. “Khalad take two men and scout ahead, but be careful not to be seen!” he called over the thunder of hooves, He knew that soon they would have to hid their horses and continue on foot, if they where to scout their enemies without being seen. Once Khalad had returned reporting the way ahead was clear they took to the forest. The forest ended on an out cropping a short distance from the location of the south tower, where they could leave the horses under the cover of the trees and spread out to get a better look at their enemies.

Stopping his men a short distance from the edge of the forest he dismounted and indicated for Khalad and another of his company and young man named Josef, to follow him, they walked to the edge of the forest and looked out over the carnage below. Then seeing movement amidst the smoke they dropped to their bellies. Astalder watched with growing anger as Haradrim warriors pillaged what was left of the outpost. “Look!” Khalad whispered beside him alerting him to the hundred or so well disciplined warriors who stood watching their company sack what was left of the outpost. “They stood no chance!” Josef gasped. Astalder did not dwell on the man’s assessment but continued to scan the scene below. His gaze suddenly stopped on the figure of a tall thin man who walked with the confidence and demeanour of a Harad officer, as the man turn he saw fully the officer’s uniform confirming his suspicion. Astalder’s eyes narrowed and he found himself wishing that he had some skill with a bow, as he recognised Lan’kash the Lieutenant of the Harnen crossing, of course the two men had never met, but his merchant friend Talfas dealt often with men of the south who grumbled often about the crossings inspections, and he now found that their description of the outposts leader was more than accurate.

“That is their leader!” he spat, pointing Lan’kash out to his two companions. “Oh may the Valar preserve us, they’ve got catapults!” Josef gasp pointing to where a gap in their enemy’s ranks revealed the two monstrosities. Astalder knew at once that the walls of the village would not hold up to their assault. “I want you to each take two men and scout their flanks, we need their full numbers including any scouts they may have patrolling the vicinity.

“And you?” Khalad asked watching with growing concern as Astalder continued to stare at the two catapults, “I will try to even the odds” he answered with a wry grin. “That is madness!” Josef exclaimed in horror, “I have no choice, the walls and buildings of the village will not stand up to the assault of those monstrosities!” he calmly informed the younger man. “Now, come we do not have long, they will soon move again and I wish for us to be well on our way back to the settlement before then.” the two men nodded and followed him back to their company.

Once back they spilt into three groups, Khalad and his two men went right, While Josef took his men to scout their enemies left flank. Which left Astalder with three men at his disposal but he only needed one, he chose the shortest of the three and ordered the others to stay with the horses. “If we are not back when the others return, set out at once for the village.” The men began to protest, but Astalder stopped them abruptly with a raise hand and a sharp look. “If we have not returned by then, it is likely that we have failed and you are to presume that we are dead! Do you understand?”

“Yes sir!” the two men replied lowering their heads. Astalder then turned, beckoning for his companion to follow and set off towards their enemies.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+

The two men moved silently keeping close to the shadows as they approached their intended victims, the Two Haradrim guards looked more like farmer than warriors, But they had no choice if they where to get close to the catapults they would need disguises. As luck would have it the two guards also watched the pillaging going on at the outpost, grumbling that they too wanted a share in the spoils. Astalder silently signalled for his companion to take the smaller of the two guards and at the sometime they stepped out of the shadows of the trees and pulled their blades silently across the throats of their victims, before they even knew anyone was upon then. They then dragged the bodies under the trees and stripped them of their clothes, then hiding their own gear they changed into the garb of the Haradrim soldiers. Astalder kept on his chain mail shirt and strapped his own sword instinctively about his waist, but his helm he removed putting on the head scarf of his victim, pulling the lower section across his face, so that only his eyes could be seen.

“Our aim is to sabotage the catapults, but not to destroy them, we need our enemies to think that they still have the advantage until they try to use them.” he grinned wryly, turning to his companion, who was now also dressed in the garb of a Harad soldier. After his companion nodded his understanding they took up the dead Haradrim guards spears and made their way towards the mammoth weapons.

The majority of the soldier ignored them but as they neared their goal they were stopped several times and asked where they were going, they could only pointed in the direction of the men milling around the base of the catapults and grunt “orders from Lan’kash!” To which the questioner would laugh harshly and send them on their way. Once at the catapults they split up, Astalder taking the nearest. He inconspicuously circled the mechanism looking for an easy way up, he was just climbing towards the ropes that worked the leverage went he heard a sharp, commanding voice below him.

“Just what do you think you are doing up there?” He froze searching for a suitable answer, but just as he was about to answer, another voice broke the silence.

“Lieutenant we found another one on the other catapult and look!” Astalder looked down in horror as the Haradrim soldier ripped off his companions head scarf revealing the dark hair and pale complexion of the Gondorian knight. With instinctive reflexes he pulled free his sword slicing through the leverage ropes and jumped down to face his enemies.

[Orual]

Anhelm was at his desk, sorting papers, sifting through reports, trying to find something to do. But he had already been through all of the papers; every one of them was familiar. If asked, he could probably recite them all from memory. He had to admit it: he was trying to distract himself.

I should be out there. He couldn't get the thought out of his head. What was he doing here, in his cushy office, surrounded by four solid, protective walls, while his men were on the front lines? Granted, it had been a scouting mission, but somehow he had a feeling that it wouldn't end as a scouting mission. There was too much danger for there to be no trouble. He knew that. He had known it when he sent his men out, but he had done it anyway. Granted, they were soldiers. They were trained. They knew coming in that this was a dangerous post. But that didn't give him a free pass to send them out into life-threatening situations without giving it enough thought...

Snap.

Suddenly he was no longer in his office.

He looked around himself and saw that he was in the midst of a battle. He saw everything, but it was dull, unfocused. The towers...the towers were burning. He saw his men around him. He called out to them, and some of them seemed to hear, but they did not turn. They only startled, like men hearing a ghost, denying its existance, and moving on. His heart cried out for him to draw his sword, but he knew, in some inexplicable way, that he could do nothing. Or, rather, that he was not allowed to do anything. That somehow, if he used his sword in this battle, where he was, that it would do more harm than good: for him, for his men, for everyone.

He walked around in a daze, watching the battle rage around him, watching his men fall, watching them fell Haradrim soldiers. There was nothing to rejoice about. All Anhelm could see was suffering. He projected his own suffering in the holes where there was none, until he was smothered by it. Finally he saw Khalad, and ran up to him. Khalad did not turn, but shuddered a little, as though a chill breeze had enveloped him. Anhelm felt tears in his eyes--the tears that he had been taught to hide--and he whispered to his soldier, "For Gondor."

That was all that was allowed him.

Snap.

His office seemed intolerably hot, and everything seemed so sharp. The rough wood of the underside of his desk was almost painful to touch, and every lungful of air he inhaled stung his chest. He felt the tears that still hung in his eyes, and gave in to them. He collapsed on his desk, weeping for his men.

[Imladris]

“Treachery?” asked Erfâzh with an askance glance. “Frôzhal wouldn’t commit treachery.”

Jinan waived the objection away with his hand and then said, “Naturally not. He has a backbone of pudding.” He rubbed his jaw and smiled a toothless grin at Erfâzh. “Besides,” he murmured, “Frôzhal is not worthy of his position in the Haradrim army. He skulked from the sword’s blade and the arrow’s steel. However --” he grimaced here -- “he has already groveled his way towards the top in the army already, and is not likely to be arrested on your charge of treachery, since it’s only your word against his, and to whose word do you think the Lieutenant will listen?” Jinan shook his head. “No…the desert sands of Harad dirty more than the skin of men’s hands, Erfâzh.”

Erfâzh nodded, and rummaged in the pockets of a Gondorian corpse. “I suppose you’re right. I also suppose that if Frôzhal is proven guilty by some improbably means, his position will be open to a more deserving man.” He grinned at Jinan.

“Well naturally,” Jinan replied with a smile that showed his teeth. He twirled his dagger in his hand, the wind whistling upon the blade like a lad playing a tune upon a blade of grass.

“You do realize, that you haven’t gotten to where you are by military merit, but by whispered bribes of gold?”

“Mere rumour, Erfâzh,” Jinan said. “And if it were true, at least I didn’t crawl upon my belly.”

“My point was that you might become involved in more ways than one, you might be accused.”

Jinan shrugged. “What is that to me? Two out of three officers in the Haradrim army get to where they are by ignoble means. But what does that matter if you act according to your station on the field.”

Erfâzh snapped to attention and jammed his elbow into Jinan’s ribs, hence drawing his attention to Frôzhal’s approach. Frôzhal, besmeared with blood, a gash or two on his cheeks, and his sword stained with blood, did not look as if he had been merely scratched by bramble bushes. Jinan cocked an eyebrow at Erfâzh, who shook his head and replied with a imperceptible shrug of his shoulders.

Frôzhal stopped, his brown skin turning to ash. His fingers fidgeted, and his eyes darted away from his face. Jinan smiled toothlessly. “Hello, Frôzhal.”

The clash of swords drowned Frôzhal’s reply (if he had even made one), and Jinan and Erfâzh sprinted towards the melee. Two Gondorians, dressed Haradrim garb, were being borne to the ground. Dressed in Haradrim garb… Jinan grabbed Erfâzh and whispered in his ear…

[Daniel Telcontar]

Khalad felt the anxiety growing with the passing of the day. He knew that the only chance the Poros settlement stood of defending itself was its walls; and if breached by the catapults then victory was no longer achievable. Yet Astalder and his companion did not return. And it was plain to see that some of the soldiers were uneasy, wishing to return to the temporary safety that Poros could offer.

None of the remaining knights had higher rank than the others, and Khalad could not order them. But when some of the mounted their horses and spoke of returning, he replied sharply: "We cannot return as long as Astalder has not!" Some of them eyed him warily, unsure of what he meant. "It may be very well to be noble and all that, but if they have been caught, we don't stand a chance of helping them," some said in equally harsh tones.
"I am not trying to be noble!" Khalad lashed out. "Do you not understand what the catapults mean? Our walls are useless and will be nothing but a trap for ourselves when they come crumbling down upon us, struck by the siege equipment! The settlement should already be alerted by the survivors from the watch tower. Our duty now must be to destroy the catapults before the Haradrim reach Poros."

Khalad waited for a few moments, allowing his words to sink in and to let his comrades understand fully what he meant. Khalad mounted his steed yet prepared to ride in another direction than those who had done so at first. "We must destroy those catapults," he said, and now his voice was no longer raised, but quiet, almost a whisper; but it did not lose its urgency because of it. One by one the knights of Gondor mounted their horses and then carefully, using their vigilance, they rode towards the Haradrim camp.

[Imladris]

It would be difficult blaming Frôzhal for the Gondorians in disguise. They could have taken the clothing from a Haradrim corpse…maybe they even had slain the guards that were supposed to have been guarding the catapult. But that didn’t really matter. All what mattered was silently, swiftly, and cleverly putting Frôzhal out of the way.

It was strange, this loathing of Frôzhal. He was timid. He was a puppy. He was a worm that grubbed after men’s compliments and slunk up the ladder to success. He was insignificant. So insignificant that I shouldn’t even care about him no more than I would care for a flea. But that was the annoying thing about fleas. They never went away. They bit your skin and their bites itched until they became an unbearable torment. Yet it was only a flea. A harmless flea. A flea that could not kill you or make you sick. That was what Frôzhal was. He was a flea who bit you behind the ears when you were asleep. It’s rather difficult to smack a flea when you are peacefully asleep, unaware that the flea is even there. That’s what Frôzhal did. He hovered around long enough, bribed men with money and what not. I honestly believe that the commanding officers let Frôzhal up the ladder because he was a simple annoyance. It was an easy way to get rid of him.

But fleas could be killed. They could be drowned if one went swimming for a long period of time. Frôzhal would similarly be drowned under a torrent of carefully spun lies. Lies that couldn’t be proved guilty and could be proven true under a manipulation of evidence.

But why is it again that I want Frôzhal proved of treason? Because he forsake his post at the army, that’s why. The ultimate proof of his cowardice. Yet who would believe them? These Gondorians were the key…but how is the key going to be made to fit the lock?

[Manôphazân]

The Gondorian saboteurs were thrown forcefully to the ground at Lan’Kâsh’s bloodstained boots, and their disguises were ripped from their bodies. Sergeant Benel delivered several vicious kicks into each man until both lay prostrate on the muddy site of the recent battle. Though the Haradrim treatment of spies was well-known to all of their enemies, neither prisoner showed fear, and the older of the two continued to stare at Lan’kâsh despite the beating he was receiving. Another well aimed kicked to the head broke his eye contact with his captor, but he did not cry out and he soon looked again.

“That will be enough, sergeant” said Lan’kâsh, and Sergeant Benel withdrew a step to allow his boss an opportunity for a swing or two.

Lan’kâsh smiled at the implied suggestion but declined to strike the prisoners himself, at least not with his hands. Instead, he hefted his spear and drove it cruelly through the back of the younger Gondorian, leaving the thrashing man pinned to the ground, screaming. The soldiers nearby gasped at the suddenness of the attack, and before the other captive could react, Lan’kâsh dropped to one knee and grabbed him by the hair with his right hand. In his left hand, a wicked looking dagger pressed against the man’s throat.

“You look important,” growled Lan'kâsh, ripping a gold chain from around the man’s neck, “and rich.” The necklace was beautifully crafted and bore the seven-starred emblem often seen on Gondorian royalty. It marked the captive as an officer and a valuable asset to retain. Nearby the other north-man had finally fell silent as he crossed into death. “He looked poor.”

“What did you hope to accomplish, Winger?” he asked the man angrily. “Do you think these are the only war engines we have? If you had properly reconnoitered our position, you would have seen that these are only the first of several such machines on the road behind us. Before we are through, the engineers of Umbar will reduce every Gondorian wall from here to Pelargir to rubble, your little fortress included.”

Angered that the man refused to answer him, Lan’kâsh shook him violently and then walked away, yanking his spear from the dead Winger.

“Keep the officer alive,” he instructed Sergeant Benel, “and get our men moving again. We’ve got a town to attack.”

[Nerindel]

The taste of warm blood filled Astalder’s mouth and a dull ache began to form in his right temple, made increasingly worse by the Haradrim warrior’s violently frustrated shake. But still he refused to speak or show any sign of outward emotion and only when his enemy had given up and turned his back on him, did he spit the blood from his mouth. As he did his gaze fell on the body of his dead companion, sorrow and regret gripped him for a moment. But he stubbornly tried to push it aside, they all knew the risk when they enlisted, but the knowing did not make it any easier to accept. At least he had the hope that the rest of the men in his charge would be able to return and report their enemy’s numbers and armaments to Captain Anhelm and warn the captain of the Haradwaith leader’s boldness.

His enemies had not gained anything from him, but the same could not be said of them. During his brief interrogation by Lan’kâsh he had learnt that the Haradrim’s boldness was not limited to this one unit, the Haradrim were on the move and the Poros settlement was not their only target. Astalder had killed at least two soldiers and wounded several others before he was finally over powered but still he was to be kept alive, for what gain he was not certain. But he was certain that he would not be used against the people he was bound to protect.

As he was dragged along by his guards he kept a sharp eye, looking for a weakness or a means of escape, many of the Hardrim soldiers looked on him with loathing and contempt, some even spitting at him as he passed, but he defiantly held his head up, ignoring their taunts and jibes. Weather intentional or not they dragged him past the battlefield, the empty eyes of dead Gondorian soldiers bore into his heart, filling him with an anger that threatened to break through his emotionless defiance. He looked away from the scene and as he did his gaze fell on the Lan’kash who was watching him with a satisfied grin and in his right hand was Astalder’s swords, the blood stained ribbon rippled lightly in the breeze, reminding him of the promise he made to his wife. a low growl escaped his lips and he silently swore that Lan’kash would regret letting him live.

***********************************

The Requen

The Requen of the Poros had followed Khalad’s careful instruction and again scouted out the Haradrim camp, but after regrouping and much debate it was decided that it would be suicide to go in after Astalder, their leader was located in a large tent situated in the very centre of the camp, surrounded by many heavily armoured guards.

“It’s impossible!” Josef argued “our best option is to return to the Poros and return with reinforcements!”

“By then it may be too late!” another put in.

“I do not know why they keep him alive, but they have and they must have a purpose for doing so!” Khalad replied conceding to Josef‘s idea.

“Then it’s settled we return to the Poros, report to Captain Anhelm, then see to mounting a better prepared rescue party.” the gathered company nodded their agreement some more reluctantly than others. Within the hour they were mounted and heading out of the forest and into the rolling plains that would lead them back to the Poros.

The company where just exiting the forest when they heard the clash of weapons ahead, checking his horse Josef speed ahead to a near rise the rest of his company following close behind, “Gondorians!” he called back. “They must have been sent out when we failed to return on time.” he muttered looking on the battle that ensued.

The Poros soldiers were being attacked by a small contingent of Haradrim warriors, “A forwarding party?” he mused, grinning wickedly as the lust of battle grew within him, Drawing his sword and raising the horn that hung round his neck he blow long and hard, then raising his sword before him he dug his heels into the side of his mount and charged into the fray, his fellow roquen following close behind him.

Battle ensued all around him and as he ran through another Haradrim warrior he looked around trying to discern who was in command of this small contingent of Poros soldiers. “Who commands here!” he cried to a passing soldier.

“Adenain!” the soldier called back as he engaged yet another enemy.

“over there!” he pointed dispatching his opponent with a quickly drawn dagger across the unsuspecting mans throat. Josef nodded his head in thanks then fought his way to the man that the soldier had just pointed out.

The man was wounded but still he fought, “Adenain?” he asked.

“Who asks?” the man answered not taking his eyes of his current opponent.

“Josef sir, I was in the company of Astalder.” he replied his own sword clashing with that of another Haradrim warrior.

“Astalder!” the man exclaimed burying his sword into the exposed side of his enemy, “where is he I wish to speak with him.” Adenain continued as he pulled the sword from the dead Haradrim and drove it into the back of Josef’s attacker.

“Astalder is not with us.” Josef answered with a regretful sigh.

“He is dead then?” Adenain frowned studying the young knight.

“No, not dead, well he wasn’t when we left him, but he was a prisoner of the Haradrim.”

As they battled on side by side he continued to explain the events of the past few days.

[Novnarwen]

Frôzhal had dropped dead. As he was about to grab his knife and end Erfâzh's pathetic life, he had discovered that it wasn't just a random Haradrim Erfâzh had been talking to, his mysterious friend was Jinan. The Haradrim's mouth fell open. He didn't even notice Jinan saying something to him, as two Gondorians were violently dragged and cast to the ground only a few paces away from where the three Haradrims were standing. Before the extremely surprised Haradrim was able to react, Erfâzh and Jinan had sprinted over to see the two prisoners. He cursed as he watched them. How could this happen? How could this happen to him? Was Erfâzh a friend of Jinan? What had they talked about? He let out a shriek, or rather he tried to, but his voice drowned in his own throat. He cursed again. By now, Erfâzh would have told Jinan everything, he could see it, by the fire in their eyes. "Traitor," Frôzhal muttered. However, perhaps he still had a chance of killing Erfâzh and perhaps the way of his clothing, but also the gash he had faked on his cheek, could make Jinan doubt what Erfâzh had possibly told him.

Disgusted by Erfâzh possible behaviour, (depending on whether he had told Jinan about how Erfâzh had been in charge during the attack or not,) he paced over to where the two Gondorains lay. He refused to give further thought to the situation he would find himself in, if this secret had been revealed; especially if the wrong people knew. Instead, he tried to enjoy the violence the two Gondorians went through. He laughed evilly, trying to get a glimpse of their grim faces. He heard Lan’kash growl, deciding that one of them should live. Frôzhal was amused by this. He wondered what the Gondorian, who would live, thought about this matter. He hoped, crossing his fingers, that the one who would be dead soon was a very close friend of the one who was going to live. Pain.. Pain.. he thought, his eyes sparkling.

As one of the filthy Gondorians was dragged by the Haradrim guards, Frôzhal used his opportunity to spit on the man. He didn't make a grimace, his face remained straight. Frôzhal didn't quite understand this reaction. Surely, it was odd. The Haradrim's, who were standing around the poor captive, had been showing him no respect whatsoever. Of course, the Gondorian couldn't demand it either, but why didn't he do anything; like spit back or curse? Was it not his character maybe? Frôzhal wasn't familiar with this kind of behaviour. Did all these Gondorian's act like this?

Frôzhal watched him, trying to read his mind. He didn't seem to be afraid of anything. His eyes were soft; humanly, greyish blue. He sent out this signal of being good, fearless, proud of his kind, and gentle. This, Frôzhal realised, was rare or unusual, at least among the Haradrim; who were hard, rough and proud but only proud of their own skills and accomplishments. Suddenly, out of the blue, he thought it stupid of him to spit at the Gondorian. It was out of place, it was gruesome. But even though he had done it, yet the Gondoiran kept his dignity by showing the Haradrim that he was different. The Haradrim's however, didn't realise this and continued their stupidity.

Frôzhal cursed. This Gondorian was bad news. He made the Haradrim think too much.

[Orual]

The heat of battle was all around him.

The thunder of horses' hooves.

The whistling of arrows overhead.

The shrill, primal cries of the warriors.

Radenan had not foreseen this when he volunteered to help guard the Poros settlement. He had expected excitement...but safe, contained excitement. Not life-or-death excitement. Not war.

He was eighteen years old. He wanted to be a blacksmith.

His keen, black-brown eyes stared wildly around him as he tried to calm his panicky horse. Where was Astalder? He was following Astalder. And...

"Adenain! Lieutenant Adenain!" Radenan dismounted and ran up to his superior, who had been shot in the shoulder. A small pool of dark blood lay around the wound, and Adenain was pale from the blood loss. The lieutenant coughed and tried to speak, but could not. Radenan lifted him with much difficulty and laid him across his horse's back.

"Astalder," Adenain gasped. Radenan froze. "Astalder...captured. Tell the captain!"

Radenan rode harder than he had ever ridden before.

***

"Captain Anhelm! Captain Anhelm!"

Anhelm, collecting fallen papers from beneath his desk, knocked his head on the underside. Rubbing it ruefully, he glared at the boy who had rushed into his office. "What is it?"

"It's Lieutenant Adenain and Radenan," the boy cried. Anhelm stared at him. "The lieutenant was injured. Radenan says they're surrounded! It's the Haradrim!"

Anhelm rushed to the infirmary. "Adenain," he said softly, ignoring Radenan as the young man saluted. "Adenain, what happened?"

"There were too many," Adenain coughed, wincing in pain from the effort. "They surrounded us. And Astalder...Astalder was captured. Captain, you have to help them. Send backup!"

"It's sent," Anhelm said, squeezing Adenain's hand. He turned to Radenan, still stiff at attention. "Good job, soldier. Consider your tour of duty done." The boy broke into an unintentional smile and ran off.

"Activate all the soldiers we can spare," Anhelm ordered. "We're mounting up and going to the battlefield."

They were there as soon as possible, not having wasted a moment. Anhelm was done playing games with the Haradrim. It was time to end this.

[Imladris]

Jinan followed the guards who dragged the Gondorian soldier away. He was disgusted with the physical torture the soldier had withstood. Physical torture was rather easy to withstand. All you had to do was to think of something else, separating yourself from the pain that was inflicted upon you. Jinan himself had done this many times. It was a game with him and his cronies.

The soldier was dragged to a tent where the other Haradrim tied his hands and feet. and left him. Jinan remained and stared at the soldier. His face was battered, his soft eyes were hardened, blood dripped from his mouth.

Jinan paced in front of the soldier, wondering how they could get information from him. Emotional torture was much more effective, but ten times more delicate to withstand information. With a snap of his black eyes, Jinan stopped short. A scowl flickered across his face as he realized with disgust that the Haradrim lieutnant had just been inflicting pain for the sense of blood lust joy that accompanied such an action, not for the information the Gondorian might possess. With a snort of disgust, Jinan once again thought how utterly foolish their stupid lietnant was. What happens if the Gondorians had an ambush? And her was a perfectly good Gondorian soldier ripe for interrigation. Well, if no one else was going to do it, he would.

Crouching on his heels in front of the soldier, Jinan said, "I suppose you are very thirsty from the beating and the fighting and the journey." He sighed and continued, "We have some very cool water in the saddle packs." He cocked an eyebrow suggestively. "You do realize that you have very little hope of surviving. The Haradrim like to play with their victims -- the journey could be quite painful for you. Then there is the issue of food -- have you ever starved? You become hungry, and then the pain drifts away with time. You begin to feel lightheaded, your strength is sapped, and then you die." Jinan stared at the soldier. "How many men are garrisoned in the Poros settlement?"

[Nerindel]

Astalder eyes followed the steps of the young Haradrim warrior who now paced before him; there was confidence in his steps that denoted that he was no mere guard set to insure that he did not attempt to escape. Outside he could hear his enemies making ready to break camp and make their final advance, if he was going to escape he would have to do it soon, but with both his hands and feet bound that was not going to be an easily task. As the Southerner continued to pace he surveyed his surroundings looking for something that he could use to loosen his bonds.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about the large canvas tent he now found himself in; However the folding table littered with papers, drew his attention. Several large pieces of parchment rustled with the breeze blowing through the waving flap of the tent entrance, Maps… he silently mused; this must be an officer’s tent. But before he could inspect his surrounding more closely, the young Haradrim Warrior stopped his pacing and crouched before him, the warrior’s dark eyes levelling with his.

“I suppose you are very thirsty…” his new interrogator began, it was true he was thirsty be he would not give his captors the pleasure of knowing so, so his gaze remained steady and his features impassive. The man sighed and continued cocking his head suggestively to were he had earlier seen two sets of saddle packs, but he did not follow the mans gaze, choosing instead to stubbornly keep eye contact with this man.

Without so much as a flicker of irritation the southerner went on to describe his chances of survival, describing in detail how one died of starvation, but Astalder was no inexperienced ohtcar and knew that a man could go at least three days without food, and with the Poros only a days hard ride away, his usefulness to Lan’kash would have ended long before he had the chance to die that lingering death. However water he did need but now he knew were that could be found, he just had to wait for the right opportunity to arise and he hoped that it would come soon.

“How many men are Garrisoned in the Poros settlement?” The southerners question brought him from his musings and he saw that the soldier was now staring at him intently waiting for an answer. Slowly leaning in Astalder whispered his reply into the ear of his interrogator.

“I do not fear death!”

Then remaining impassive he leaned back against the main pole of the tent, reciting his name and rank, he had no intention of giving these savages any more advantage than they already had, nor the satisfaction in knowing that they greatly out numbered the Poros garrison. He held his head high and tensed his body waiting to accept the blow that he was sure would follow.

[Imladris]

Blast it . Jinan realized he had made a fool of himself and he swore under his breath. The Poros was a day away -- of course the man would not starve to death by then. He shook his head.

“I do not fear death!” the soldier whispered in Jinan's ear.

The Haradrim smiled and looked at the Gondorian. Jinan did not doubt his bravery, but he also realized the foolishness of it all. The soldier was going to die, sooner or later, a painful death. The soldier himself must realize that. But Jinan wanted information from him before that time came. "Whoever mentioned death, brave Gondorian," Jinan said.

He called for a glass of wine and stared at the soldier. When the soldier/farmer returned, Jinan took a deep sniff and swished the wine in the crude goblet. The fresh scent of the liquor wafted from the cup. Jinan took a small sip, twirled the cup in his fingers, and said, "I suppose you have family in the Poros settlement. They are going to die you know, so you might as well tell me what I want to know."

The soldier lifted his head and replied, "Then why should I tell if you are going to kill them any way?"

"Death will take them. We Haradrim would merely hasten their deaths," Jinan answered. "You will have to see your loved one's die in either case. Again I ask, how many people are garrisoned in the Poros settlement."

The sound of men breaking camp drifted through the tent and Jinan cursed. Why was the Gondorian being a mule, so strong under physical torment and the beginnings of mental torture? He drummed his fingers on his knees. He might have to finish his interrogation on the road.

[Novnarwen]

His naïvety took over. Erfâzh had to be loyal to Frôzhal, no doubt about that. There was nothing Erfâzh could possibly do to harm the other Haradrim in any way. Without Frôzhal, who had been given a platoon when they set out to destroy the Poros settlement, Erfâzh was nothing other than a soldier, who had absolutely no power in the army at all. If he, nevertheless, proved or had proven to be disloyal who would their superior believe; a simple soldier of a low rang, or Frôzhal, who happened to be in charge of a platoon? Surely, it would have to be the latter. With this conclusion, he wasn't very pleased about the fact that a certain Haradrim slowly approached him.

"Where were you, during the attack?" Erfâzh asked, curious about how Frôzhal had got the gash in his face, and why his clothing was badly ripped.

It was important, in these kinds of situations, to keep ones mask. After all, Frôzhal didn't know whether this man's intentions were good or not. Frôzhal repeated the question silently, avoiding the piercing look from the soldier. What was he supposed to say? He frowned, thinking hard, meanwhile watching Erfâzh getting more and more impatient.

"What do you think?" Frôzhal asked, taking his sword halfway up from the sheath to show the blood at the upper half of the sword and to the hilt, (which was intentionally done; to put a fright into the young man's heart). Erfâzh looked at Frôzhal with surprise, as if all doubt, whether his superior had fought in the battle or not, was gone.

"But you said that you were going to watch . . . "

Frôzhal interrupted. Grim-faced and eyes narrowing, he told Erfâzh it had been a test. By this, the other Haradrim's eyes lit up, but he didn't seem to fully understand though.

"Well . . . Did I pass?" he asked, not even knowing what this so called test was about. Both of them stood motionless for a while, Frôzhal again thinking; being afraid to say something wrong, which could be used against him later, if Erfâzh indeed was disloyal.

At last Frôzhal grinned. A feeling of satisfaction embraced him, as he understood that Erfâzh, surprisingly enough, had believed him. However, to Frôzhal's surprise, Erfâzh hadn't even bothered to ask what this test was all about. This was perhaps for the best, he thought.

"You passed . . . " There was a long pause, before Frôzhal stepped forwards, reminding himself of the Gondorian knife he had taken from a fallen soldier; and of which he had been tempted in using. He whispered in Erfâh's ear:"But only just . . ."

[Orual]

"They are disciplined and well-prepared, Captain. It will take more than a simple ambush to regain our men."

Anhelm's steely eyes were fixed on the camp that lay just before them. He heard the warning of his current second-in-command, Sarandros, but did not heed them as perhaps he might. He scanned the camp, and his gaze fell on one tent in particular. "There," he said, pointing to it with a mud-caked finger. They had ridden hard and had not stopped, and they all showed signs of wear. "That is where they are keeping Astalder."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Anhelm glanced at Sarandros. "Granted."

"There's no way you can know that."

Anhelm frowned. "I just know. I can tell."

"Sir--"

"I need a diversion," Anhelm snapped, changing the subject. "Take twenty of your men and go around that way." He gestured in the opposite direction of the tent. "I will take ten and we will get Astalder." He put a hand on the sheath of his sword. "Give me an hour."

Sarandros knew the question that Anhelm wanted him to ask. "And after an hour, sir?"

"Leave, and start the evacuation of the settlement." The young captain stroked his horse's neck. "I'm going to go down with this ship, but the civilians don't have to. One hour, Sarandros. That's all I can take. One more hour."
He rode towards the tent.

[Nerindel]

Astalder

The Haradrim soldier drummed his fingers impatiently on his knees, his face showing that he did not understand Astalder’s lack of cooperation and that his strong Gondorian discipline and self control was something the young man had never encountered before, in fact it was a rare gift that Astalder had worked at during his numerous campaigns in Rohan, against fouler things than southern men.

“While you sit here wasting your time, my captain prepares the settlement for your attack, your fires set these things in motion. You will not find the settlement unprepared!” he calmly told his interrogator keeping his eyes level.

“If I where you I would leave these lands before they can find out what you have done, Gondorian vengeance is strong and unyielding, in destroying the outposts you have already instigated a war, a war which you can not win!”

“Tsk! you know nothing Gondorian, the Poros is weak, Gondor is weak and we will break both like waves crashing over stone,” the Haradwaith answered rising to his feet.

“With this army...?” Astalder mocked, “Farmers and sheepherders from what I have seen, with no knowledge of the horrors and hardships of war!” he paused and studied the young warrior before him, “Perhaps even you do not know of what I speak.” His words got the expected reaction as the Haradrim soldier belted him hard across the face.

“You are a fool if you believe that this is all we have, we are only the…..” The warrior stopped in his angered words, regarded him with a wry grin, “Very clever, Gondorian. Just not quite clever enough!” he said realising what the Gondorian had almost tricked him into revealing.

“But you are right, some of our men are novices, untrained and undisciplined, I do not think even I will be able to stop them from taking what they want from the destroyed settlement, some may even take a fancy to tasting your women! Do they taste sweet, Gondorian?” He whispered into his ear.

That was it, the thing that broke his careful discipline, a blind rage took him, the image of his beautiful wife being ravaged by haradrim soldiers was more than he could bare. He smashed his head into the face of his interrogator, who fell back in surprise, disoriented and grasping at his bloodied nose. Astalder then threw himself towards the table where he had caught the glint of a knife, finding the knife he rubbed his bonds against the sharp blade, a small trickle of blood ran down his hand as he nicked himself on its sharpened edge.

The Haradrim soldier had regained his bearings and was on him again before he had the chance to free his legs, gripping the hilt of the wicked looking Haradwaith knife he turned to met the soldiers advance. But as he turned a new sound erupted outside, causing both men to pause. Panicked shouts and swords clashing in the distance, a horn sounded and a grin crossed Astalders face.

“It sounds like Gondors wrath has already found you!” he taunted to his interrogator.

“But you will not live to see it!” the soldier growled advancing towards him in a threatening manner.

Astalder again dived to the floor and rolled out of the way slipping the knife between his feet and cutting his bonds, he was forced to roll again as his opponent drove his sword towards his head. Getting to his feet he ran for the exit, but his opponent was quicker and barred his way. As the soldier rose his sword to strike Astalder threw out his fist smashing the haradrim hard in the stomach, the soldier doubled over winded and he lifted the knife in his hand meaning to slit the mans throat, but catching the glint the young man moved and the knife only caught him across his left cheek. His side step left the exit open and Astalder plunged through the flap leaving the young Haradrim warrior behind.

“Where’s your uniform, soldier!” a familiar voice called before him.

“Captain!” Astalder grinned taking the hand the man thrust out to him, “that is a long story,” he laughed letting Anhelm pull him onto the back of his mount.

“Well, let us get out of here and you can tell me all about it.” Anhelm replied kicking his horse.

“Wait! There is something I must first retrieve,” he called above the ringing sounds of battle, his eyes narrowing towards the battling form of Lan’kash and the sword hanging at his waist.

“No, are you mad!” Anhelm exclaimed following his gaze, “I have got what I came for we must leave!”

“Perhaps I am, but he still has something of mine and I am loathed to leave it behind, just ride hard and I will do the rest.”

Anhelm shook his head but urged his mount on faster, Astalder leaned low over the right side of the horse his eyes narrowing, as he fixed them on the hilt of his sword that hung from the Haradrim leader’s belt. “It’s all a matter of timing,” he reassured himself licking his dried bruised lips. Then as they past he threw out his hand and grasped the hilt.

The weapon was well oiled and slipped easily from its sheath, but the momentum knocked the Haradrim leader from his feet and in a moment of spontaneity he mockingly saluted the fallen leader. Then Anhelm gave the order to retreat.

[Orual]

"You don't know how glad I am to see you," Anhelm said to Astalder with fervor in his voice. "Things have gone south so badly we're going to be hitting the sea soon. Adenain was injured. He's back at the settlement, getting patched up. He's out of commission entirely."

"How many of the men were injured?" Astalder asked, concern permeating his words. Though it was clear that he had not been treated kindly by the Haradrim, his first thoughts went to his men. Anhelm felt pride swell in his heart. This was the kind of man that Gondor turned out; this was the kind of man who he would be fighting alongside. For now, a fight was imminent; there was no more 'if', only 'when'.

"We'll find that out once we get to the settlement. But from what I can see..." He twisted around on his horse and looked back at his men following him. "Far too many. I don't think we lost too many, though, but it will be a bitter fight at the settlement."

"A bitter fight?" Astalder echoed dubiously. Anhelm nodded.

"The Haradrim aren't going to give up without one," he said confidently. "But I'm not concerned; we'll manage."

"We're sorely outnumbered and from what I saw, they're not lacking in weapons," Astalder insisted.

Anhelm glanced at him with a look of injured pride. "I know what I'm doing, Astalder. I can handle this. The men that were sent to me are the best--you included. We can take whatever the Haradrim throw at us."

He looked before him, towards the settlement, and nodded. "Whatever they throw at us."

[Imladris]

Jinan clambered to his feet, wheezing for breath. The Gondorian had escaped. Escaped. Under his watch no less. He had let the Gondorian escaped, but who could have expected so much fiery spirit in his broken frame?

Jinan snorted and stormed out of the tent. The Haradrim soldiers (the sheepherders as the Gondorian had aptly named them) were still fumbling for their arms and shooting arrows at the lingering cloud of dust. "Stop wasting your arrows, men!" he shouted. "The dust is not a living creature that will swallow you alive. Because of your incompetence, they have gotten away. I hope that you are pleased with yourselves," he snapped.

In the distance, the lieutnant, his horse rearing upon its hind legs called, "Rally your men! We march straightway to the Poros settlement!"

A thing that should have been done long ago. Jinan thought as he marshalled his farmers. It was not good to let an enemy know of your presence, nor was it good to let your numbers known to them.

[Novnarwen]

The rumour of the Gondorian Soldier's escape spread like an autumn wind. Soon, the soldiers were arguing about whose fault it was, and the bickering carried on to endless discussions. Few dared to withdraw from the aggressive conversations, as there weren't many who claimed their complete innocence. According to some (probably those who felt the most guilty for the inconvenient escape), the responsibility for a prisoner taken by the army, was everyone's responsibility. However, as Jinan ordered them to be silent and that the Poros Settlement could no longer wait, quite a few turned their attention to the future attack. Only a few minutes later though, the young Haradrim soldier heard that the jabbering and the foul words hadn't stopped, nevertheless. Frôzhal, on the other hand, found himself wandering about, with a grin on his face, playing completely ignorant about the incident. No one questioned his merry spirit.

The soldier was actually relieved. Everything seemed to suddenly go so smoothly. The prisoner had escaped and Erfâzh hadn't made contact with Jinan again, or at least not from what Frôzhal had seen.

When realising that his mood could cause suspicion, he tried to suppress his true feelings; he did in fact not approve of the way the prisoner had been treated, while being a captive. This new sense of moral struck him by surprise. Although, he tried reproaching himself for liking how things had developed, he couldn't shake off the feeling of being good; because these thoughts brought no evil with them. He wanted to feel this way more often, but it was stupid. It was actually impossible in the environment of which he lived in.

If not being good by the appearance of his actions, no one could hinder him to think this way. This was indeed the fabulous thing about thoughts.

Frôzhal's superior ordered their departure. It was time to go, time to destroy a settlement and take innocent lives.

[Orual]

As soon as Anhelm arrived at the settlement and had Astalder's wounds seen to, he wasted no time in preparing the settlement for an attack.

The entirety of the settlement's military staff was activated, and some capable young men who were not actually in the military. Anhelm suspected that one or two of the "lads" was actually a lass, but he did not say anything. They needed all the hands they could get.

In the small makeshift armory, Anhelm was getting suited up. As he pulled on his leather gauntlets he listened with half an ear to some older office worker talk at him about the numbers of swords and bows and arrows that the Poros defense had at its disposal. The numbers did not sound good, but the young captain was fairly sure that they could cope.

"Tell Astalder that as soon as he feels up to it, I would like to speak with him," Anhelm said, interrupting the man. The man stammered for a moment, then nodded and darted off.

Anhelm closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. "Let me fight well," he said softly. "Let me avenge my father. Let me defend my people.

"And give me the courage to die if need be."

[Manôphazân]

Lan’Kâsh allowed his anger to swell up inside him like a towering wave of fury until it crashed against his silent, iron will and washed away like the ocean tide. In seconds he went from a red-hot anger to an icy cold resolve. Against orders, he would destroy the Gondorians immediately, disregarding his intended purpose of drawing a larger force of Wingers to the valley. Much of the Army of Harnen lurked just over the horizon, expecting the northerners to expose themselves in force at the Poros, but Lan’kâsh could delay no longer. His honor demanded action.

Gathering his own soldiers about him, he moved quickly to the tent where the Gondorian had been kept. Looking down from his horse, he saw Jinan gathering his men into a semblance of order. The rescuers of the northern officer had chosen to attack at the exact position where these untrained farmers had stood guard, and their ranks had been sorely reduced. Less than 30 men were able to still fight, and Jinan looked shaken, his nose bleeding profusely as he shouted orders.

As usual, Frôzhal was nowhere to be seen and most likely lurking in the trees. The lieutenant made a mental note to himself to kick the cowardly boy in the face the next time he saw him. Fortunately, there was a competent man leading his group, so Lan’kâsh could concentrate on the upcoming battle and forget about the disappearing corporal.

He shouted for everyone to form on Jinan’s group, which he ordered into skirmish formation. The soldier was an angry and arrogant young man, to the point of insubordination, but he followed orders, even when did not agree with them. With luck, he would outlive his naivete and look back one day to realize that corporals are seldom told the whole story, and their opinions are irrelevant.

“Forward, march” he shouted, spurring his horse forward and falling into place beside Gimilzôr. They rode for a while in silence by the great hulking catapults being pulled by teams of draft horses.

“These machines slow us down,” Gimilzôr complained. He scratched at an ugly wound just above his left ear.

Lan’kâsh agreed, “Yes, but the settlement is not far now. We outnumber the enemy and will overpower them easily with these contraptions.” He did not care much for the great, clumsy weapons, but he did understand their usefulness. “By tomorrow we will tearing down the walls of Poros with these machines. There will be no more heroic actions from the Gondorians. At least none that will succeed.”

“Do you think they will fight?”

“I do. They have seen the force we have and will seek to evacuate their families, but they know they cannot escape us, so their soldiers will fight.” He took a long drink from his water bottle. “I hope to see the officer again. He will fight.”

[Nerindel]

Once back at the settlement Captain Anhelm had seen him to the small dimly lit room of the healers, where they now fussed about applying cold compresses and strange smelling ointments to his bruised and battered face and ribs, ignoring his insistent reassurances that he was fine and that he had to get back to where he would be needed most. Another healer pressed a cup to his lips and urged him to drink; hoping that if he complied they would finally let him go he drank. The sweet tasting liquid ran warm down his throat warming his entire body.

“Can I go now!” he asked handing the cup back to the healer, The dowdy older man frowned disapprovingly, shaking his head, “That rib may be more than just bruised; you should at least rest a while.”

Before he was even finished Astalder was shaking his head, “The Captain will need every able body he can muster, I am a little bruised, not dying!” he insisted, impatience lacing his words.

“Stubborn!” the healer snorted shaking his head, “Soldiers! always eager too rush to meet deaths call” he muttered shaking his head and wandering over to a low set shelf. , Where he removed a small dark bottle.

“Here, if you insist on this madness then at least take this,” he said placing the bottle into his hands.

“What is it?” Astalder asked holding the bottle to the light and examining it’s curiously.

“It is nothing much, just a healing draught, but you may well need it.” Astalder nodded his thanks and slipped the bottle into his pouch.

“Now get you gone before I change my mind!” the healer sighed deliberately turning away to tend another of his wounded. Astalder grinned and quickly made his way out of the room. As he reached the stairs that lead to the Armoury he heard a familiar voice, cracked and filled with worry and concern.

“Astalder… Please, I’m looking for my Husband I was told he was brought here, Astalder!”

“Feawyn” he called to her, she turned in his direction and he could see that dark lines that traced her delicate eyes and tears that rolled down her relieved face, she smiled and ran towards him. He winced as she wrapped her arms about him and resting her head on his chest. “I feared you where lost,” she sobbed silently.

“I promised I would return,” he whispered stroking her golden hair; she looked up at him and managed a weak smile.

“Captain Anhelm has ordered the evacuation! But you will not be coming with us, will you?” she sighed, her eyes glistening with fresh tears.

He pulled her closer as he regretfully shook his head, “I must remain, I have seen our enemy, their numbers are great and they are not far enough behind for all of us to retreat to the safety of Pelargir. We must stand and hold the fort long enough for you and the other get to safety. He whispered.

“What good is that safety if we do not have you there to share it with us!” she cried, her pleading eyes touching his heart that he thought it would break.

“I am always with you, my love. No matter where I am, my every thought is of you and little Falmir, But I must stay.” he smiled sympathetically, brushing away her tears. Slowly she nodded her head, she knew that everything he did in his life was done to protect them and his people, Gondor was in his blood and nothing she could do or say would ever change that, he was the last lord of the fallen city of Minas Ithil and even if he denied his heritage he could not escape it, it was carved into his very being.

“You do what you have too.” She smiled weakly, forcing her tears back and pulling slowly out of his comforting embrace, “just know that I will always love you” she whispered as she turned and hurried down the passage.

“And I you” he whispered staring after her.

“Astalder?” another voice questioned. With a start he turned to face his addressor, “Yes, I am he.” he answered seeing one of Anhelm’s officials.

“Captain Anhelm wishes to speak with you, once you feel up to it,” the man flustered.

“Well I am up to it, just let me get suited up and I will speak with him,” he answered.

“Good, good, The captain is already in the Armoury” the older man said gesturing for him to follow.

Nodding his consent he followed the official through the dimly lit passages to the makeshift armoury. As informed the Captain was already there, tall and strong the very image of a Captain of Gondor, his helmed head held high as he studied his sword and contemplated the approaching battle. Astalder felt proud to he witness to the young mans loyal determinations and any doubts he had about the captains abilities now faded from memory, in the young Captains eyes he could see the same zeal for crown and country that drove him to stand and fight. Unsheathing his sword and raising it to his brow he bowed respectfully.

“I stand ready to serve and protect,” he said re-sheathing his sword. As he approached his captain a young man appeared with his things, Astalder nodded his thanks and taking the heavy bundle, gestured for the lad to leave that he would attend himself. As Anhelm spoke, he pulled on a chain mail tunic over which he slipped on the black and silver livery of his station, a Roquen of Gondor, noticing with a slight smile the embroidery to the shoulder, the mark of his house, a crescent moon raising over a white tower.

“Feawyn” he whispered touching the fine stitches, for only she in the settlement would know his true heritage. With a shake of his head he fastened on his vambraces and re-belted his sword about his waist, holding his helm under his arm.

“I’m yours to command!” he said once he was ready.

[Orual]

Anhelm smiled as Astalder came up and saluted. "At ease," he said. Astalder relaxed. "It might be the last time you're at ease for a while. The Haradrim are coming, and they're coming fast. I want every man and boy who can fight to fight." He looked Astalder over. "What I don't want is for men who are incapable of fighting to push themselves beyond their limits. You have done an admirable job, Astalder. You don't have to do this if you are still injured. Your honor is secure."

"With all due respect, sir, my honor is my own concern," Astalder said, his voice polite but his eyes firm. "I'll fight alongside you as long as I can stand."

"Stand to fight?"

"Stand on my legs."

Anhelm smiled, his throat tight. This was brotherhood. This was a soldier. He clapped Astalder on the shoulder. "You are the best I have, Astalder. Thank you. I look forward to fighting next to you."

"Look forward--?" Astalder began, but Anhelm was already onto the next thing.

"All men to defense stations. Get the women and children out of here as soon as you can. But once the settlement is secure again, once we've taught the Haradrim that Gondorians don't give up as easily as they think that we do, everyone will come back. If the battle looks like it will take longer than expected, raise the red flag to say that the evacuation is to continue. Take them as far as it takes to keep them safe. The Haradrim, though they harm us, will not harm our women and children."

As he strode around the settlement, a golden feeling of pride rose in him. This was his settlement. His city. It was beautiful and he would defend it. The golden glow was only overshadowed by one feeling: the lust for battle. This would be a glorious war.

[Imladris]

Jinan fingered his dagger and smirked. The Poros was not far away, the Gondorians knew they were coming, and he was sure they would put up a fight, thus shedding more blood than was necessary on the Harad side. Jinan sighed. Why could they not just surrender? Because they probably knew that they would slaughter them without mercy. Jinan smiled his toothless smile. Yes...they knew that they would die either way. But was it not much more pleasant to just die quietly and swiftly, without the despair that you are fighting a useless battle and that their dead bodies would not dam the strength of Harad?

He shook his head. This honour was a foolish honour. It did not serve a purpose, it did not forward their cause, it would not save them. Well...no matter what they did nothing could save them. The toothless smile hovered about his face.

"Halt!" The troops slowed and Jinan saw that they had neared the Poros Settlement.

[Novnarwen]

"Halt!"

They halted.

Frôzhal let his gaze wander around and about. They were armed and ready. A feeling of distaste about the whole battle made Frôzhal's stomach turn. He couldn't care less about this settlement. He knew that there was a great possibility that he would never survive this attack, even though he was a great warrior. He shook his head, changing his mind; of course he would survive, and the whole Gondorian army would probably be wiped out. They would die like flies. The Haradrim tried to think positively, as a bunch with dead flies frightened him. Did he want this? It didn't matter. It would come anyway. The battle would take place, no matter what. This didn't depend on him. He was nothing but a solider with a platoon. It was indeed useless to think like this, as he couldn't control anything. The sooner they were wiped out, the better, he thought reluctantly.

He felt the sun in his neck, making him as uncomfortable as possible. Frôzhal hated the sun, and especially now. Letting the sun go to the soldier’s nerves just before a battle was not wise. However, he didn't seem to notice anyone else feeling this way.

The Poros settlement too, was bathed in the sun. It was not a very big settlement, or so Frôzhal thought. It would be difficult, nevertheless, to bring it down. The walls, just in front of them, were stout, strong and quite tall. Clearly the catapults would be a useful tool in this battle. After they had used their catapults and the wall had fallen, it would be possible to really attack the settlement itself. He wondered what was behind the walls; how many men were there? How did it look like? And how it would look like after they had put it to ruin. It was difficult to imagine this, but all the same easy.

When the battle broke out, the settlement would be filled with men fighting for their lives. He imagined the sound of steal against steal, the archers letting it rain arrows and spearmen running into each other piercing the other's flesh. Battle cries of pain and despair and orders would be heard, but no one really listened. To you it would be fainter than an echo, even though you were so near.

After the battle, when the Haradrim had won, The Poros Settlement would probably burnt to the ground. And then rain would come, and turn out the fire and the Settlement would be lost and maybe forgotten.

[Nerindel]

The sun burned a reddish, orangey glow across the evening sky. Standards of Gondor and the Poros fluttered in the cooling easterly breeze. The Poros was still, poised and ready, the anticipating silence was deafening. All had been set in order and now there was nothing left but to watch and wait. Archers like marble columns; Tall and erect, lined the main forward wall, Their golden helms glistening in the fading light, Long bows in hand and arrows comfortably within reach. Several men now walked the walls silently lighting the torches and Astalder watched them all trying to engrave every brave and determined face into his memory. He knew that the wall would eventually fall to the Haradrim’s monstrous machines and that many of the men he now watched would fall with it, they were good men, but their keen sharp eyes were needed to delay the enemies advance and lessen their numbers before they finally breeched the wall, but even knowing this didn’t make it any easier to swallow, his throat tightened as he thought of the sacrifice these men would make for their home.

His gaze then turned to the main gate below them, it was closed tight and heavy wooden struts reinforced it, strengthening it against possible attack. Here also were the Roquen, they would meet any breech of the main gate, Dispatching as many of their enemies as they could. Their number was small, less than a third of the size of a full contingent. Thirty he reckoned at a glance and at their head he could just make out the tall proud figure of Khalad and Josef, The former having been promoted to first lieutenant of the Poros Roquen and the latter his second. It was odd looking down on his fellow knights, he should be down there with them sat upon his horse, ready to die with them as one of them, but the Captain had insisted that he would be needed as his second, reluctantly he had accepted and hoped, no prayed that there would be no need for him to take command. He could willingly march into battle risking his own life, but to ask, no order others to do so; he wasn’t sure he had the stomach for it.

His gaze then shifted to the Poros’ main body of Defence, a hundred or so men, all armed with swords and spears. Among them he could make out a few familiar faces, His friend Talfas the large innkeeper of ‘The Poros Crossing,’ the blacksmith, the baker and even a few of his wife’s stable hands, lads no older that boys. He could easily distinguish between the villagers dressed as soldiers and the Poros guard, the Guard stood tall and proud ready to die in their defence; they knew what they were about to face and what was expected of them. But the settlers did not and it showed in their faces, fear and apprehension. They where right to fear for he had see what was coming and even he could not deny the desperation of their situation. But soldier were taught to hide their fear and Astalder buried his deep and would not allow it to enter his mind.

He looked back across the settlement, in the direction of the rear gate were the women and children would make their escape, his wife and son among them. He did not know if he would ever see them again in this life, but he took some comfort in knowing that they at least would escape what ever fate was to befall the Poros.

“Are you ready?” Anhelm asked, his steady eyes still watching the horizon. Astalder turned from his thoughts and regarded his captain. Anhelm stood tall and proud, his sword in his right hand and his left balled and settled behind his back. He stood defiantly his grey eyes burning with unwavering determination and in that moment he felt proud and gained a new respect and love for his captain, Anhelm would remain defiant to the last and so would he.

“I am!” he replied confidently, drawing his own sword, the towers of the moon, engraved on each side glowing eerily in the torch light.

A horn sounded as the last rays of the setting sun caught the silvery gleam of helm and spear as the Haradrim army crested the horizon. Several men shifted uneasily as the ground shook and the two Catapults rumbled into view.

“Steady!” Captain Anhelm ordered, confidence bolstering his command.

“Archers ready!” he cried and every archer fluidly knocked arrows, pulling the string taunt and ready, their sharp eyes watching keenly the advancing lines of their enemies, waiting for their Captain to give the order to fire.

Astalder’s grip tightened on his sword, their was little for him to do until the wall was breeched, so he thought through his training and the many battled he had fought and won, letting the lust for battle grow within him, so that when the time came he could use it’s strength to crush his enemies.

[Orual]

Anhelm watched as the archers pulled their bows taut, his grey eyes scanning the ranks with pride. "Ready...ready..."

He watched as a young soldier stood straight, the muscles in his arms tensing and sweat trickling down his face. Anhelm followed his eyeline to the advancing ranks of the Haradrim. They moved in like locusts...

"...But they'll move out in caskets," Anhelm murmured, a fire in his eyes. Astalder looked concerned, but Anhelm paid him no mind. This was his moment for glory.

"They will break like the ocean on the walls of the settlement!" he cried. "They will break the walls, expect that now. We did not have the time to prepare our settlement for this! Not our buildings. But we are prepared! Every footsoldier, every archer, every cavelryman here is ready for this battle. We were born to fight in this war!"

"Captain..." Astalder said quietly, but again Anhelm ignored him.

"We were born to fight this!" Anhelm repeated. "They will break like waves upon us, and then we shall--"

"Captain!" Anhelm turned irritably to Astalder, but his anger faded when he saw how close now the Haradrim were.

"Archers, ready! Ready!...Fire!"

The battle had begun in earnest.

[Imladris]

With the dull echo of his men behind him, Jinan marched toward the fortress. The foolish Gondorians would put up a useless, bloody fight that would end up killing more of their own men than the Haradrim, the fortress would fall, and then the slaughtering would begin. Jinan's face stretched into a toothless smile.

He hoped that the remaining Gondorians would put up a good fight at the end, just so that he would not feel as if he was merely killing an annoying insect. That's what men became when they did not fight at the end. A withering, shuddering insect that fouled the ground. He would much rather kill a brave man.

Why did they not just flee? Was their pride worth their blood? Would Jinan if he was in their place? He smiled. He would not be in their place -- that was impossible -- but if he was, would he run, turn tail and flee so that he could fight another day only to die another day? Yes, he would. The later one died, the more one could accomplish. The Gondorians were throwing their lives away.

The arrows fell upon them, and he raised his shield. The fight, the blood bath, had begun.

[Manôphazân]

Jinan’s company began to draw the fire of the Gondorian archers. He had his men them to within range of only the strongest bowmen, and relatively few arrows met their mark. Only one man was actually injured, an arrow piercing his left shoulder and protruding from his back. His comrades dragged him quickly back to the waiting surgeons. Lan’kâsh allowed the skirmishers to remained exposed in the clearing until it became apparent that the Wingers intended to stay behind their walls. He signaled for Jinan to retreat and shouted for the catapults to be brought into range.

Only two of the machines had survived the quick march through the forest, but he thought they would be sufficient for the night's task. The settlement was smaller than reports had claimed, and he would only need to bring down one wall to make it vulnerable to his warriors. The catapults were lethal at a distance three times what any archer could shoot, so they were safe from harm, but he still ordered Frôzhal’s company into a screening formation in front of them in the unlikely case that the Gondorians did attempt a counterattack. Gimilzôr’s group split into two lines, one to the left of the catapults and one to the right. Everything was ready.

The catapult crews eagerly winched their buckets into place and men loaded them each with a huge ball of woven straw that had been soaked in tar. A torch was laid against each and they quickly began to burn. When the flames began to lick the edge of the bucket, the trigger was pulled, and the fiery objects were thrown high into the air. They traced a bright arc through the sky and plummeted into the settlement like a falling star. After two more rounds of burning shot, flames could be seen flickering above the wall in several places. Poros Crossing was on fire and the shout of its frantic defenders could be heard as they fought the growing inferno.

The crews made several adjustments to their machines and winched them into place again, this time loading the bucket with large boulders pried from the local countryside. The thick twisted ropes howled as their released tension sent the projectiles flying skyward, but the men groaned when the stones landed several meters short of the wooden palisades. More adjustments were made, and the boulders soared over the walls and fell into the settlement with a crashing noise.

“That’s better!” shouted Lan’kâsh with an ugly grin. “Now put a few into the walls so the rest of is can get into the fight.”

[Orual]

The wall rocked as the boulders from the Haradrim catapults slammed into the outer barriers. Anhelm stumbled and fell back hard onto his elbows, scraping both of them badly. He watched as blood pooled on his arms, and then grabbed an arrow from his quiver and pulled his bowstring tight.

Anhelm's eyes scanned the gates quickly, and just as he looked away something caught the corner of his eye. It was a Haradrim footsoldier, sneaking through the gates in the confusion while the boulders crashed against the walls. Anhelm turned and loosed the arrow, catching the Haradrim in the chest. He cried out and fell to the ground.

Anhelm smiled grimly and took another arrow from his quiver.

"Astalder!" he shouted. The soldier looked at him. The captain gestured over the walls toward the attacking Haradrim forces. "Aim for the soldiers manning the catapults!"

[Imladris]

Stupid lietunant ordering the retreat... Jinan fumed. If they were going to attack, why not attack in style? These men could beat them if they all hurled themselves across the walls. He saw the men readying the catapults for firing, and then he understood why the lieutnant had pulled him back. They would batter down the walls and then they would pour in like a water from a broken dam. But why hadn't the leutnant ordered it in the first place? Jinan shrugged. And impossible question to be answered since he was not around to be asked.

Knowing the Gondorians, they would not let them hurl fire balls into their walls. They would try to stop them by shooting the men that operated them. Even as the the thought flitted through his mind, arrows plummeted from the sky, burying themselves into the joints of men's armor our glancing with a slight ping off the heavy chain mail. "Raise your shields!" Jinan shouted. The farmer oafs did not even know what to bloody do. He rolled his eyes. Incompetence.

Speaking of incompetence, where was that puppy Frôzhal. Cowering under a bundle of blankets, no doubt.

[Nerindel]

“The catapults!” Astalder cried, turning from his captain’s unspoken command. Fluidly the archers changed their target and rained a barrage of arrows upon the soldiers manning the monstrous war machines. The Haradrim warriors fell but where quickly replaced with others. Astalder realised that they would soon run out of arrows if their enemies continued to replace their fallen, which of course was providing the wall on which they stood did not give way first. He thought quickly, looking behind him as another flaming ball sailed over head and crashed into the stables of the Poros Crossing Inn. The settlement was a blaze; below he could see men frantically trying to put out the flames. The Main gate too was breached; the Roquen and a vast majority of the Poros Guards struggled to fight back the advancing flood of Haradrim warriors. The urge to leap down from the wall to help them was overwhelming, but his concern for now was the machines that hammered at their defences. Heat and smoke stung his eyes, and then it came to him, “Fight fire with fire!”

“Oil… I need oil!” he cried spinning round to face one of the Archers next to him.

The tall fair haired man crouched down behind the wall and looked at him, and then reaching for his belt he pulled away a dark coloured flash and thrust it into his hands, there was no time for explanations as the wall again violently shook under the Haradrims attack. Quickly he ripped the sleeves from his shirt and tore them into strips, Dousing them with the oil he then wrapping them about the tips of his arrows. Rising to his feet he knocked one of the oil soaked arrows, passing it briefly over the flickering flames of the torch that was mounted to his left. He pulled arrow and bow string back to his ear, narrowing his eyes and adjusting his stance to find his mark, then released. The fletching brushed his cheek as the arrow left his bow; he held his breath in anticipation as he watched it sail through the air to find its mark. The arrow as hoped imbedded itself in the arm of the nearest machine and flames began to lick up the wooden structure. He let his breath go in a resounding whoop of victory, then knocking another and another he continued to rain fire on the Haradrims machines. The other archers seeing his success followed his lead and soon the first Catapult was completely ablaze. A loud cheer rose from the archers as the structure finally gave way and crashed to the ground, but their victory was short lived, so intent were they in destroying the machine nearest them they had failed to see their enemy repositioning the second until it was to late!

“In coming!” someone cried and before any of them had a chance to react a volley of rocks and boulders hit the top of the wall on which they were standing, Throwing them back in a shower of dust and rock. Astalder landed with a sharp thud that temporarily knocked the wind from him, he struggled to his feet then gaped, the wall on which he had just been standing was now no more than a pile of rubble it was a miracle that any of them had survived and as the walked forward he saw that very few of them had. The bodies of archers who had just been celebrating a victory over their foes now lay half buried in the wall they fought to defend. Guilt washed over him, but he hardened his resolve.

“Their deaths will not be for not!” he muttered through clenched teeth. Then drawing his sword he gathered as many men as he could to him and charged over the wall.

“For the honour and glory of Gondor!” He cried as he charged headlong into the first wave of Haradrim warriors. His eyes glittered with fire and determination, his new home was ablaze and it’s defences in ruins, but he would fight, he would give the women and children the time they needed to escape. Even if it meant giving up his own life, if that was Eru’s will then so be it, he would die with honour.

His movements were quick, precise and his thoughts focused, the first few attackers, inexperienced in the art of battle fell to his sword like defenceless children, but all too soon he met the challenge of more experience warriors and then real battle began.

[Novnarwen]

He awoke. Or so he thought. He felt like he had dozed off for a couple of minutes, or hours even. Shaking his head, gazing around, he found himself in the middle of a battlefield. How had he got here? Frowning, he realised that this was the attack the Haradrim Army had waited for, for a long time. This was the Poros Settlement, which the Haradrim soldiers were ordered to destroy.

Looking confused and being rather pale, he got a glimpse of Jinan. His fellow companion had thrown himself into the battle, fighting alongside with the other soldiers of the army. Frôzhal, on the other hand, stood motionless amongst a group of men who hesitated to attack. Some looked questioningly at Frôzhal, and he realised why. It was the members of his platoon. They stood waiting for him to dart forwards and into the masses of Gondorian soldiers. But how would someone in their right mind do that. The swords, the sound of metal, made him shiver. Although he was an experienced soldier, and not too bad when it came to handling a sword, all of this frightened him; so much blood, pain and despair. So many lives.

There was a loud crack. A canon had been fired, and the smoke lay thick ahead. Screams of horror rang in his ears. "This is madness," he muttered dryly to himself. Desperately, he looked around once more. He would have to get out of this, but how he would be able to get away; he did not know. Seeing that his men were getting inpatient, (some had already charged forwards by now), he drew his sword valiantly and sprang forwards himself. Shaking with fear, his mouth going dry, he thrust his sword into the first Gondorian he met.

"For the honour and glory of Gondor!” he heard someone cry.

Where was the glory in this? he thought to himself drawing his sword out of the Gondorian. It was a young man, a lad by the look of him. His face was filled with pain, and the sweat was trickling down his forehead. Being cold, knowing that his time had come, he sighed and muttered: "For Gondor."

The platoon followed closely behind, but was scattered as by the wind.

Fiercely taking another Gondorian by the first thrust, he continued to dart forwards facing more of the opponents. With gritted teeth he put all his effort into the first hit, but this time the opponent was stronger and probably more experienced. Blocking Frôzhal's hit, he took a step forwards and made the Haradrim step back. Advancing from side to side, the two of them stared into each other's eyes as both of them tried to thrust their swords into each other. The Gondoiran he was facing was much skinnier, and smaller than himself. However, Frôzhal knew that the minute he thought and was convinced that his size was an advantage; he would be dead before he could say the word 'Haradrim'. Once more there was a loud crack, another canon had been fired. The Gondorian was distracted for a second, and it was then Frôzhal seized his chance. Being fully aware of the fact that he was now able to kill his opponent with a hurried hit, he turned and darted away.

[Orual]

The catapults were coming down. Anhelm's lips parted in a savage smile; his breathing was ragged, and he gripped his sword tightly in his hand. "For the glory of Gondor!" he cried as he felled another Haradrim soldier.

The stench of battle was thick inside the walls of the Poros settlement. It smelled of sweat and blood and fear and excitement. The heat plastered Anhelm's fair hair to his face, and blood glued his sleeves to his arms. None of the cuts were deep enough to stop him. There was no cut deep enough to stop him.

"Away from the walls!" Anhelm snapped out of his daydreams when he heard the panic-stricken cry. "Away from the walls! The walls are about to--"

The sentance was left unfinished, but the point was driven brutally home. Before the last word, one catapult let loose a boulder that crashed right into the walls, bringing them down. Men fell from the barrier that Anhelm thought would hold, to their deaths. The Gondorian troops retreated into the settlement while the Haradrim poured in.

Anhelm gasped in utter shock. How could this happen? The walls should have held. What had gone wrong? He had enough sense left to cut down a Haradrim before the enemy was about to stab one of his soldiers, but he was still dazed. Sweat now stung his eyes, and his wounds throbbed. The reality of the battle was now upon him. They were all going to die.

"Astalder!" he cried, a note of desperation in his voice making it sound like a wail. "Astalder! The women and children!"

"The last are being evacuated, sir!" Astalder said, gripping Anhelm by the shoulders before the young captain could fall. "Stay together, Captain. We need you."

"The walls..." Anhelm said, letting the words fall from between his barely-parted lips. "They..."

"They fell. You have to stay together. We may not be able to turn this into a victory, but we can keep innocent people from dying. Tell the troops to fall back, sir. Order an evacuation!"

"Not yet!" Anhelm cried, stepping back from Astalder and swinging his sword wildly. "Not yet! We have more in us than this, Astalder. We are Gondor!"

He turned back to the battle. "For Gondor!" he screamed, and his cry was echoed over the battlefield. For Gondor!

Behind him he heard Astalder whisper, "For Gondor." He turned back to his second, and smiled.

"For Gondor!"

[Manôphazân]

As if by an invisible hand, the smoke parted in front of Lan’kâsh, revealing the tall wall of the fortress just as it toppled inward. A great plume of dust and flame climbed into the burning sky, and men screamed in fear and agony. The dark colors of Harad swarmed forward again, but they did not yet cross the perimeter of rubble and corpses. For as they charged, several blood-smeared, armored Gondorians rose from the ashes to meet their advance. The two forces shouted in fury as they met in a ferocious metallic clamor.

Lan’kâsh walked slowly forward, searching in the melee for a specific target. He had no doubt that the escaped officer would be among the last defenders of Poros. His spear swung left and right, creating a line of focus for its owner to sight his prey. Back and forth it went as the lieutenant approached the skirmish, until it finally stopped, pointing to the far left of the Haradrim line. There he was, slashing away at the pitchfork wielding Harnen farmer. The man’s dark sword stabbed out, and the unlucky conscript crumpled to the ground. Three others quickly replaced him, and the Winger was forced to step back.

“Oh no!” bellowed Lan’kâsh as he began to run. The officer was his to kill, and there was no way he would be allowed to fall to anyone else. He pushed his way among his troops and met the eyes of his opponent, but he did not stop. Without even a polite nod of acknowledgement, he sprang forward, driving the tip of his spear in a violent lunge at the Gondorian’s stomach.

“Go kill the rest,” he shouted to his men behind him. “This poor fool is mine!”

[Nerindel]

Sweat and blood clung to Astalder’s hands and face as he battled on plunging his sword deep into the stomach of another pitchfork wielding soldier, but even as he pulled his blade from the dying farmer, he was replaced by three others, forcing him to step back as they advanced trying to encircle him. These were no newly trained conscripts but seasoned warriors; he was forced to take another two steps back as he furiously defended against their timed attacks. His mind raced trying to find a weakness in their unified attack that he could use to gain an advantage, but suddenly their ranks broke and Astalder’s eyes met that of the Haradrim leader, Lan’kash but the officer did not stop he was coming right for him, spear thrusting for his midriff. Quickly he twisted his body to avoid the full force of the attack; the metal tip ripped though his tunic and glanced off the metal rings of his armour. As he twisted to avoid the blow he swung his sword above his head and brought it down heavily on the wooden shaft of Lan’kash’s spear, snapping it clean in two.

Astalder raised his head, the blue grey of his eyes meeting Lan’kash’s dark ones with a mocking grin, already the officer had discarded the broken shaft and was bringing his sword to bear, He met steel with steel and the two weapons clashed violently. Each man pushing forward trying to unbalance the other, there was silence between the two officers their eyes locked, each taking the measure of the other as they turned in intricate circles, looking for a suitable opening? The sounds of the battle around them dimmed to a dull murmur as all focus was given over to the battle at hand.

The seasoned Haradrim warrior took the offensive first, right, left, forwards, coming fast with the fury of a winter storm, Astalder worked his sword hard in a flood of defensive parries, gradually turning them and shifting his body into a more offensive posture, forcing the Haradrim warrior back.

“Well done,” Lan’kash congratulated mockingly, as he stepped back over the legs of a fallen comrade. Astalder said nothing but returned the jibe with a grin and a slight incline of his head. furiously he working his blade, left, right, left again lunge, the blade rushing for Lan’kash’s head, the Haradrim warrior picked it off with an up raised blade as expected. He turned his sword under the others blade feigning a disarming moves, but with his left hand he thrust forwards with his dagger.

Lan’kash caught the glint of the second blade just in time, accepting the cunning turn of the Gondorians blade, he turned right, driving his sword forward, pushing the winger’s sword across and forcing him to shift and alter the daggers thrust.

“Good but not good enough,” The Haradrim warrior scornfully laughed as he was once more forced the Gondorian to take up a more defensive posture.

Astalder gritted his teeth in restrained anger and pressed forwards. Their weapons rang against each other repeatedly, a blur of motion, an invariable sound. Right, left, parry, feign right, lunge, Astalder scored a hard stab against Lan’kash’s right side as he move to block the right feign. For an instant the Haradrim warriors eyes went wide with surprise, but he recovered quickly, pulling back and slashing out to his right, knocking Astalder blade wide and coming round again to score across the Gondorians midriff, But recovering quickly Astalder jumped back his opponents blade catching only his hip as he twisted to deflect the blow he kicked out clipping Lan’kash’s right knee, The warrior grunted in pain as he stumbled back a few steps.

“One for one,” Astalder grinned menacingly, his breathing heavy and ragged, his dark hair soaked to his face, he could feel the warm seep of blood leaking from his side, but took satisfaction in knowing that his opponent would be experiencing the same feeling. He rushed forwards and again their weapons clashed, matching blow for blow as they continued to vie for dominance over the other.

“Why do you bother to still fight winger?” Lan’kash hissed. “The battle is already lost. Look! The settlement is ablaze and it’s people dead or dying,” he taunted forcing Astalder to move round so he could see the devastation for himself. Flames licked at the walls from within and the cries of the dying reaches his ears, his eyes welled and stung as he realised his enemy spoke the truth, but he forced back the despair knowing with pride that this would be a short lived victory for the Haradrim, the Steward would send his armies to crush this insolent rabble and put the Haradrim firmly back in their place and he would be there with them when they did. He continued to press the Haradrim lieutenant, his sword working furiously as he remembered the cold way in which the officer had taken his young co-conspirators life, denying the young man the honourable death he deserved.

“We fight for honour, something the Haradrim clearly have no concept of. You may have gained a victory this day but you have won nothing, the might of the Gondorian army will send you fleeing back to the desert to hide under what ever rock you crawled out from!” Astalder spat back venomously.


“Pah! Honour, pride what use are they if you are dead, winger?” Lan’kash retorted with a snort of disgust, “Your people hide behind walls of stone hoping for the return of a king that will never come, how long will the stewards of your city be able to hold, what allies do they have? No winger they will fall, already they have lost one city,” the Haradrim lieutenant grinned cruelly, driving his sword left and deliberately slicing through the fine embroidery of the emblem of his house to the flesh below. With a winch Astalder drew back, his eyes narrowing to meet the knowing look of his opponent.

“How did your family escape Ithilian? Did they run screaming in terror, do you have coward’s blood winger? Is that why you fight so hard, to prove yourself, eh is that it winger do you hope to restore your families honour!” Lan’kash taunted, grinning menacingly.

“No!” Astalder shouted furiously, driving forward hard, knocking Lan’kash to the ground, “you know nothing,” he spat pinning the haradrim to the ground.

“I may be all that is left of that once noble city but I am still Gondorian and as such I will fight, like my father and his father before him. I fight so others may live, that is honour, Haradrim! Something you shall never know!” But as he raised his dagger to his enemy’s throat, Lan’kash kicked, knocking him off.

“Then you will die winger!” The Haradrim officer promised. “

“If Illuvatar deems it is my time to die than I shall die, but honour will be mine.” He retorted defiantly as he forced himself to his feet, raising his sword before him, both men where tiring but neither would back off. Astalder struck with wide-reaching blows, coming in from the left then the right, keeping Lan’kash before him. Right and left again, and then he turned suddenly catching his opponent of guard, spinning and slashing as he came round.

The victory was his, his sword drove deep across Lan’kash’s side, tearing flesh, bouncing of ribs and tearing through a lung, then cutting back out across the front of the Haradrim’s chest. The stunned warrior stumbled backwards staring at his chest in disbelief, the metal of his plate torn open like tin. Tripping over a fallen soldier’s corpse he fell hard to the ground, one lung collapsing and his lifeblood running out freely. Astalder leaned over the dying man his sword held limply at his side, his breathing deep and heavy. he stretched out his free hand and retrieved the silver chain that hung from the Dying Haradrim’s belt, “I believe this is mine!” he said dryly as he fastened it back around his neck and walked away from the dying leader of the Haradrim’s army. Several of the haradrim soldiers around him shied away in fear and disbelief, but some one soon filled Lan’kash’s vacant position and the battle raged on.

Astalder cut a path back towards the settlement trying to locate his captain, he had to convince him, forcibly if necessary, and that the time had come for them to fall back. The settlement was lost, but the war had just began and if they where to be part of a greater victory they first had to admit defeat. As he drew back to the city he called to others to do like wise, it was madness to continue this fight, he had to make Anhelm see this.

[Imladris]

Jinan leaped over the shattered walls of the town and was at once confronted by the soldiers of Gondor. To think that that pitiful lot could stand against the Haradrim! Insane foolishness -- that was what it was.

The blades clashed, blood spattered upon the streets. Men, both of Harad and Gondor, fell together and lay prone in death. But Jinan battled on, confident that death could not touch him. He was one of Harad's best, more than a match for these rats of Gondor.

Later, he ceased his fighting and glanced about him. He wiped the sweat that streamed from his brow, and looked for the enemy. They must have fled further into the settlement to escape the Haradrim's killing blades. With an animal roar, Jinan sped down the city, and found himself plunging into a marching Gondorian cohort. Why were they not dead yet? With a cry, he raised his sword, driving it into any body that was in reach. The men circled about him, and he could feel the cold hand of death upon him.

[Orual]

Anhelm watched numbly as a Haradrim fell in front of him. All around him was chaos and warfare and blood, and his beautiful town was in the middle of it. What had gone wrong?

He looked around himself, his sword hanging loosely in one hand, a trickle of blood running from his forehead to his chin. The stench of death and fear hit his nose like a boulder, and he almost staggered from it. Out of his peripheral vision he saw another Haradrim coming at him, and he raised his sword. Half-heartedly he fought the enemy, winning with a lucky stroke and the good fortune of being naturally the better fighter. The 'warrior' had been little more than a boy. Anhelm wondered fleetingly how many of the Poros' settlement's boys were dying.

"Anhelm!" The young captain looked over, his sword at the ready, relaxing when he saw Astalder. "We must retreat. We must pull out of the settlement!"

"Stop saying that," Anhelm said, his voice cracking. He was ashamed of it. He was in no position to let himself fall to pieces. But how could Astalder say they had to pull out? They could not! Especially not now. His lovely city, his poor settlement, how could he abandon it? It was not what his father would have wanted.

His father...Anhelm snapped back into the vivid, red-tinted reality of war and let out a cry, running at a small group of Haradrim. Astalder called after him, but Anhelm did not respond. He cut down the Haradrim and turned around.

"We will not abandon the settlement!" he cried, laughing hysterically. He waved his sword in the air. "We will fight here until there is no one left standing to fight against! Or we will stand here until there is nothing left standing to fight for. This settlement was built with the sweat and blood of Gondorian men, and it will be defended by the same! We--"

Anhelm stopped abruptly, and looked down at his side. A sword jutted out of it, gleaming red in the sun, mocking him. He looked up at Astalder, confused. The world swam before his eyes. He watched Astalder as the man ran at him, killing Anhelm's assailant, but it was as though he was watching from a very far distance. He put his hands behind him, gripping the hilt of the sword. He pulled it out and fell to the ground.

"Captain!" Astalder shouted, though it sounded fuzzy and indistinct to Anhelm. Anhelm gripped at Astalder's sleeve.

"Don't let my city fall," Anhelm said thickly, coughing. "If I die, you are in charge--do not let my city fall!"

Astalder inspected the wound quickly. "You will not die, Captain, but we must--"

"We cannot retreat!" Anhelm cried. "We cannot retreat!"

"We must--"

But Anhelm was not listening. They would not retreat. If he was to die, it would be here...

[Novnarwen]

Soon enough, the frightened Haradrim soldier realised that running away was probably not the best solution he could have picked. As he looked around, desperately trying to excuse his action, he couldn't seem to find a hiding spot. He was in a middle of a field; men fell before him, next to him (on each sides) and behind him. How could he have possibly thought that it was a good idea to run away? Frôzhal shrugged. Again looking around, he could see a part of his platoon and the disgraceful face of Erfâzh. He stared at him. The other Haradrim was fighting like mad with his shiny sword. Frôzhal hoped he could see him die. Hopefully some Gondorian would kill him, making it very painful. However, as he had stood dreaming of Erfâzh’s death, he became aware of a Gondorian seizing the upper part of his arm. Before he could think twice, he had lost sight of Erfâzh. Trying desperately to thrust his own sword into the Gondorian who had come charging at him, Frôzhal looked for where the armour was weakest. With great effort, he managed to push the Gondorian onto the ground. Not wanting to kill him, he beat him unconscious; hoping that no one else of the Haradrims would find him and kill him.

He turned, anxious to get his eyes on Efâzh again. The treacherous little twit was still holding off a Gondorian, but seemed, to Frôzhal's disappointment, to be doing fine. Suddenly, as Frôzhal was about to go look for a hiding place, of where he could hide until the battle died away, he remembered something. Where had he put the Gondorian knife he had found on a dead soldier when the Haradrim army had attacked the first Tower? Clenching his teeth, sweating, he came to realise that it hung steadily from his belt. He grabbed a hold of it, now desperate to get it over with. With a grimace in his face, he gave a sigh as he flung it through the air. He saw the knife glittering in the dim light, getting nearer and nearer its target. But as Frôzhal had sighed, when putting all his effort into throwing it, Erfâzh had turned and spotted him. Casting himself aside, Frôzhal's flying knife hit Erfâzh's attacker instead. Realising his mistake, Frôzhal tried to make a run for it. But Erfâzh had spotted him once again, and came darting towards him with his sword firmly in his hand.

"TRAITOR!" he called.

Frôzhal, who was very surprised by Erfâzh's reaction, managed only just to draw his own sword and meet his attacker. Both of them tried to end each other's lives with the first hit, which only resulted in both getting wounded. Frôzhal looked at the side of his arm. The feeling of pain struck him and affected him more than he could ever dream of. Having no choice however, he lifted his sword again to give Erfâzh something new to think about. Knowing that he was much stronger than the other Haradrim, he knew that he stood a pretty fair chance of surviving when his opponent was wounded. Gritting his teeth, he gave another thrust but Erfâzh protected himself easily.

"I should have known," Erfâzh said loudly, as they both advanced towards each other; blades raised again. "You've been in the lead with Gondorians, but of course I knew that . . ."

Frôzhal didn't at all like the smile Erfäzh had on his face. It was a smirk expressing all the evil he possessed in himself. It was a highly uncomfortable situation Frôzhal found himself in. Both because, he wasn't in the lead with the Gondorians, but nevertheless; he had tried killing Erfâzh, who was one of his own. If this wasn't treachery, what was? Still, Erfâzh had it coming, and there was no way he could do anything about it now. If he didn't kill Erfâzh now, Erfâzh would certainly kill him. It was impossible to have it otherwise, now as Erfâzh had seen him throw a knife at him. Unfortunately, Frôzhal had failed..

There was a loud crack as another cannon had been fired. As any other soldier, Erfâzh got distracted (just like another Gondorian Frôzhal had faced,) but this time Frôzhal didn't run.

***

A scream. A scream filled with terror, a scream filled with desperation.

Frôzhal turned around. A few paces away, a group of Gondorians had gathered. What were they doing? Again, Frôzhal had tried looking around for a hiding spot, but he thought the loud screams were highly annoying and he found it difficult to concentrate. Turning again to see what was going on, he saw some familiar boots. He cast himself to the ground, looked in between the Gondorian's feet; and there on the field in the middle of a group with attackers stood Jinan. Frôzhal looked twice. Was it really Jinan? Smirking with pleasure, he laid still to enjoy the show.

Surely, after the last days, Jinan certainly deserved what was coming. Frôzhal had thought from the very beginning that the two of them were friends, partners. He didn't know at the time though, that he and Erfâzh would go behind his back and together make his life miserable.

With a crack, Jinan fell. One of the Gondorian soldiers had beaten him, and he had falled to the ground. Now, writhing in agony, he looked desperately around to find a saving angel. Frôzhal met his eyes. Not daring to blink, feeling that he was the only person who could save Jinan, he stared. He kept staring, and Jinan returned the stare. Knowing that he was moments from a gruesome destiny, he looked at Frôzhal questioningly. Jinan's eyes were red and bleary, and seemed to lack the spirit of life. His sword lay beside him, but he seemed to be unable to grab a hold of it. Pathetic, Frôzhal thought to himself. For a long time he had looked up to Jinan, respected him. He had always seemed to know what he was doing. His skills were of great value to the army, unlike Frôzhal's lack of skills. But guess who was crying for help? Guess who was lying on the sand floor, shaking with terror? Guess who was meeting his fate now?

Frôzhal rose slowly, turned his back to the Gondorian soldiers who hadn't spotted him, and walked quickly away. Now and then, he offered his ear to listen to the voice that gave the loudest cries at the whole battle field.