The Lastborn: A Middle Earth Story(Book 1)(EDITING)

Chapter 18: And So It Begins

Gerithor followed closely in his father's footsteps as they approached the forest's edge. With a subtle motion from Gerimond, signaling them to take cover, Gerithor gracefully dropped to one knee, aligning himself with the older Ranger. From their concealed position, he witnessed the orchestrated chaos unfolding before them—Angmar's forces maneuvering a colossal battering ram into position while the Dunedain on the walls retaliated with lethal precision.

"The attack has begun," Gerimond murmured in a hushed tone. "We can move undetected more easily now."

However, Gerithor's concern transcended the tactical intricacies of the battle. He grabbed his father's arm, his eyes reflecting the weight of unspoken fears. "Father, please don't die. I can't lose you like I lost Mother."

Gerimond, placing a reassuring hand on his son's shoulder, met his gaze with a comforting smile. "If it's the will of the Eldar, I won't."

With those words, Gerimond resumed his stealthy advance. Left behind in the shadow of foreboding, Gerithor remained motionless, a silent plea lingering in his tearful eyes. A premonition, a haunting dream from Rivendell, gripped his soul. In the dream, his father bore the wounds of battle, arrows piercing his back, and a black blade thrust through him. The vision persisted in his memory, an ominous reminder that he was bound by fate to prevent such a tragedy.

Sarina's touch on his shoulder brought him back to the present. Concern emanated from her eyes, but Gerithor turned away, concealing his vulnerability. Eldahir's sympathetic smile added to the weight of emotions he sought to suppress. Why was everyone attuned to his feelings? Annoyance flickered within him as he brushed away a tear, resolute in his determination to follow his father.

As they approached the city outskirts, Gerimond cautiously peered over a short wall lining the street. Two Black Numenorean soldiers passed by, prompting him to retreat momentarily before reevaluating the situation.

"We're going to split into two groups; we can travel more stealthily that way," Gerimond's voice carried a calm authority as he surveyed the scene beyond the wall. "Gerithor, you take Eldahir, and I'll take Sarina." Gerithor glanced at Eldahir, attempting a smile that betrayed the unease gnawing at him. The prospect of a full-scale battle loomed, and the unfamiliar weight of fear pressed heavily on his chest. Eldahir, his companion in trepidation, shared a similarly pale and anxious countenance.

Sarina and Gerimond veered to the left, leaving Gerithor and Eldahir standing in silence. Eldahir, casting a glance filled with fear, voiced the unspoken apprehensions they both harbored.

"What's wrong?" Gerithor asked, even though he knew the answer all too well.

"I've never been in a real battle before. Sure, plenty of skirmishes, but this... This is entirely different," Eldahir confessed, fidgeting with discomfort. "And we're not just fighting orcs. These are men, just like us. They may even have families!"

Gerithor placed a comforting hand on Eldahir's shoulder. "It's alright, my friend. I'm afraid too." Eldahir looked surprised, and Gerithor continued, "Yes, I'm shaking in my boots. And I feel sick. You're not alone in being afraid."

Eldahir, letting out a small laugh, remarked, "For some reason, I thought you were never afraid. You always hide it so well. That makes me feel better, in a strange, twisted way."

"I'm terrified. But I won't let that fear take hold of me or control me. Don't let it control you either, friend," Gerithor encouraged, offering a reassuring smile.

"Why were you upset earlier?" Eldahir inquired, his eyes filled with concern.

"I... I had a dream in Rivendell. About my father dying. I had the same sort of dream a week before my mother died too," Gerithor admitted, turning to face Eldahir, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Don't worry, if there's anything I can do to prevent that from happening, I will," Eldahir pledged, smiling and patting his friend on the back. Gerithor was momentarily puzzled; then, realization dawned—he remembered that his father had likely shared the same information with Eldahir earlier. Returning the smile, Gerithor drew himself up, attempting to exude bravery.

"Well then, I guess we had better get a move on. We don't want my father and Sarina to have all the fun," he quipped, fitting an arrow to his bow. Eldahir laughed nervously, mirroring the action, and together they set off in the direction Sarina and Gerimond had taken.

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"Fire at will!" Halbarad cried as he let loose an arrow. The battering ram slowly rolled up to the gate, its bearers protected from arrows by a thick wooden canopy over the ram. Iron helmed men fell to the ground all around it as Dunedain arrows found their marks.
The ram made contact with the gate, and a loud thump was heard that made the walls shake. At that moment two hill trolls ran up and began pounding on the gate as well.
"Aim at the trolls! Set your arrows alight and shoot the ram!" Halbarad yelled as he strode back and forth along the wall. One of the hill trolls fell to the ground as several dozen arrows embedded themselves in its sickly green skin. The other continued to beat the gate with a hammer.
A volley of fire arrows flew from the ranks of the Dunedain atop the wall and hit the battering ram, setting it alight. Screams could be heard from the men bearing the ram, but the dull thump continued as they kept ramming the gate.
Halbarad knew the gate wouldn't hold much longer. He descended the stairs of the wall and made his way toward the back lines. When he arrived, he was surprised when he saw around seventy Elven spearmen wearing heavy silver colored armor with blue tunics. One of them approached him.
"Sir, I've brought a detachment of spears from Mithlond. I've been told to take orders from you. Where do you want us?"
Halbarad thought for a moment. He knew seventy elves wasn't enough, but it would definitely help. "Send your men to the gate, quickly!" He said and pointed in the direction he had come from. The elf saluted and ordered his soldiers to double time it to the gate. Halbarad followed. The elves positioned themselves a short distance behind the gate, with shields close together forming a wall and spears sticking out in between them. Halbarad looked at them for a moment, impressed. Then he turned and ran to the top of the wall.
Thud! Another strike from the ram. The gate buckled inward a little. Halbarad knew this was it, the gate would be breached after one more swing from the ram.
Crash! The ram struck again, and the gate shattered. Black Numenoreans poured into the city through the breach. This battle was over before it began, Halbarad thought with despair. They could still hold for a while, but the tide had already turned against them, sooner than Halbarad had expected.
The Black Numenoreans were organized into raiding groups of about thirty men. Several of these groups had combined to face the Mithlond spearmen. They charged forward with reckless abandon, holding their greatswords high over their heads. Many of them were skewered on the elves' spears, but soon they had broke through the spear wall and engaged in close quarters combat with the elves. The elves drew shortswords to counter.
Halbarad saw an opportunity. Most of his men were still on the wall, behind the force attacking the elves. He ordered his men to descend and they ran down the stairs, drawing their swords.
"Charge!!!!!!" He yelled as he rushed toward the enemy's unprotected flank. The Black Numenoreans were taken by surprise and clumsily attempted to face both enemy forces. They weren't able to counter in time, and after heavy loss of life fell into disarray, and ran back toward the gate. But during this time, several hundred enemy soldiers had made it in through the gate and were making their way toward Halbarad's force.
"Defend the North!" He yelled to his remaining soldiers, and elves and men both rallied behind him with a cry and made battle with the much larger enemy army.