The forest groaned under the weight of dragonfire, and the once verdant foliage wilted and curled in the intense heat. The Mirkwood archers, their agile forms now consumed by the inferno, were reduced to mere ashes, victims of the scorching wrath that the dragon, Aldernari, had unleashed.
Amidst the devastation, Caledorn emerged as the lone elf who defied the consuming flames. His movements were a dance with death, a mesmerizing display of elven agility. As the dragon's breath of fire surged toward him, Caledorn executed a gravity-defying vault, evading the fiery onslaught. In a single fluid motion, he landed on the trunk of a sturdy tree, using it as a springboard to propel himself upward.
Launching into the air, Caledorn gracefully maneuvered toward the dragon, Aldernari, who roared with fury at having missed his mark. The dark-clad elf, seemingly untouched by the inferno, demonstrated an uncanny connection with the elements. As the dragon ascended into the sky, Caledorn, with impeccable timing, leaped onto the creature's side.
Aldernari, startled by the unexpected passenger, roared again and soared higher into the sky. Caledorn, undeterred, seized the opportunity to make a daring move. Driving a slender knife into a minuscule gap between the dragon's formidable scales, he created a precarious but effective point of leverage. The dragon, now an unwilling host to the elf, contorted in discomfort.
As the dragon whirled in the air, attempting to dislodge the tenacious elf, Caledorn, undeterred, jumped from the dragon's side onto the middle of its vast back. The city sprawled beneath them, a tableau of chaos and impending doom.
"You are quite sturdy, for an elf!" Aldernari growled with annoyance, his deep voice resonating in the air. Undeterred by the dragon's remark, Caledorn clung to one of the formidable spikes protruding from the dragon's back. The airborne struggle unfolded like a perilous dance between predator and prey.
In a daring mid-air flip, Aldernari sought to shake off his uninvited passenger. Caledorn, the epitome of elven resilience, tightened his grip, battling against the gales that whipped around them. The struggle reached a climax as one of Caledorn's coal-black daggers slipped from his grasp, plummeting hundreds of feet below. A muttered curse escaped his lips, but with unwavering determination, he drove the remaining dagger deeper into the dragon's scaly hide, anchoring himself to the colossal beast.
The aerial spectacle continued, an elf defying a dragon against the backdrop of a city consumed by chaos. The fate of Fornost hung in the balance as Caledorn clung to Aldernari, a lone sentinel challenging the might of the mighty demon of the sky.
Aldernari roared as he rose higher into the air. His shadowy wings propelled him higher and higher until, suddenly and without warning, he banked and went into a steep dive, pulling his wings close to his side. Caledorn held on to the dagger with all this strength, but despite that he could still feel his grip loosening. He needed to do something, and fast.
With a quick flick of his left wrist a short, razor sharp blade sprang from his gauntlet. He thrust this blade into the dragon as well, digging it deep under the dragon's scales.
Aldernari let out a roar of pain, and continued to plummet toward the ground. Caledorn looked on in shock as he realized the dragon was showing no signs of slowing down. They were getting closer and closer to the city below them. Caledorn braced himself.
At the last possible moment, Aldernari desperately spread his enormous wings, attempting to avert a catastrophic collision with the ground. Despite his agony and sluggish response, the dragon only managed to mitigate the impact, crashing into a sturdy building before careening across the ground. Small houses crumbled in his wake as he slid, the destructive force of his descent leaving a trail of devastation.
Caledorn, anticipating the dragon's plight, executed a nimble leap, clearing the imminent disaster. With unparalleled agility, he transitioned seamlessly into a combat roll, rising into a poised fighting stance with a dagger raised high above his head. The other dagger was lost in the chaos, but Caledorn, undeterred, brandished his blade gauntlet, determined to continue the battle. Vowing to retrieve his lost weapon later, he surveyed the path of destruction Aldernari had carved. At the end of the ruinous trail lay the once-mighty dragon, now motionless. Cautiously approaching, Caledorn scrutinized the colossal beast, his bright green eyes keenly observing for any sign of life. His hood had fallen, revealing wild, dark hair that danced in the wind. With each measured step toward the dragon's massive head, he remained vigilant. One eye was open, a milky film clouding its once-piercing gaze. Despite his skepticism regarding the guileful nature of dragons, every indication pointed toward the creature's demise. From its lifeless eyes to the absence of the fiery orange glow in its chest, the evidence seemed compelling. Doubt lingered in Caledorn's mind as he contemplated the possibility. Could it truly be? Relief began to wash over him, a tide of emotion he hadn't felt in years. Finally, the vendetta that had haunted his existence was complete. The formidable beast that had shattered his family and altered his life irreversibly was now, unequivocally, dead.
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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.