Boom. Boom. Boom. The steady beat of the massive war drums continued as orcs and newly arrived Easterlings swarmed into the burning city. Zaskia watched from a nearby hill, Khanar at her side. The deathly general breathed harshly, every inhale a loud rasp that made it apparent that his injuries had never really healed. He watched the battle expressionlessly, his horned helmet betraying no emotions.
Suddenly a gust of foul-smelling wind hit the pair from behind, and Zaskia turned to see Khamul landing his dragonlike steed on the hill. Its serpentine head roved around watchfully, and its narrow tongue flicked out from between its sharp teeth. Khamul slid down from its back carefully, his iron boots thumping ominously as he hit the ground. He strode slowly to Zaskia and Khanar's side, his faceless hood looking back and forth over the burning city. The flames reflected on his iron mask, giving the wraith an utterly infernal appearance.
"They offered little resistance," He hissed. "Even now they flee to Dale."
"Let them," Zaskia suggested. "It shall lull them into a feeling of false safety."
"Then," Khanar rasped, his head turning slowly to the other two. "We shall strike them, swift as an adder."
Khamul made a sound that was a cross between a hiss and a growl. "The cursed bright elf has arrived, along with the Lastborn and his ilk. They shall put up a fight. But I will end the bright elf, for the dark lord wills it."
"This Lastborn... Who is he?" Khanar growled.
"A great warrior from the north, one of the greatest among those called the Dunedain," Zaskia explained, her voice dripping with disgust. "He commands a host of his kinsmen, and has unified a force of Blue Mountain dwarves under his banner."
"Why do they call him Lastborn?" Khanar asked.
"He is allegedly the last of his people. The blood of Numenor flows strongly through him, and he uses the gift of foresight to make clear his path. He smote the Black Numenorean Arnakhor down in his own fortress, and he faced Khamul in open combat and lived to tell the tale."
Khamul let out an angry shriek, causing Zaskia to flinch and cover her ears. "He barely lived. The bright elf saved him once, but he will not deliver him this time."
Khanar exhaled, his breath hitching several times. His eyes glowed flaming orange between the slits of his helmet, and he clenched a gauntleted fist in determination. "This ranger... He... Is... Mine."
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"Hurry! Cover them!" Gerithor shouted as a flaming catapult round hit the wall near him. He covered his face and ducked as fragments of it sailed overhead. Gilian ran to his side and checked to make sure he was uninjured before firing her bow at an advancing orc.
"Make sure the people are protected," Gerithor said breathlessly. "We need to cover their retreat."
Gilian nodded and pointed toward the front of the retreating line. "Kalan and his warriors are carving a path through the enemy for them, but they won't last long. We need a distraction."
Gerithor looked around, his mind racing to think of a plan. Suddenly his eyes landed on a large produce wagon, and his lips turned up in a grin.
"Gilian, see that?" He pointed to it after felling another orc with a well-placed arrow. "This whole path goes downhill toward the main advancing orc force. Knock the chocks out from under the wheels and get clear of it."
Gilian let out a laugh and began to run. "Good idea, I like how you think!"
Gerithor readied his bow, covering her as she knelt down beside the wagon. It was filled with cabbage and carrots and looked as though it was quite heavy. The chocks were wedged solidly under the wheels, and despite her best efforts, Gilian was unable to make them budge.
"They're stuck!" Gilian exclaimed, breathing heavily with effort. Gerithor loosed another arrow at a charging Easterling and knelt down beside her.
"Here, take the end of this and tie it to that horse's bridle," he said, handing a rope to her and gesturing to a horse that was tied up nearby. It whinnied nervously as Gilian approached. "She's already agitated, it won't take much to make her bolt. I'll tie the other end to the chocks."
Gilian nodded and held out a hand. "Shh, it's okay girl. I'm not here to hurt you." The horse whinnied again and nodded its head up and down in fear. Gilian slowly walked toward the beast until she was within a few feet, and she gently rested her hand upon the horse's muzzle. The horse snorted and stomped its foot agitatedly, but Gilian began to whisper and it immediately calmed down. Gerithor watched her with admiration, impressed that she was able to calm a horse in the middle of a battlefield.
After a moment of soothing the horse further, Gilian slowly tied the rope through its bridle and nodded to Gerithor. Gerithor let out a loud shout, and the horse immediately took off running up the street. The chocks broke free from under the wheels, and Gerithor rolled out of the way as the wagon began to race down the path. It rounded a corner and disappeared from the sight of the two rangers, but a moment later they could hear a loud crash, followed by orc screams.
"Well done!" Gerithor exclaimed. Gilian ran to him and wrapped her arms around him in joy as she laughed, and for a moment the two rangers forgot about their current predicament and laughed at the absurdity of what they had just done.
"I can't believe we just did that," Gilian said after a moment. She awkwardly pulled away from Gerithor and looked down the path. "I wonder how much damage it did..."
"Hopefully enough," Gerithor replied, picking his bow back up and starting to move at a run. "Hurry, we must catch up with the others!"
They moved forward at a quick rate, pausing only to make sure the path was clear of enemies. They soon caught up with the main group, which was crawling forward slowly due to the many women with small children and elderly folks who brought up the rear of the group. Gerithor turned back to see that the enemy had recovered from the wagon "mishap", and were now gaining on the retreating peasants.
"Rangers, to the rear!" Gerithor cried, gathering the remaining rangers together to protect the flank. A little over thirty had survived the initial battle, and they were exhausted from fighting. Despite this they rallied to their commander's call, swords in hand and heads held high.
As they formed up a screech rent the air, causing many of them to cover their ears and a few to even fall to the ground in fright. A massive creature flew overhead, its grey wings sending a fell gust of wind in the direction of the group. Gerithor could see the rider atop it, and he recognized him immediately.
"Nazgul!! Draw your bows, rangers! The enemy is upon us!"
The rangers fired wildly at the fell beast, but in their fear most of their shots went wide. The few that hit home served only to anger the monster, and it let out a hiss as it turned around to attack again.
The Dalemen began to run, but despite their impending doom the rangers continued to fire arrow after arrow at their flying foe. Gerithor fit one last arrow to his bowstring as the beast extended its claws, and he closed his eyes as he released it. Eru guide my shot, he mouthed as he felt the feather of the arrow brush against his cheek as it took flight.
Time seemed to slow as he opened his eyes, the monster's massive wings obscuring most of his vision. Its claws were outstretched, and its snakelike eyes were fixed on him. He could see his arrow, sailing slowly through the air, grey feathers quivering in the wind. Too low, Gerithor thought as his eyes widened in fear.
Suddenly a hail of small arrows hit the beast from its left side, causing it to recoil back with a roar. Gerithor swiftly turned to see several dozen dwarven crossbowmen reloading their weapons as nearly a hundred heavily armed dwarves formed a shield wall in front of the fleeing peasants. At their head was a white-bearded dwarf wearing a crown, followed by a tall, grim man with dark hair that Gerithor assumed was the leader of the Dalemen. He quickly hurried over to them, ducking as the dwarves covered the rangers' retreat.
"Ah, Gerithor of the Dunedain I presume!" The white-bearded dwarf said with a laugh. "We've heard of ya! Although, I expected ya to be taller!"
Gerithor smiled politely, though in his mind he was slightly put off by the dwarf's comment. "You presume correct," He began with a bow. "I don't believe I've heard of you..."
The dwarf snorted and roughly shook the ranger's hand. "Dain! King of the Lonely Mountain and it's holdins'! I'll have ya know I'm a big deal in these parts!"
At this the grim man approached and dipped his head politely, though his expression still remained troubled. "I am Brand, King of Dale. Your aid is most welcome, lord of the Dunedain."
"I am no lord, merely a captain," Gerithor replied. "I come on behalf of my cousin, Lord Aragorn, chief of the Dunedain and heir of the thrones of Gondor and Arnor."
"Ah, my mistake," Brand said. "You have a lordly air about you. Though I've heard it said that you are all lords, in a manner of speaking. But come! A battlefield is no place to speak of heraldry! Dain's halls shall be a welcome refuge."
Gerithor raised an eyebrow and rested upon his bow. "Have you abandoned the defense of Dale?"
At this Brand frowned, and his hickory eyes narrowed as he looked toward his city. One of his men, an older man who walked with a heavy limp and supported by a cane, approached at the king's side. "Aye. Dale is not defensible, or so King Dain says. Walls of wood will not keep out the hordes of the East."
Gerithor nodded, his own gaze landing upon Erebor. "The enemy is powerful. I am unsure that even Dain's gates of wrought stone will keep them out."
The other man extended a worn hand. "I am Kell, commander of Brand's forces. Your men appear brave and noble, they will be a boon in these dark times."
Gerithor gave the older man a faint smile as he looked toward the sea of enemies that approached over the eastern hills. "If only that were enough."
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Hey guys! Sorry I haven't updated in a while, getting some preparations out of the way for when I leave. I hope you enjoy this chapter!