Defense of the Poros RPG

[Orual]

The sun crept slowly to meet the horizon, peering out over a grey morning and a bleak landscape. Captain Anhelm, Commander of the Poros Settlement, was already up to greet it. Dressed in his uniform, his sword sheathed and set carefully on the desk in front of him, Anhelm shivered a little and looked out of the window. He stood up and grabbed his cloak from a hook on the wall of his modest office, and went out into what was the beginnings of his village.

"Morning, Captain," a young soldier said amiably, touching his forehead in respect. He glanced at Anhelm's cloak, and his smile slipped. "You might not need that," he said, a touch of gloom entering his voice. "It's warm again today, and Telpe says not to hope for a cold wind any time soon."

Anhelm laughed, then smiled. "Take what Telpe says with a grain of salt," he suggested. "She is no more an expert on the climate here than you or I. We may get a reprieve from the heat yet." The young man smiled gratefully, touched his forehead again, and left.

"Good morning, Uncle Anhelm!" cried a young girl, running up to him. Her brown pigtails trailed out behind her, and she had a string of white winter flowers in her hand that would be made into either a necklace or a circlet. Her name was Mavi, short for Vidumavi. She was his only niece, and he loved her dearly.

"Good morning, love!" Anhelm replied, picking her up and giving her a kiss right on the top of her head. "How are you? And where are your shoes? Don't your feet hurt?"

Mavi laughed and wiggled her way to being put down. "Telpe says that she's got some tea and soup for you for breakfast, and she sent me to tell you. And my feet don't hurt. I'm like the Wild Men! I don't need shoes." She pulled a fierce face and, making her hands like claws, growled at her uncle.

Anhelm smiled. "You're a tough one, all right. I bet I could pick you up by the toes and your hair wouldn't get mussed. Let's see!" He grabbed her by the waist and tickled her until she shrieked, and at that point he put her down and kissed her on the nose. "Run along..."

She did, and Anhelm went and gathered the feel of the morning, which was fairly like the last few mornings: tense. A settlement right near the Harad Road was not the safest place, especially in these uneasy times. The Haradrim were getting uneasy, egged on, some said, by darker forces, though Anhelm was hard pressed to believe it. He was a practical man, who believed in more or less only what he could see. Some vague "darker forces" were not enough to make him nervous.

But the Haradrim did make him nervous. His father was bound to bed because of them, never to walk again; his people could not let their children stray far from the settlement proper because of them. How could he not be nervous? He was in charge of this settlement; all of these lives were in his hands.

"Captain?" An older soldier came up to him. "I have some reports from the scouts. Would you like to come read them?"

Anhelm took a deep breath. It was time to start his day; brooding would not stop the Haradrim. Only action would. He nodded. "Lead on."

[Manôphazân]

A small mote of dust on the horizon at morning turned into a churning cloud by midday as a company of lancers approached the border outpost of Harnen Crossing. They formed the forward contingent of the Army of Harnen that would be moving through the area within the week. Just before reaching the town they broke formation and quickly began to bivouac on the sandy plain. A small group rode ahead of the main mass and stopped at the southern picket where the garrison commander greeted them.

Lan’kâsh raised his hand in salute and invited the company leader, a young captain, to the comfort of his headquarters. Walking together, the two made small talk until they reached a two-storied brick building overlooking the river just to the north. Once inside, Lan’kâsh commanded a shirtless slave to bring refreshment, and the two officers sat down on a shaded balcony where a cool breeze blew in from the surface of the water. The slave brought tea and fresh fruit, as well as a plate of various meat delicacies, and then moved to a corner where he stood in silence.

The captain drank the tea without speaking for several minutes, looking across the river at the rising hills and the occasional tree.

“Not a tree in sight for the last 50 leagues,” he grumbled, holding his cup out for more tea. The servant rushed forward and filled it. “I do so like trees but seldom get to enjoy them. It seems the few forests we do have near the city shall all be cut down by the shipwrights soon.”

Lan’kâsh held his silence. Though he had much more experience than the young captain, he knew that he must continue to show him the proper respect. The rank of lieutenant was an embarrassment to wear, but he knew that he was fortunate to wear any rank at all.

“Over there,” the captain pointed north to the hills, “are miles and miles of forest.” He smiled and took another sip from his cup. “Forests for the shipwrights.”

Lan’kâsh nodded and waited for the captain to continue. Hopefully he did not go on about the forests.

“As you know, we intend to cross the Harnen tomorrow when the rest of the division gets closer, so I thought I’d ride ahead to have you gather your men to fall in.”

Lan’kâsh finally spoke. “Fall in, sir?.”

The young captain smiled a crooked smile and answered, “Yes, of course. Did you think you would be staying here while we rode through?” He did not give the lieutenant time to answer,a nd snickered, “As of this moment the border is sealed, and since this is no longer the ‘front’, your services and those of the rest of this border patrol are required in the real army.”

Though he had began their meeting with civility, the captain had quickly changed his tone to one of condescension. Being from a good (and rich) family, the young officer falsely assumed that the dirty looking lieutenant was the unlucky son of a merchant or maybe the rare man that had rose from the ranks. But he never considered that the man in front of him had dealt out more death than he had ever yet imagined. Lan’kâsh looked up quickly and caught the captain in a cold stare that lasted only as long as it took him to imagine running his spear through the foolish youngster’s throat, long enough for the captain to wonder if he had made a mistake in taunting the odd, dark skinned lieutenant.

The moment passed, and with a long outward breath Lan’kâsh let his anger pass and said quietly, “It will be our pleasure to join the invasion of Harondor.”

“Yes,” said the captain uncertainly, “Yes, you shall be joining us. Muster your men outside this building first thing tomorrow morning.”

Lan’kâsh stood to salute, but the sudden move startled the captain so that he nearly dropped his teacup. The young officer stood quickly, returned the salute sloppily, and retreated down the stairs, deciding that he had definitely made a mistake with the real army comment. The look in the lieutenant’s eyes had sent shivers down his spine, and he wanted to distance himself as quickly as possible.

As the captain’s footsteps thumped down to the first floor, the lieutenant sat back down and held his cup up. The slave filled it and sat down heavily in the seat the captain had recently vacated. He was smiling from ear to ear.

“That one ain’t gunna last long, ‘tenant,” he said, showing a gap-toothed grin. The slave snatched the captain’s cup and filled it for himself.

“No his isn’t,” said Lan’kâsh laughing, “but we are, sergeant Benel. Get our things ready and pass the message along to muster in the morning.”

“Yes sir,” said the slave, standing and giving a snappy salute. He snatched his jacket from where it hung on a hook and put it on. “I’ll take care of it right away, sir.”

Lan’kâsh looked across the river where trees were throwing long shadows in the late day sun.

“Look out Gondor, here we come.”

[Imladris]

Jinan swaggered down the dirt road of the outpost of the Harnen Crossing, kicking at tufts of dying weeds ( As if it could be called a road , he thought, remembering the mighty cities of Harad). Dust clung to the golden fringe that lined his scarlet sash, and his black leather boots were scuffed from hard traveling. A simple wooden bow was slung across his back, while his hand rested casually upon a gem studded dagger.

Another man passed him, paused, scrutinized him and called out eagerly, “Jinan, good friend of mine!”

The lad paused in mid-stride, and turned to looked at the man who so called out to him. He was but a few years older than Jinan, and was a shipmate upon a corsair vessel. A friend I am to you, but you are no friend of mine , he thought, resentfully remembering old rivalries of the past. A toothless smile carved itself upon Jinan’s face and he said, “How goes it with you…friend…well or ill?”

“Ill,” the corsair said glumly as he shook a leather pouch absently. The faint tinkle of coins reached Jinan’s ear.

“Monetary troubles I take it. I’ve always said you shouldn’t gamble,” Jinan said evenly, eyeing the money bag with a cocked eyebrow.

“I hear ye’re in the army,” the man said, hastily changing the subject and hooking the bag onto his belt. “I also hear rumours that you can’t fight worth beings and that you’re only in because of your father’s money,” the man added with a leer.

The smile vanished from Jinan’s face. It was true that he could not handle a dagger well, but naturally the rumours had ignored his skills with a bow and arrows. “Don’t believe everything you hear, friend,” Jinan said coldly, patting the corsair upon the shoulder. “Until we meet again.” It was the only possible way to get rid of the fellow politely.

With a farewell nod, the corsair continued on his way, leaving Jinan behind. A soft chuckle escaped him as he tossed the bag of money in his hand. Slipping the dagger back into its sheath, he whispered, “No skill with a dagger, eh? Obviously enough to relieve you of your money.” He grinned as he imagined the shock and horror when the corsair discovered his money gone and his inability to pay his debts. “Never trust to rumours, friend.”

Tossing the bag at the feet of some passing priests, Jinan made his way to the young captain of his brigade. Entering the headquarters, he paused when the captian said absently, “We’re transferring you, Jinan. There is going to be a small expedition against the Poros to drive the Gondorians away --”

The voice of the officer droned on, while Jinan’s face broke into a wide grin. An attack upon Gondor! Finally the rats would know who was master. They transferring him which naturally meant that he would be the captain of the expedition and…

“…and you will be under the command of a Lieutenant Lan’kâsh.”

Jinan’s jaw dropped slightly and he shook his head, his black hair falling into his eyes. “You mean, I’m not going to lead this attack?” he asked with a forced laugh.

“Responsibility must be earned, not given,” the captian said. “You’ll find him at the building over looking the river.”

Jinan stumbled through the door, his thoughts a surging turmoil of anger and confusion. Turning, his brows meeting in a jagged frown, he glowered at the captain’s office. Obviously the captain didn’t know quality when he saw it. With a snort, he swung upon his heel and soon found the building. Climbing the wooden balcony, he saw Lan’kâsh sipping a bit of tea and nibbling at some fruit. So this was the lieutenant who was to command him. This thin distant man who probably didn’t even know the word battle. As Jinan stared at him and Lan’kâsh lifted his eyes into those of the younger man’s, a chill passed through him.

Shaking himself, Jinan said, “I have been transferred to your authority, sir.” Putting his own thoughts of resentment behind him, he flashed a toothless smile at the man who was to be his superior officer.

[Galadel Vinorel]

The red sun rose into the light blue sky of the morning. Adenain stretched out his worn muscles as he lay on the sweet-smelling grass. He breathed in deeply as he stared up at the sky, his mind beginning to wander. He thought of Minas Tirith, and his mother who had remained behind. He wondered how she was and what she was doing at this exact moment. It was almost as if he could see her. Around this time of the morning she would be rushing around the house, gathering up parcels of healing herbs and tools. She would then be off, rushing through the busy streets so that she could go to the main healer’s cabinet and drop off the fresh herbs before making her rounds around the Houses of Healing, and taking care of her patients.

As the man lay on the ground, his long body spread out in an awkward-looking, but very comfortable position, he heard the sound of the flute being played behind him. The sound of it was sweet and gentle, and moved the hearts of all who heard it. Rolling over on to his stomach, and propping himself up on his elbows, Adenain looked up at as his younger sister, Annemal, who was playing the beautiful sounding flute, with affection and pride. He had been the one who had taught her to play that when she was only five years of age.

Annemal played on as she reached her brother and sat next to him. Slowly she drew near to the end of the final verse; in her heart she longed to play more for her brother, who had done so much for her, and who now looked very sad, though she did not know the reason for this. The young woman finished her song then, and lowered the flute from her lips. Adenain turned around back onto his back and then sat up, looking over the beautiful view that could be seen from where their small house stood.

“You should be getting to your post should you not, brother?” asked Annemal in her quite and musical voice.

“Yes,” he replied, “I must report in to Captain Anhelm today for his instructions.”

“Come along then, and I’ll fix you some bread and butter with some goat’s milk before you go,” she said, smiling to him, pulling herself up, with him in tow, “While I’m doing that you can go and change into your uniform.”

Thirty minutes later Adenain exited their house dressed in his uniform of the Guard, with his sword and two knives hanging at his sise, and his bow and arrows strapped to his back. He walked calmly, a slight skip in his firm footsteps, to request his orders for the day from his commander, Captain Anhelm.

[Nerindel]

Standing at the window of his new home Astalder looked east to watch the sunrise over the distant looming mountains of Ephel Dúath, as he did every morning since they arrive at the small settlement they planned to call home. The dawn's first rays painted the sky in pale hues of orangey red and to him the mountains seemed dark and ominous against that back drop.

"Red sky at morning, Soldiers warning!" he frowned remembering the Gondorian proverb, But his frown faded as he felt the loving arms of his wife wrap around his waist.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she sighed contentedly. looking again, but not so far a field, he saw that she was right, the river glistened in the soft glow, the open grasslands swayed in the dawn breeze and the new buildings of the settlement gave the feel of a quiet sleepy village. But even as he turned away several of the sleepy houses opened their door and in a few hours the village would be alive with the bustle of people going about their daily chores. As he turned he took his wife into his arms and kissed her tenderly.

"Now what was that for?" she grinned as he released her.

"Does a husband need a reason to show his affection and gratitude!" he laughed.

"Indeed not" she replied with a laugh of her own.

"Now you best be getting dressed or you will be late!" she smiled, then turned and went down stairs to finish preparing breakfast. With a contented smile he quickly washed and dressed, then lifting his belt and sword he made his way down stairs to join his family for breakfast.

"Papa!" an excited voice cried as he entered the kitchen, putting aside his sword he was assailed by his young fair headed son.

"Good morning little one" he smiled down at the child.

"Captain Falmir!" His son exclaimed pulling away and puffing out his chest proudly.

"A Captain eh! Well good morning Captain Falmir" he saluted playfully.

"At ease soldier!" Falmir laughed then threw himself into his fathers arms, laughing Astalder threw the boy onto his shoulders and circled the large wooden table in the centre of the room, pretending to be the lads mount. But on their third pass they were blocked by the smiling face of Fëawyn.

"It's time for my brave soldiers to eat their breakfast," she laughed, gently lifting falmir from his fathers shoulders and sitting him at the table. As he took his seat Fëawyn took the kettle from the fire and poured him some tea. "Thank you!" he whispered appreciatively as he listened to all that his son had planed for the day. All too soon breakfast was over and it was time for him to leave. Lifting his sword he buckled it about his waist and pulled on his boots.

"I will see you both tonight" he said, kissing his wife's cheek, "And you my young captain, keep out of trouble and help your mother!" he grinned with a wink, then lifting his saddle bags from the hook by the door and went to the stable to retrieve his horse. They had arrived in the village just over a month ago but he was due leave and he took it so as to help with the building of their cottage and the stables and paddocks for Fëawyn's horses. Leading his horse from the stables he looked around pleased at his work. Both his wife and son had made new friends and it was time for him to make sure they remained safe in their new found happiness. Mounting his horse he set out to meet his new captain and begin his new post.

[Novnarwen]

Frôzhal straightened up as he felt his patience coming to an end. A company had arrived at the headquarters a while ago, and the Haradrim was starting to get curious about it all. He made his way away from the trees, where no longer he was 'protected' from the annoying sun rays, and towards the two storied building. He shivered as he saw Lan’kâsh on the balcony. There was at least one more sitting there, but Frôzhal couldn't see who. This, especially, made him even more curious. The man hesitated for a few moments; what on earth was he doing? Sneaking up on Lan’kâsh? He shook himself, trying to avoid looking any further at the balcony. Again, he straightened up, keeping his mask.

He made his way away from the headquarters. It would certainly not be wise of him to lurk around here, in hope to overhear what was going on, if he wanted to get a better position. What if he was getting a better position? Why else gather at a balcony? Frôzhal frowned by this. A better position, he thought, smiling to himself. A man came running pass him, shaking Frôzhal.

"What are you smiling for?" he asked rudely. Frôzhal despised this man, but couldn't do anything but to answer politely. "I was thinking about... when I am getting promoted," he said, giggling even more. The man broke into an evil laughter, shaking his head so hard that Frôzhal expected to see it fall off from the man's neck, any minute. "Promoted?" he said, gathering himself. Frôzhal nodded.

"Listen up, guys!" the man announced, after a few moments with silence.

Quite a few men, who stood nearby, turned around and looked towards Frôzhal and the man, who was named Ringlâsh. Some of them started to laugh already, even though they didn't know what all this was about. Frôzhal felt uncomfortable about the whole situation he suddenly found himself in. He sighed, as Ringlâsh started off, telling the others that Frôzhal thought he was getting a promotion soon.

There was a roar of laughter. Some laughed so loudly, Ringlâsh had to calm them down before continuing;" So, when do you expect it to happen?" he asked, staring at Frôzhal innocently. Frôzhal grew red, shaking. He didn't want everyone to know that he was getting promoted before he actually had been.

"Calm down guys," he started. "I haven't been promoted, yet" he said, grinning, forgetting that everyone was giggling.

This would be a day to remember for many of them. Such great fun as this was seldom nowadays and most of them knew they would have loads of fun in the time to come, mocking Frôzhal about how naive he was.

"I just want you to know," Frôzhal said, after his long pause. "That you are still my friends even though I climb the ranks," he finished.

Again there was a roar with laughter and Ringlâsh waved Frôzhal off. "See you soon," he said evilly. Frôzhal turned away, being satisfied about how he had managed to make the situation less uncomfortable. His promotion would only mean that he was more in charge, their friendship (Frôzhal believes that is called friendship) would never end.

"Good luck with your promotion!" someone called after him.

Frôzhal was happy they at least supported him, yes; wishing him good luck was a sign of support. A few minutes had passed before he realised that he had been proud. He had been proud when telling the others that he expected to be promoted soon. This was ones biggest mistake. He shook his head, trying to think of a how to make this to something positive. No, it's wasn't possible! This would definitely be his downfall. He huddled together, leaning his back to a huge tree trunk. He was full with regret and his conscience made him shiver. Frôzhal gulped as he saw Jinan come out from the headquarter building about fifty paces away.

Had Jinan been promoted instead of himself?

As this thought struck him, he realised that if Jinan had been promoted, he surely wouldn't. Within a minute's time his dream had been crushed, there was no promotion! He made a grimace, how in the world could Jinan get promoted and not him?

With clenched teeth and determination he stood up, held his head high and wandered off to the headquarters in hope to find out about this... this... Jinan and how he had got a promotion.... This just had to be a promotion, right?

***

doug*platypus' first post

A New Post

A week after returning from the outlying villages, Gimilzôr was summoned to meet his superior. He strode across town to where a headquarters had been set up, in a two-storied brick building overlooking the river to the north. His helmet was off against the heat of the late morning, and his forehead was beaded with sweat before he had walked a furlong. He was tired also, as he seldom was after a restful few days. The signs of oncoming age, he thought to himself sadly. However this only made him set his shoulders resolutely, and quicken his pace. At 34 years, he was still fitter and stronger than most of the men under his command.

Gimilzôr had proved this time and again on their last expedition. His troop had been sent to gather recruits and supplies from villages within the province. Although this duty was not as gruelling as facing an enemy army in battle, there was often resistance. Gimilzôr’s lord demanded that one in every ten men be conscripted to swell the ranks of his army; a demand that many villagers were loath to accept, since it robbed them of their finest blood. But the veteran commander had been greatly successful, and led his men to the border outpost of Harnen Crossing with his head held high.

Walking between tall palms, Gimilzôr reached his destination, stepping through the entrance and out of the heat of the sun. Once inside, he was shown to a small room that served temporarily as an office. His superior sat at a desk, fanned with a large frond by a woman with a light, dusky brown complexion and a downcast face. A cup of deliciously aromatic tea was before him. Gimilzôr saluted, clenched fist clanging against his bronze armour. The captain did not motion for him to sit, preferring to leave a distinction between him and the lower ranking Gimilzôr, despite the mutual respect between them.

“Eleven villages, one hundred and thirty conscripts,” he said matter-of-factly, reading from a parchment in front of him. “Well done. And my personal thanks for… the other tribute you gathered.” He indicated with a wry grin the woman standing nearby.

Gimilzôr smiled as the bonus he expected was pushed across the table to him; a small purse of coins which he took with a slight bow.

“As for your next post,” the young officer continued, “a small expeditionary force will shortly be pushing north towards the forest.” He waved casually behind him, in the direction of the river. “It will be led by an officer called Lan’Kâsh. I want you and your men to march under him. You will be joined by two relatively inexperienced sub-commanders. Jinan and Frôzhal are their names: you would do well to learn them. These two are capable, but ambitious, and may need keeping an eye on.”

At this point another man entered the room, attired also in the fashion of an officer of the Haradrim. He was tall and thin, with swarthy skin, and his hair hung down (in a scruffy manner, thought Gimilzôr) to his shoulders. The captain introduced him as Lan’Kâsh, and he and Gimilzôr saluted then clasped arms in formal military greeting. The man smelled slightly of ale, but that was to be expected in a town such as this between battles. And although he was a little unkempt at the moment, there could be no doubting the man’s experience and vigour in battle. Once Lan’Kâsh had taken a seat, the captain continued to brief Gimilzôr.

“I want you to see that your superior’s orders are carried out. Any northern settlements you find are to be wiped out completely. You have been chosen for your experience in this kind of warfare. Myself, I wouldn’t go near such a lowly assignment. Within the next month I will be leading a strong force across the River Poros to test the strength of Gondor. I expect you both to have completed your mission by then. Then maybe you will have some small share in the glory of Harad. You are dismissed, Gimilzôr.”

“For glory, my lord!” Gimilzôr cried, his eyes lighting up with the promise of battle to come.

The talk of great plans for extending the reach of the Empire had made his heart quicken. Most of his experience had been with small village conflicts, and a part of him strongly desired to be in a great battle against the Men of the West, such as those of old that he had heard tell of, when the Dark Lord himself had led the people of the south into battle. Excited like a brash young soldier, as he had not been for many years, he saluted his superiors once again, turned on his heel and walked out. Without pausing, he left the brick building and headed for his encampment, to ready his men, sharpen his sword, and pray to his gods, so that he might be their tool in bringing death to Gondor.

[Daniel Telcontar]

Khalad beheld the buildings in front of him, reflected slightly in the sun.Riding along with the rest of his company, he held his head high as he clutched his spear and shield.

It looked rather peaceful, and he wondered slightly why he had been sent to this outpost rather than stay in the south where trouble was brewing. But he assumed that the officers had their reasons for sending him so far away from his home.

When he closed his eyes he could almost smell the sea, and hear the noise from it; and if he concentrated, he could summon forth a vision of the white marble house that was his home.

He quickly opened his eyes again though, not wishing to day-dream upon this day. It mattered not if Gondor desired him in Minas Tirith or Poros; he would remain the same, and would not allow anyone to accuse him of neglecting his duties. Though he had to admit, he would rather be in Minas Tirith now than this small settlement.

His left hand let go of the reins and slid down to his belt and although wearing the shield he was able to touch the hilt of his sword. He could feel its scabbard with every pace his mount took, but it felt good to touch it with his fingertips, even if it was the wrong hand.

He smiled a grim smile when thinking upon the few times he had been allowed to draw it with proper reason; to use it in defence of Gondor, and not merely for child's play. He feared though that the only reasons he would have for drawing that blade out here would be to oil it.

An unnecessary precaution, since it was forged by metal that would not perish in such a way; yet after seeing the rusty blades lingering on old battlefields, he felt most comfortable knowing that something protected his blade.

As they finally reached the houses, Khalad dismounted and saluted his officer who went off to report their arrival to the commander. Khalad brought his horse into the stables, and after making sure it was well-tended, he walked outside and took a good look on his new home; he was a soldier of Gondor, and Gondor was the realm he had chosen to defend. And this settlement was a part of that realm.

[Nerindel]

As Astalder rode through the dusty streets of the new settlement he took in every bend and turn and each new building, many of which were in various stages of construction, the village was growing into a friendly community, nearly every person he passed bade him a good morning, the red faced baker, with his tray full of freshly baked breads, the broad framed farrier come blacksmith hammering at an iron shoe on his anvil, the thin middle aged potter wiping his clay stained hands on his apron, before pushing his glasses back up his long nose, Astalder greeted them all with a nod and a smile, But even through the villagers friendly and enthusiastic nature as they went about their morning business he could sense their tension, the odd glance to the river told him that the rumours of stirrings in the south had reach their ears, and that they worried about their position so near to the south road, they knew like he did, if their was to be trouble from the southerners it would undoubtedly pass their way. His warm smile slipped at these thoughts, but returned and he heard a familiar loud and hearty voice, coming from around the next bend.

"No, no, no, man that will never do, do you what my patrons to be knocking themselves unconscious every time they leave, It needs to be higher up... and a little more to the right!"

Astalder grinned as he came upon the settlements inn, 'The Poros Crossing' he read from the sign that a dark haired handyman was repositioning, the deep scowl on the mans face told him that the innkeeper had, had him move the sign several times already. The innkeeper was a tall barrel of a man, his dark hair indiscriminately streaked with grey, an intimidating figure if it where not for the warm and welcoming smile that nearly always adorned the mans rugged features. Astalder knew the man from Minas Tirith, where the man had been a successful wine trader, but as the second son he knew that the family business would never be his and Alstalder was never sure that his old friend had ever wanted the stress and hassle that went with that type of life. But seeing his old friend here and taking the role of the innkeeper of a quite settlement along the Poros, he knew that his suspicions had been right.

"Now! what brings a noted Merchants son from the bustling market place of the White City, to our humble little village?" he laughed as the innkeeper nodded his approval to the man repositioning his sign.

"Astalder!" the man cried in recognition, as he spun round. Astalder almost let out a laugh as he saw the handyman quickly fix the sign to the wall, before the innkeeper had a chance to change his mind, yet again.

"I Heard that you had requested a transfer here, but to be honest I didn't believe it, but here you are!" the innkeeper exclaimed as he strode towards him. Astalder dismounted and the pair embraced, the older man then held him at arms length, "still a Requen? I would have thought you would have made captain by now !" he frowned looking at Astadler's pristine uniform.

"Now, Talfas, you know I will not allow myself to be blinded by ambition, I am happy to serve Gondor in this position, where the skill I have been graced with would better protect our people." He replied modestly. Talfas looked to his friends sword and nodded, he had only once seen the man draw it, but it had seemed to him that the weapon was more an extension of the man's right arm than the cold steel of war.

"It is good to see you my old friend, but I really should not keep my new captain waiting, I will be sure to stop by when duty allows and sample some of your fine ales." he grinned remounting his horse. The innkeeper laughed and watched his friend ride off, before turning his attention back to the sign.

Astalder continued on through the settlement, till he came to a large white stone, official looking building, hitching his horse to a nearby post he dismounted and opened his saddle bags, pulling out the neatly rolled vellum that was his transfer papers. He then stopped a passing guard asking where he could find Captain Anhelm.


"In his office, up there sir," the young guard answered, pointing to the top of some stone stairs, that lead to a smaller building perched upon the stone wall that surrounded the new Poros settlement. Thanking the guard he made his way up the stairs, stopping before the dark wooden door, where he straightened his tunic and adjusted his vambrace's before knocking firmly on the door and awaited an answer from within.

[Manôphazân]

Lan’kâsh emerged from his headquarters building precisely as the first edge of the morning sun breached the sandy horizon. Caught in its bloodstained rays, he looked like a bronze statue of some sinister underworld creature as he stood completely still, breathing in the last breath of the relatively cool night air. The temperature of the land about them was already rising, as if in anticipation of the heated activities to come.

In the increasing light, he could see Sergeant Benel had again efficiently fulfilled his duties. The thirty men assigned to the Harnen Crossing customs station stood at attention in a neat block of non-wavering military bearing. Most of them had originally came to the post thinking they had arrived at a place where the rules would be looser, but Lan’kâsh turned out to be a strict disciplinarian, and over several months he had beaten them into a fairly impressive unit. On this morning, he himself had changed into his good armor and put away the customs official jacket. He noted with satisfaction that none of his men were wearing theirs, either.

Behind his familiar group of soldiers stood an unexpected sight. More than 150 men stood at attention in two distinct groups. The first, nearly 100 swarthy Haradrim, were obviously experienced military fighters. Their armor and weapons were clean and sharp, so much so that growing sunlight glinted brightly off of them. The second group, on the other hand, looked to be nothing more than a convention of dirty farmers holding a variety of weapons, including pitchforks, hatchets, and at least one hoe.

The lieutenant turned to Sgt Benel and asked him quietly, “What are these settlers doing here?”

Sgt Benel, who was not tall, looked up at Lan’kâsh and shrugged. “You’ll have to ask that one over there.

The lieutenant looked up and recognized the scar-faced recruiter from the day before. He motioned for him to come over.

“Gimilzôr,” he said, “These must be the same draftees that you spoke of yesterday in the captain’s office.”

“Yes sir, they are,” answered Gimilzôr with a jack-o-lantern smile, “some of them, at least.”

“And why are they here?”

The scarred man continued grinning. “Along with my men, they are to form your company, lieutenant. It is an honor to serve” He snapped a crisp salute.

Lan’kâsh breathed quietly for several moments, forcing himself to relax. In his lengthy career he had led men of all sorts with a variety of expertise, and in his experience the absolute worst kind of man to have fighting beside you was a man who was untrained. Yesterday, the captain had said he would be given enough men to create an effective scouting force, but he had not been told that he would be anchored with a band of novices that had only recently been pressed into service.

He pointed to the neatly aligned soldiers. “Those men, they look good but can they fight? Have they fought? Or have they spent their careers scaring farmers into the Army?”

Gimilzôr nodded his head and said proudly, “They can fight alright, and they like it.” He pointed to the conscripts, who were now milling around. “And with the right leadership, those new boys will learn to like it, too.”

Lan’kâsh stood quietly again and at last said, “Then we’ll have to choose the right men to lead them. I’m sure there are some among our ranks that would be up to the challenge of putting these new rats into order.”

[Orual]

Anhelm ran a weary hand through his hair as he rifled through the scout reports. They did nothing to dispell the unease that had been filtering down the ranks throughout the entire settlement. There was no outright hostility, not yet, but rumours and whispers of discontent among the Haradrim whose lands bordered the small village were everywhere. He could scarcely go out of his office without hearing it from someone, whether it was one of his soldiers, or Telpe the cook, or a merchant's wife. It was even discussed among the young boys of the settlement. The Haradrim were lining up to attack, if the talk in the village was to be believed. No one took the uneasy peace for granted.

He slammed the folders down on his desk and went over to the window, rubbing his face vigorously. The village was going about its day outside, and Anhelm caught a glimpse of Mavi playing with a ball. A smile tried valiently to make its way onto his face, but its efforts were in vain. He could not smile. Perhaps his one alloted smile per day had been spent on Mavi in the morning. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to clear his head.

He leaned against the wall, breathing deeply of the dry, pungent southern air. It smelled slightly of the wood his furniture was made of, slightly of the odd, exotic spices Telpe used in the food, slightly of the old, musty fabric used in his curtains and in his uniform. It was a smell altogether different from anything he had ever inhaled in Minas Tirith, or anywhere in Gondor, but it was not unpleasant. It was strange and exciting. It made him feel alive.

His eye went to his sword, hanging expectantly on the wall, waiting to be picked up. He tugged at the bottom of his shirt, pulled himself up straight, and strode over to it. Reverently he took it off the wall, and held it horizontally. Slowly he unsheathed it until the blade was four or five inches out of the scabbard, and it glinted in the sun. His eyes flicked over to the reports lying on his desk, then back to the sword. "I may need you sooner than I had hoped," he murmured, sheathing the sword and slipping it into his belt.

He started when a knock came at his door. "Come in," he said, tripping as he hurried back to his desk and tried to look official.

A man, probably a few years older than Anhelm, stepped in and snapped to attention. "Here to receive my orders, sir," he said smartly, handing some papers to Anhelm. The young Captain took them and studied them for a moment.

Anhelm could feel the soldier's eyes on him. "Those are my transfer papers, sir," he added. Anhelm looked up at him briefly.

"At ease," Anhelm said, and was surprised to find a grin threatening his solemn demeanor again. He found a leaf of paper hidden among the others, a letter from a friend of his father's.

Anhelm, the letter read,

Congratulations on your new post. Your father is proud of you, as are we all. But you are still young, and more than a little inexperienced. You will need good soldiers to back you up, for your position is perilous.

Astalder is a good soldier. He is older than you, and more experienced than you, and possibly smarter than you. I can't back that last one up, but it's a hunch. He's a solid man, and exactly the one you need. Use him well, and he will be of good use to you. He comes with my highest recommendations.

Hikallaba,
Cpt. Taraphel of the Steward's Guard

Anhelm put the letter down and looked up at Astalder. Finally, a smile broke out onto his face. "Welcome to the Poros settlement, Astalder," he said, stood up, and extended his hand.

[Imladris]

Jinan buried his face in his pillow, ignoring the sun that now peeped merrily above the mountains. The frown that had arrived yesterday at the knowledge that he was not to lead the expedition to accursed Gondor was still there and it appeared to have no intention of leaving. He drummed his fingers on the edge of his wooden cot, calculating how long he could stay in bed. With a groan he threw the covers off and immediately dressed in his uniform.

Running his fingers through his hair, he strode down the down the street, scuffing tufts of weeds now and then. He passed a group of men who were huddled about a campfire. A tarnished silver pitcher hung from a stick and he smelled an exotic, homely odour. Coffee. With a swift turn of the heel, he said, “Is the coffee ready, men?”

They glanced up at him, then eyed one another reluctantly. “Come, come gents,” Jarlyn said, with an arch of eyebrows. “I’m off to Gondor soon and don’t have time to make such a luxury. You can always make more.”

With a nod, they poured him a wooden cup of coffee. Peering into the cup with one eyebrow raised, he sniffed and then took an experimental sip. Raising his other brow, he said, with a disappointed shake of the head, “This is more like watered mud than coffee, my dear sirs. Should have taken the time to make one myself.” With a small sigh he let the ground have the rest and tossed the wooden mug into the fire. “Oh I’m sorry, mates,” he said apologetically. “One of you should have caught it before it landed in the fire.”

With a smirk, he turned away and sauntered down the path. A company of men soon came into sight, with the man who was to be his superior surveying them. Gimilzôr was with them, with that dead smile of his revealing his yellowed teeth.

Going to Lan’kâsh’s side, Jinan, eyebrows raised, mouth upturned in a smirkish grin, surveyed the motley crew for himself. They had not seen much of war and would probably run at the first sight of Gondor’s winged helmets. He snorted and kicked the dust. So this was the boasting of Harad. A pack of soldiers who dared to call themselves men.

“Then we’ll have to choose the right men to lead them. I’m sure there are some among our ranks that would be up to the challenge of putting these new rats into order,” Lan’kâsh said.

Turning to him, Jinan said, “There are few talented men among us – most them have to put up with amateur rats like these. Happily,” he added with a thin smile, “I am one of those talented officers and I am sure that I could teach them to become a true soldier of Harad…sir.”

[Nerindel]

"Welcome to the Poros settlement, Astalder,"

Astalder took his captains extended hand in a confidently firm, but friendly grip. "It is a pleasure to be here, from what I have seen they have the beginnings of a very fine settlement here," he smiled returning his captains greeting. The young captain had seemed solemn and his eyes for those first few minutes of their meeting had betrayed the weight of his position, but he pretended not to notice. He had to admit to himself that on being told that his new captain was a young man, the concern had been there that he would be facing another ambitious, brash and overconfident young man, but in those first few minutes he had seen that his fears were unfounded, the fact that his position weighed heavily upon him spoke volumes to the experienced soldier, this man thought before acting, an attribute that he believed essential to men of their position.

"Yes, it is coming along well" Anhelm answered with his smile in place and turning towards the window, but Astalder noted the same look he had seen from the settlers as he rode through the village that morning.

"Rumours of stirring have reached their ears and though they hide it well their thoughts are on the lands to the south and their eyes drift oft to the road." he said relaying his observations and guessing the direction of his captains thoughts. Anhelm remained quite for a moment looking out over the settlement and Astalder fear for a moment he had over stepped his position , but just as quickly he pushed his doubt aside, if he was to best serve his captain, his family and the settlers they were sworn to protect, he would have to know if there was any substance to these rumours.

"What news do the scouts bring this day?" he asked after Anhelm had turned confirming that he too had felt the silent tension over the settlers. His Captain looked at him contemplatively for a moment, likely assessing the reason for so blunt a question, "My apologises captain, if I seem rather bold and presumptuous, but it has always served me well, to rely only on facts than to adhere to rumours and hearsay." he offered as way of explanation. Too his relief the young captains smile returned and with a satisfied nod Anhelm gestured for him to take a seat. Pushing his sword aside he did as he was bade sitting down on a dark wooden chair and waiting patiently as Anhelm took his seat and ruffled through a few papers on his desk. If there was trouble brewing this young man would not face it alone, he for one would help if he could and as his wife was always reminding him the men of Gondor were a strong and valiant people and would weather what ever troubles came their way as they had always done and he had faith that if the need arose the people would come to support this young captain.

Astalder focused his attention on his captain listening intently to everything the young man had to say, so he could be better prepared to protect these people.

[Novnarwen]

Frôzhal had only just managed to catch up with Jinan the pervious day. The other Haradrim had seemed to be in a hurry, pacing quickly away from the two-storied building. He told Frôzhal, who annoyingly sprang up at his side, about the attack and that he wasn't leading it. Frôzhal had later left Jinan, or rather been waved off, and had the rest of day believed he was going to lead the attack after all. Frôzhal had felt both proud, and sorry for Jinan who was nothing more than a soldier.

Today however, to Frôzhal's disappointment, he had finally realised that it wasn't going to be him, leading the attack after all. As the sun rays found Frôzhal, who was standing among several other Haradrim's watching the new captain, he started blinking, which both annoyed and made Frôzhal frustrated. The Swerting felt so incredibly small where he stood; being annoyed by a yellow circle in the sky and the Haradrim who was going to lead the attack; Lan’kâsh’. Frôzhal shuddered while looking at this respected man. He hid his face in his hands for a few moments, before eyeing Jinan stepping forwards talking to Lan’kâsh’. In mere frustration and jealousy Frôzhal coughed loudly, making everyone look towards him.

"I'm one of those ......Ehm," Frôzhal said loudly, but couldn't quite remember Jinan's exact words. He grew embarrassed and went slightly pink.

"One of those, what?!" Lan’kâsh’ said, eying the pink Haradrim soldier.

Frôzhal trembled with fear, not daring to stare into Lan’kâsh’'s eyes. He took a single step towards the left, where he hopefully was out of Lan’kâsh’ and Jinan's sight. At first it seemed that both Jinan and Lan’kâsh’ were ignoring him and continuing their conversation. But then, after a few moments, Frôzhal found himself standing in the middle. Everyone had backed away, making a huge circle. Now, Frôzhal, who nervously bit his lip, was standing in the middle while Lan’kâsh’ and Jinan approached.

"One of those, what?" Lan’kâsh’ repeated calmly, looking viciously at his 'victim'. Frôzhal froze. Like a stiff mummy, he waited for someone to help him out of this truly horrible situation. Why did he always have to be so stupid? he thought to himself, looking down in the ground. Lan’kâsh’ waited impatiently for an answer. Frôzhal, on the other hand, waited impatiently for a rescuer. When a few moments had passed he figured it was better to say something now, instead of waiting any longer looking like a total twit, standing in the middle of a ring in the sun. He shivered, shrugging.

"I'm one of those..." he started.

Lan’kâsh’ was starting to lose it. One could clearly see it by the way he moved his brows; up and down, furiously.

"I'm one of those loyal soldiers, who will follow you, and... and.." he said, stammering at the end of the sentence. "I will... remain loyal" he said loud and clear, finishing.

Lan’kâsh’ looked oddly at the Hardrim before he grinned. Frôzhal looked with a tense look, trying to figure what the other thought. A grin! he thought joyfully. This had to be a good sign.....

[Orual]

"What news do the scouts bring this day?" Astalder asked. Anhelm looked over at him, half startled by the abruptness of the question and half pleased that he thought to ask. "My apologies, captain, if I seem rather bold and presumptuous, but it has always served me well, to relying only facts than to adhere to rumours and hearsay."

Anhelm nodded. "The reports seem like they've been recycled," he said, a touch of weariness creeping into his voice. He stood up, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked over to the window again. "It's the same thing over and over. Whispers. Rumours. The occasional Haradrim youth harrassing soldiers. Nothing bloody, but it compounds. They say someone, or something, or some nobody-knows-what, is trying to aggravate the Haradrim, to convince them to attack us." He laughed bitterly. "I don't think so. They're just annoyed anyway. We've edged in on their territory. There doesn't have to be a higher power involved."

He leaned against the windowsill, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. Astalder was silent behind him, waiting patiently for his captain to say something else. He straightened up and turned back to Astalder. "Everyone is on edge here, Astalder. I know you've felt it--it's impossible not to. And the worst thing is that there's nothing to do about it, because there's nothing tangible that's causing it. We can't fight something that won't let us see it. What can we do? Throw rocks back at the boys who harrass us? We can't make the first move. We've been forbidden to make any moves of aggression."

Anhelm went back to his desk and sat heavily, propping his elbows on the desk and running his hands through his hair, then looked up at Astalder. "There are hard times ahead," he said. "I hope I can count on you to help me through them. I need all the good men I can get."

[Galadel Vinorel]

The soldier hurried through the streets of the Poros settlement on his way to see the Captain. The sun was beginning to rise further into the sky, as the day went on. The morning was growing older, and the children were now gathered in the strees to play. A wooden ball rolled across his path, and the man barely stopped in time before he tripped over it. Looking down at the ball that was now laying at his feet, Adenain grinned at the child whose it was. He then picked it up and tossed it in the air. "Adenain!" yelled the child in delight, for they all knew the funny soldier who made them laugh with his jokes, "That's mine!"

"Is it now?" the soldier replied, a broad smile on his face. Lazily he tossed the ball once more in the air. Then he handed it back to the small child, and the boy ran away happily to play with his friends.

Adenain smiled to himself and continued on his way, his sword swinging at his side, his bow and arrows strapped to his back. Weaving his way through the already busy marketplace, where woman were selling and buying goods and carts filled the streets, the soldier finally reached his destination. Past the guards and up the stairs he quickly walked; his goal was near. Down a long hallway he went, and then he reached a doorway. On either side of it a guard stood. Straightening his uniform, the man nodded to the guards and opened the door.

Inside he saw Captain Anelm, a worried expression upon is face, and another man talking. Adenain smiled and quickly saluted the officer. "Lieutenan Adenain reporting for duty, sir. What are my orders for the day, Captain?"

[Daniel Telcontar]

Aduchil stod in the stables, tending to Palan's mane. Even if there were stableboys to do this job he preferred to do it himself. He had been the owner of Palan for several years now, and ever since he became a Roquen had the horse served as his steed and mount in the few battles he had fought. He touched its head affectionally, smiling as the horse snorted. When he was satisfied with its condition, he checked once more that it had water and hay and then left the stables, heading for the barracks.

He wore no armour, having removed it upon their arrival. They had been dismissed to give them time to adjust to their new surroundings before they became on duty. Yet his sword hung as usual by his waist, and he laid his left hand upon it, the familiar feeling of the hilt of the sword comforting him. A few children ran past him laughing and playing with a ball, and he caught the eyes of a few maidens, yet he took no heed but went straight to the barracks that lay next to the stables.

Once he arrived there he sat down, bringing forth some food that he had taken with him. The ride had been long and the sun hot, and so he refreshed himself, eating first and then afterwards walking outside to the well. After he had had some water and washed the dust of the road away from his face, he decided to take a look at the town. Walking down the main street he almost cleaved the human sea, standing taller than most. He did not attract any curious gazes though, most guessing from the sword he wore that he was a soldier that had just arrived in town. His pouch was full of coins and he bought an apple from an old woman, eating it slowly as he came to the outskirts of the settlement.

He saw a few soldiers and nodded to them in greeting when they like the townsfolk realised he was a soldier like them. So this was the place he was to defend with his life. It was quite different from his home of Pelargir, though the area was akin to that he had lived in when fighting in the border skirmishes against Haradrim. This time though the conditions were better, though the foes were the same. He was not as anxious to wield his sword as he had been in the skirmishes, though, for he realised that this time the lives of others were at stake; not just soldiers whose duty it was to fight, but also commoners who should not be involved in war.

He turned around and walked back to the barracks, finding his bed and lying down. He was not tired, yet did not know what else to do, and the warmth of the sun made him feel sleepy. He reckoned it would be best to be in his best shape when he was to be on duty, and no harm in preparing for that even if he did not yet know when that time was.

[Manôphazân]

Lan’kâsh looked at the pale, bug-eyed man and grinned as a humorous thought came into his mind. The impertinent youth had obviously intended to volunteer himself for a leadership position, and just as his intent was plain to see, so was his complete unsuitability for the job. Soldiers needed experienced men to follow, and the long nosed fellow in front of him appeared to have barely weathered boot camp.

The lieutenant’s grin tightened into a less jovial line as he turned to address the self-appointed ‘officer’ beside him. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my formation? The short man jumped as Lan’kâsh struck him across the face.

Before Jinan could answer, Lan’kâsh struck him again with a backhand snap of his right hand. Blood splattered from is mouth, and the astonished soldier fell to his knees, unable to keep his balance after the unexpected assault.

“Gimilzôr,” he shouted, looking for the recruiter. He found him still standing at his side. “Is this rat one of yours? He is dressed as a soldier, but he is not standing in the ranks.”

“No sir,” replied Gimilzôr, coolly. “He’s not one of mine.”

“Sergeant Benel,” said Lan’kâsh in a quieter voice. He was overcoming his anger and returning to a semblance of his normal, quiet self. “Do you know this man?”

“Yes sir, I believe I do know who he is,” said the sergeant, kneeling down to look the bleeding man in the eye. “If I am not mistaken, he’s one of the young captain’s men.”

The dark lieutenant looked down at the man he had attacked, considering if he should strike him again. “Are you sure? He doesn’t look like a lancer to me.”

Jinan saw an opportunity, and rose to meet it. “No sir, I’m not a lancer, but I am with the captain.” He drew back to avoid any further blows, but none came, so he continued. “The captain has reassigned me to your company and insisted that I come to you and offer my assistance personally.”

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper, which Sergeant Benel tore from his fingers and handed to Lan’kâsh. The lieutenant read it carefully and pushed it into his own pocket. He removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his long hair, looking across the road to the motley collection of farmers that Gimilzôr had brought him.

“Another gift from the captain,” he grumbled. “How wonderful.”

He grew quiet and put his helmet back on. After several moments of silence he turned to Gimlizôr with a wicked grin.

“These two men are immediately promoted to Corporal and are each to be given a platoon of 25 of your farmers. Their men will supplement your company. Sergeant Benel will lead the Harnen Crossing platoon, and I, of course, will lead you all.”

He raised his voice so that everyone present could hear him clearly. “Be ready to leave this town at sundown.”

Lan’kâsh turned without another word and walked into his headquarters.

[Orual]

Anhelm rose as a young soldier came in. "Lieutenant Adenain reporting for duty, sir. What are my orders for the day, Captain?"

Anhelm looked the young man over. "At ease," he said, and gestured to the seat next to Astalder. "Adenain, Astalder. And the other way around. Get to know each other, because you'll be working closely." He walked around his chair and leaned on it. "Adenain, I was just telling Astalder about our situation here. Here at the Poros settlement we have a delicate balance to keep. It's a dangerous game to play, and one that requires a lot of skill, but I believe that the two of you for sure have the abilities necessary to win. And I say this because there's no alternative to winning here."

He gestured out the window. "That road there? That leads directly to trouble. That leads directly to our enemies. We have a settlement full of men, women, and children. We have a little town that is on the verge of becoming a real place of commerce. We can't afford to lose it. We can't afford to allow the Haradrim to take this settlement."

Adenain looked a little stunned at Anhelm's sudden proclamation, and the young captain smiled. "You asked after your orders, Lieutenant. Your orders are to be at ease and familiarize yourself to the settlement. I want you to get to know this place. Meet the people. Taste the food. I'm not saying that Telpe's food isn't good, but it's military-issue. Eat something that the settlers cook. Buy a shirt." He tossed a small bag of coins at Adenain, then one at Astalder. "I want you to love this place. I want you to want to defend it. Because that's what we're here to do. Defend this place against a very real and very immediate threat." He inclined his head. "Dismissed, men."

[doug*platypus]

Captains of the South

Lip twisting slightly into a sneer, Gimilzôr watched his captain’s back recede into the distance. He was left alone with the two commanders who (he thought) had been appointed to serve under the leadership of Lan’kâsh. Neither was very happy about what had just happened, the wily sergeant thought with an inward smirk. Young Jinan had come away from this ‘meeting’ with a bruised face and a split lip, though the marks would not last as long as the lesson in humility he had learned. The other had been treated even more poorly. Gimilzôr was well used to the many hardships of life in the Army of Harad, and he thoroughly approved of how Jinan had been dealt with, but it was another thing to completely ignore a fellow soldier. Especially after he had just proclaimed his loyalty to the captain.

It was clear that at that time, Lan’kâsh had no respect for anyone apart from his precious Sergeant Benel. Gimilzôr cursed them both, but only under his breath. ‘What do I care?’ he thought to himself, and turned to his recruits. He signalled for 25 men to come forward towards each of the commanders. One wiry young man dared to approach him instead, helping another that was leaning on his shoulder in pain.

“O chief,” he stammered at Gimilzôr in the common tongue. Many of the recruits referred to him as such, and he did not discourage it. “My brother… scorpion sting his foot!”

“Aye,” said Gimilzôr, waving the two through as he drummed fingers on the hilt of his broadsword. His mind was on more important matters. “I’ve heard they’ll do that!”

Once enough of his men had come forward (mostly the fitter looking ones that didn’t carry gardening implements; he wanted to make a good impression), Gimilzôr addressed Jinan and the other commander. He was deferential, as he thought they must surely outrank him, even though Lan’kâsh had ‘promoted’ them to only corporal. Gimilzôr tried his best not to laugh at the misfortune of these poor lads.

“Sir! Sir!” he cried to them both. “Your men await your orders.”

“Excellent!” said the taller of the two cheerfully. The shorter, Jinan, surveyed his troops, pointed a threatening finger to stop a largish one in the back row picking his nose, and shook his head in disgust.

[Imladris]

Jinan wiped his lip and spat a bit of blood from his mouth towards the captian’s retreating figure. With a toothless smile, Jinan added another name to his list of revenge -- it was dangerous smacking an officer of Harad as a wench would slap a wayward child. Besides the captain’s fault of thinking he was worthless worm, he had acted immaturely, childishly. He shook his head: quite unfitting for his pretenses as a captain of Harad.

With a disgusted shrug he glanced at Frôzhal. The witless, stuttering, stupid fool. He was incompetent and shy -- it surprised Jinan that the man would have the courage to volunteer himself, much less revel in the fancy that he could lead an army, much less a platoon. His lips morphed from a toothless smile into a dark, brooding scowl as he turned his eyes upon his twenty - five men. He, Jinan, was the captain of twenty-five men who did not deserve the name of soldier. They were an utter disgrace. Twenty-five men! He deserved more than that, he was more capable than that.

“Sir! Sir! Your men await your orders,” Gimilzôr cried to them, a mocking smile hovering about his face.

Sir sir , Jinan mimicked mentally as he glanced at the man’s body of troops. Naturally, he himself was stuck with the loafers --the ones that stood like tired reeds at the bank of a shallow river. The ones who picked their noses and scratched at an itch. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the offending man who was staring, entranced, at the green stuff from his nose. At the snap, he jumped and stuck his finger in his mouth before he dropped his arms rigidly at his side.

Arms folded behind his back, Jinan cried in a penetrating, powerful voice, “You are soldiers of Harad! You are not men pining for sweethearts, yearning for their fields, wishing to hold your children in your arms! You are the men destined to drive the Gondorians from their city, to stamp their vile brood from this land. You have been offered this honour! Honour that you do not deserver, albeit, but honour none the less!” Why should he pamper these weaklings with honey sweetened words? “And because of this honour you shall fight and stand like a soldier! Stand with shoulders back, your back straight, noses in the air! You bow to no man, except to me, and you shall not be defeated!” If all goes well with such imbecilic incompetence [I] he thought. He stifled a smirk: [I] Especially with men like Frôzhal leading you.

[Nerindel]

A puzzled frown crossed Astalder's brow as he caught the pouch Anhelm tossed to him. It was not that he could not see his captains reasoning, but for him it seemed unnecessary, he had been here a month and had already used his free time to get to know some of the people he would be protecting and many he had to admit had made sure they got to know him.

As Anhelm continued he wondered if the young captain was not in some way questioning their loyalties, but he quickly dismissed that thought and rose with Adenain as their captain dismissed them. Still puzzled he saluted his captain and turned to follow the young lieutenant from the room, But as they reached the door he stopped, asking Adenain if he minded waiting for him, the young man seemed somewhat surprised but nodded and without waiting to see if the lieutenant stayed, he turned back to his captain.

Anhelm raised a questioning eyebrow as he set the pouch of coins on the table. "This is not necessary sir! I have already taken the opportunity to get to know many of the people we are here to protect, You and they already have my fealty." he answered evenly.

"I feel that my time could be better spent getting to know our defences and the outlying area and as I am also aware of the importance of getting to know the men we will be serving with I would rather get to know their skills and capabilities, especially if this threat is to become more serious!" he continued, carefully.

"I agree that we must remain non hostile in our tenuous position, but I see no reason why we can not be prepared for any eventuality." he concluded, his steady gaze regarding his captain trying to garter his reaction and hoping he had not overly step the mark.

[Orual]

Anhelm was somewhat thrown by Astalder's reaction. He looked at the small money pouch on the desk, and touched it with tentative fingertips. He nodded his head very slightly as he picked up the bag, weighing it in his hand. The worn leather strap that bound it shut brushed his hand.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Astalder," Anhelm said slowly. "I need your loyalty. It lightens my heart to know that I have it. As you have probably noticed, I'm not exactly an old war veteran." He spread his arms in an open, defenseless gesture. He longed to tell them more, to tell them how helpless he felt, how lost, alone...how he didn't know why he had been given command of the settlement, how from moment to moment he didn't know what to do. How he needed more than their loyalty: he needed their help. But he couldn't tell them that. It might undercut his authority, and even more than their help, he needed his authority.

"I may not be the most experienced soldier around, but I know enough to know that we're in a perilous position. I'm disinclined to keep things from my men, so I'll tell you now that the Haradrim are uneasy with the current situation, if we put the best possible light on the matter, and openly hostile at worst." Anhelm paused for a moment, then pressed on.

"My orders from Gondor are not to engage in any behavior that can be interpreted as aggressive. We've edged in on Harad: it's not necessary for them to be nice to us. If the shoe was on the other foot, we'd be pummelling them into the ground. We have no right to expect anything different. We can't afford to expect anything different. We do, however, have permission to engage in defensive behavior. I must tell you now, I have no great love for the Haradrim." His mouth tightened into a thin, hard line, and his fists clenched as he thought of his father, crippled by the Haradrim. "This means that the first time one of my men is attacked, we will retaliate."

He sat back in his chair, still fingering the little bag. "Do either of you have any questions?"

[Manôphazân]

Lan’kâsh emerged from his former headquarters building precisely as the last rays of the sun were absorbed into the western horizon in a great aura of red and yellow. The heat of the day still hung like a woolen blanket on the border town, but a cooler breeze was rising with the approach of night. As expected, Sergeant Benel was in place, along with the Harnen Crossing platoon. A scowling Gimilzôr stood before his own dangerous looking soldiers, and to either side stood the newly formed peasant platoons of Jinan and Frôzhal.

Gimilzôr stepped forward and announced that everyone was prepared to march.

Lan’kâsh scanned the assembled troops for a moment and then said quietly to the man before him, “Gimilzôr, I am glad to have you and your men along on this mission, but not the inclusion of your new recruits, your greens. They are poorly equipped and will likely run at the first sign of the enemy.”

Gimilzôr nodded, grunting an agreement.

Lan'kâsh continued. “Your men, as well as mine, though you think them only merchant patrollers, will see us to victory. But because you bring these settlers, you are responsible for them. Your new corporals are going to need your leadership. They must know that their number one responsibility is to do whatever it takes to have their greens hold the line.”

“Or plug the line,” growled Gimilzôr. “If there is one thing a green is good for, it filling holes in the line."

It was Lan’kâsh’s turn to grunt an agreement. “Have your men put the fear of the Dark Lord in them, because if I see any of them turn in battle, I will crucify them, if they survive.”

He looked at the gathered soldiers again and told Gimilzôr to get them moving.

~ ~ ~

Thirty minutes later, 130 soldiers and 50 new recruits crossed the ancient stone bridge that crossed the river Harnen and marched northward into Harondor.

[Novnarwen]

If it wasn't for Jinan's odd looks, which appeared in the man's face every time he looked at Frôzhal, everything was quite okay. Here he was soon crossing a river and having a whole platoon behind him! Wasn't that just great? Frôzhal had truly put all his effort in trying to please and stand up to himself and now Lan'kâsh had given him a platoon. The Haradrim just wanted to jump in the air of happiness, but then another stare from Jinan made him stand still for a moment, before staring back. Jinan't stare was such an empty stare, as if he was angry or upset.. Frôzhal shuddered, meanwhile thinking that Jinan should be happy now, having a platoon and all. He is probably embarrassed that he was smacked by Lan'kâsh, Frôzhal thought to himself, grinning at the man, who immediately turned away as if nothing was at hand. With that attitude, he probably deserved it.

As they walked, Frôzhal being immensely happy about his current position, they finally crossed the bridge. Underneath, the river Harnen's streams rippled, which made the young Haradrim shiver. He didn't like water, especially since his swimming skills were not exactly outstanding. Secondly, the water was so powerful, more powerful than himself. He looked down. He wanted to scream, but in order to restrain himself; he held a firm grip of Jinan, who approached at his side. With clenched teeth, Frôzhal stopped both the platoons in going any further. "Let go of me!" Jinan said, looking slightly evil as a dangerous smile appeared in his face. The other Haradrim didn't listen at once, but was forced too as Jinan made a move to the left, holding Frôzhal by the shoulder, making the man look down and not being able to pull himself upwards. "There," Jinan said, his eyes lit up with fire. He grinned viciously, before continuing: ”Nice view, huh? Can't you just feel the smell of... water?" he said, obviously being aware of Frôzhal's fear of water.

There was silence and none of them said anything. Jinan's firm grip of Frôzhal kept him from doing anything than smile faintly. There was nothing he could do. The other Haradrim was too strong. He hated to admit it, but it was indeed true. He shuddered as he looked down again; not daring to look into Jinan's eyes any longer. Neither did he dare try anything, like swing Jinan around and cast him into the river. No, he didn't stand a chance, whatsoever. All he could do was wait, to be thrown into the river and be humiliated in front of everyone, in front of his own platoon!

He cast a single glance at Jinan, before looking down again. The dark mixed colour of green and blue made Frôzhal sick. He felt the sweat run down his back as he realised that there was no way out. He was going down, in there..... into the water.

****

"We are crossing the river not, standing here, waiting for the river to cross us."

Jinan turned around, still having his firm grip placed at Frôzhal's shoulder. Lan'kâsh voice rang in Frôzhal's ears. Finally, his rescue!

"Just learning my platoon about how we can make rats like this one shiver..... Tremble.... wishing he would never been such a ...."

Frôzhal froze. Was he just called a rat? This was outrages! Jinan had slowly loosened his grip around Frôzhal and this was clearly his opportunity to strike back. Calling me a rat.. Frôzhal cursed to himself. He bent down, smirking satisfyingly, now ready to strike back and make this man regret his words. However, amazingly enough, he was hindered by his own ego. If he was going to impress Lan'kâsh, he would have to lead his platoon over the bridge now; without anymore of these delays. He thought, however, angrily to himself that Jinan would pay. If not now, he would, eventually.

[Galadel Vinorel]

During the time in which the two men had been talking to one another Adenain had remained still and speechless. Yet, when he heard his Captain say, addressing them both, "Do either of you have any questions?", the young man was brought out of his silence.

Responding quickly, Adenain asked, "My lord, I was wondering if you have sent any search parties or soldiers to keep track of the Hardrim's movements on the borders of our settlement, for I have heard that they have been coming rather close to this settlement within the past week or so?"

Looking down at the bag of coins in his hand and over at the one that Anhelm held in his own hand, he said, "In the matter of this money that you have most graciously given to me, I would like to use part of it to fix my house's roof, if you would not mind, sir, for it has been leaking greatly the past few rains. I will, though return to you the remainder of the money that I do not use, once the job is finished."

[Imladris]

Jinan stared at Frôzhal: he was like a cute puppy with those dancing eyes and the constrained step of excitement that threatened to explode into a jump of delight. And why was he happy? Because he was in command of a platoon: twenty-five men. Besides the fact that he didn’t deserve it, that he didn’t have the backbone for it, but twenty-five men was such a measly number. Could one change the course of a loosing war with twenty-five men? I think not.

A clammy, wet hand, that was very much like a sponge, gripped mine. It reminded me of how a terrified child would cling to his mother’s comforting arms for protection. But why would he be frightened now…they weren’t even in the Gondorians’ territory yet. We were just crossing a bridge that spanned the river. Frôzhal glanced at the river and gulped before he stopped in the middle of the bridge. “Let go of me,” Jinan ordered, but the other Haradrim did not hear him. Suddenly Jinan remembered Frôzhal’s strange aversion to water, and, with a toothless smile, Jinan guessed the source of Frôzhal’s fear.

Gripping his shoulder, Jinan shoved him towards the edge of the bridge and with a twisted smirk said, “Nice view, eh? Can't you just feel the smell of...water?” Do you know what happens to unwanted puppies? The question flitted through his mind only briefly as he felt Frôzhal tremble, glancing first at the water and then at Jinan.

Jinan contemplated whether he should let the little runt sweat some more or whether he should just hurl him over the bridge now and laugh as the puppy gasped for air and paddled to the shore. Just as he was about to heave him over the side (no matter how Jinan phrased it and imagined it in his mind, Frôzhal was too heavy to heave overboard), the Captain’s voice cut through the air.

“We are crossing the river, not waiting for the river to cross us.”

"Just learning my platoon about how we can make rats like this one shiver..... Tremble.... wishing he would never been such a sniveling recreant.”

Jinan hoped that the Captain wouldn’t hold up the march any longer than it had been held up. It wasn’t as if the Gondorians would sit easily in their Poros settlement waiting for the Haradrim to attack. Though idiotic, the Gondorians were no fools.

[Orual]

Anhelm nodded to Adenain. "Take however much money you need for repairs. It won't do for a leaky roof to be sheltering the head of one of my men.

"As for your first question, I have men out patrolling the borders, of course, but we don't spend much time outside of the borders. I've sent some men on exploration--there are some out now--scouts and such, to see where the Haradrim are. To see how far they are from the settlement. So far they have--the Haradrim, I mean--they have kept mainly to their own territory, but gradually they've been sending a man, two men, to spy on us in turn."

He stopped, taking a long, hard look at the two men in front of him. They were ready, willing, and not pleased with being cooped up inside the settlement, to all appearances. He bit his lip contemplatively, looked at his desk and willed his fingers to be still--he had been drumming again. Wait, no, he hadn't. He looked up abruptly and realized that someone was knocking on the door. "Come in," he said, a worried frown on his face.

A young man came in, perhaps seventeen. He was a scout, Anhelm knew, and the fastest runner of all the scouts. He looked winded, though. "Report," Anhelm said shortly, standing up in alarm.

"The Haradrim, sir," the scout said breathlessly, gasping for air. "They're on the move. They've left their city, and they might be on the way here."

Anhelm nodded, cracking his knuckles absent-mindedly. He turned to Adenain and Astalder. "This is how it begins, men," he said, his voice low and a little dangerous. The scout looked uneasily at his captain. "One move, one little move, something with ambiguous motivation. No." He slammed his open palms down on the table, causing the scout to jump. "This isn't going to happen. We won't let them catch us off-guard. Suit up. We won't be aggressive, but I will die before I let this settlement be caught unawares. We will be prepared, we will be ready, and if the Haradrim get here, they will be met with an ambush. Until we know for sure if they are coming here, we will just be ready." All of his strength seemed to seep out of him, and he looked down at the table in dismay. He wasn't prepared for this. No one in the settlement was. How did this happen?

[Daniel Telcontar]

Khalad was awakened by the noise of his comrades. He opened his eyes and saw them strapping their armour on and buckling their swordbelts. He asked one nearby what was happening, and received a hasty reply: "The enemy is advancing towards us, and all soldiers are to be ready for battle. That is all I know with certainty, the rest is rumour." Aduchil stood up, slightly anxious. They had barely arrived to this place and already it seemed that combat was nigh. He arrayed himself in his armour and then reached for his scabbard, tying it around his waist.

He drew his sword and looked at the engravings, feeling the many years that lay in them. A noble blade, and wielded for a noble cause. That much he knew, though he hoped that this was not the day when the sword would be left without a wielder. He allowed the hilt to touch his forehead briefly before sheathing it again, feeling the blood flow quickly through his veins. With hasty steps he walked into the stables and checked on his stallion; it was possible that the Roqueni was told to fight mounted and if so he had to be ready.

He left the stables and hurried down the main street of the town; the grim faces that the townsfolk had told him that they had also heard, and he could faintly hear the sobbing of a child. His right hand grasped the hilt of his sword as he almost ran down the street, prepared to draw it at moment's notice. Around him he could see his comrades, those whom he would soon fight with and perhaps die with. He could feel the fear of death rising in him; yet he would not allow it to rise.

He silently began reciting the few words and phrases that his father had taught him of the High-Elven Speech. He knew almost nothing of that tongue, yet the alien words made him feel calm and lose his anxiety. He took a deep breath as he prepared himself to wait for whatever happened next.

[Manôphazân]

A long line of tired soldier trudged up another in a series of seemingly endless hills. Cold rain fell heavily on their slumping shoulders, and gusts of violent wind pushed at them from all directions. Soaked to the bone and aching in every joint, the men wished for an end to the march and dreamed of drier lands back home. Far to the south, where many of them came from, the lands seldom saw such rainfall, and few among them had experienced the drenching storms of southern Gondor.

At their lead, Lan’kâsh and Gimilzôr rode together, each peering ahead through the falling rain. Except for the horse drawn wagons at the back of the procession, theirs were the only mounts available to the Haradrim invaders. Everyone else suffered on foot, slipping in the ever-deepening mud, some even using his spear as a crutch when the road became particularly steep.

“This is why I have always hated Gondor,” shouted Lan’kâsh above the wind. “Seasonal storms and no horizon.” He pointed to the swaying pines bordering the muddy track and rising away on lofty hills in all direction. “The line of sight is always short in the North, and it is so easy to conceal an ambush in these rolling lands.”

“I have always heard that the lands of the Horsemen are more like our own,” mused Gimilzôr. “But there the lands is covered in high grass instead of shifting sand.”

“I too have heard of that place,” answered Lan’kâsh, standing in his saddle and raising an arm into the air. With an audible sigh of relief, the column of soldiers halted. Skirmishers rushed out to form a protective cordon. “Have you ever been to Rhûn? The land there is also grassy and endless, and their horses pull roaring chariots filled with spearmen and archers.”

Gimilzôr remained silent, and Lan'kâsh changed the subject to the business at hand.

“Seven days now we have been marching in Harondor, and as yet we have seen no sight of northern soldiers. Tonight we can camp in the rain, but tomorrow we will be coming close to the Poros. Captain Anhelm is sure to have word of our presence in these lands, and he will have sent out scouts.”

“Anhelm sir? Is he in charge at the Crossing now?”

“According to our informants at the settlement, he is the leader there.” He gave the signal for the soldiers to make camp near the road. “A capable leader, by all accounts, but he will be timid with his family present. Settlers are always timid.”

He looked back at Jinan and Frôzhal’s weary conscripts and sighed. “There may be battle soon. Today. Tomorrow. Let us hope our settlers have more mettle than theirs.”

He looked up and smiled as the rain suddenly stopped without warning.

[Nerindel]

Astalder remained silent as the Captain answered the young Lieutenants questions and he kept his sombre silence as he listened to the scouts report, but his mind was far from idle, he recalling the image of the map he had studied in the white cities libraries before leaving. Strategically their position was a good one with the main roads north east to Ithilien and north west to Pelargir and they also had the protection of the Poros itself, at least the fast rapids to the west, the only way any attacking force from the south was going to get near the settlement was to cross the bridge, or the shallows further up stream. But with out specific layouts and enemy numbers all the scenario's that played in his head were useless.

The crack of knuckles drew him from his contemplative state, and he looked up as his captain began to speak, he studied the young mans expression and demeanour, his voice was low and dangerous, making the young scout a little uneasy, which told him that the men were not used to seeing such emotions from their captain, but as Anhelm went on his words stirred emotions in all of them, the mans spirit and fire burned into each of them, so much so that he almost expected the two men at his side to literally snap their heels and go at once to suit up, the strong compulsion too was within him, but his reserved and contemplative nature kept him grounded.

Just then he noticed a sudden shift in Anhelm's demeanour as glimmer of doubt and dismay seemed to creep into the younger mans down cast eyes. It would not do for the men to witness this lapse or at least he hoped it was a lapse, especially after such a forceful show of fire and determination, acting quickly, before the others could witness this change, he stepped before the young scout drawing his attention away from the captain.

"How come you by this news?" he asked plainly and to the point.

The scout regarded him for a moment then nodded, "The southern boundaries scouting party arrived at the south tower several hours before dawn reporting that they had seen several Haradrim scouting parties, and signs of a large encampment further to the south."

"Watch towers?" he asked now turning his question to his captain, who nodded and shifted through the papers on his desk finally pulling open a large map of the settlement and the surrounding area, "Here! Here and here!" he said pointing to three small X's marked on the map, each at least 50 miles from the settlement, east, south and west.

As he leaned over the map he heard and felt the other two men close in for a closer look. Nodding his head in contemplation an idea formed in his head, picking up on his train of thought Adenain asked the scout what position the scouts had given for the Haradrim camp.

"At least three day's south-east of the south tower and five from the east tower, sir." the young man answered looked between the three older men slightly bemused.

"You think they will strike the towers first?" Adenain questioned, "Yes! that is if they are indeed heading this way!"

"The towers they are wooden are they not?" he asked again addressing the scout, the lad nodded that they were so, "I...I...don't understand?" he frowned throwing a bemused look to his captain, But Anhelm was smiling, having already guessed the Requen's plan.

"Beacons!" he answered in way of explanation for the young scout.

"Yes! If the Haradrim attack the towers, which I am sure they will, if indeed their intent is hostile, we can have the watch torch the towers giving us some advance warning!" Astalder said giving his idea words.

"But it has taken me a day and a half to get here the Haradrim will be upon the first tower before you can get word to them!" the scout flustered.

"You have not seen the knights of the white city ride, have you lad or you would not doubt that we could get to them in time!" he grinned confidently.

"Captain, let me take a few riders south to instruct the tower and assess the situation?" he said turning back to his captain and awaiting the man's assent.

[Imladris]

Jinan absently pried the dried mud that had slowly accumulated onto his clothes from days of travel and hindering showers; with equal absentness and melancholy, stagnant amusement, flicked the pieces into the fire where they disintegrated into ash with a satisfying hiss from the flames that ate them.

Beside him, huddled like a child in a weathered blanket, crouched Frôzhal. Ever since that trivial incident on the bridge, the little man had replaced his own shadow. With a disgusted sigh that perhaps was intended to smother a growing unease regarding the Frôzhal, Jinan thought about their “competent” general. They had come within striking distance of the towers that were the eyes of the Poros settlement, and the all knowing captain had, naturally, decided to attack them at dawn’s first light.

Besides the fact that they would more than likely suffer heavy damage because of the lack of a warrior’s spirits in their wilted troops, if they attacked the watch towers the Poros would certainly be aware of them, if they weren’t already. If they attacked the towers, the enemy may become acquainted with their poor, measly, weak, languid numbers. In an instant they could be hurrying back towards Harad, beating a hasty retreat and striving to preserve their courage by making it as orderly as possible, which, of course, would be impossible because these “soldiers” did not know how to placidly retreat in the face of an enemy. But, he thought to himself with a toothless smile, if they knew how to do that, then they wouldn’t need to fear the possible need for a retreat. It was a continuous circle -- a circle that could only be broken by competent troops.

Jinan himself thought that they should completely bypass the towers and continue toward the Poros on foot. They would be leaving the enemy behind their back, but it would not be a major problem if they could march swiftly towards the Poros settlement and attack them in the midst of their unease and uncertainty. And they could easily sneak by the towers. The weather had been bad, the silvery, traitorous light of the moon would be smothered by heavy thunderclouds. If they did not light lanterns to guide the way into the night and if they padded their weapons, they would pass between the towers like a serpent: with deadly, swift silence.

But the captain -- a sneer twisted itself onto Jinan’s face -- had said otherwise and, in the process, had made Jinan look like a bumbling fool. He said that to leave enemy at your backside was inviting an ambush, as well as leaving threads untied.

So there they were: waiting for morning’s light to attack the towers. Jinan shook his head. It would not well for Harad -- of that he was sure.
~~~~~

Jinan scrutinized his phalanx of men with a critical eye. With grudging reluctance, he gave them an approving nod. The first tower that would meet its doom in the flames of fire (the captain had made it clear that no enemy buildings would be left standing), would be the south tower. The captain had already appeared to the front of the tower, while Frôzhal hid himself to the east of the tower and Jinan himself waited some distance behind the tower. It seemed as if the Harad forces and the Gondorians were locked in a staring contest, as if they were each apprising the other’s men. With a disdainful snort, Jinan folded his arms and glared malevolently at a figure he thought was the Harad captain. It was idiotic to think that the Gondorians would not be suspecting the plan of attack. It was an old trick, attacking from all sides at one (except they didn’t have somebody to cover the remaining wing of the tower since they only had two corporals and not three), but that minor detail was besides the point. The Gondorians had experienced this sort of play many times in their lives and they’d be ready for it. And --

The booming call of a brass horn broke Jinan’s train of thoughts; it was the signal of attack. With a blood thirsty, Jinan ordered the charge and he led it with sword drawn. The horn was a herald of the death, and he was determined that it delivered its message to the Gondorians alone.

[Orual]

Astalder

Astalder sat tall upon his Rohirrim bred horse, a black charger named Taayar, looking upon the men that would be accompanying him to the Southern watch tower. He fought the urge to pull at his tunic collar as an uneasy tightness grew in his throat, He was no leader of men, yes he could guide and counsel when required and he had proven himself many times in battle, but leadership! He had always shunned that responsibility, convincing himself that he could better serve and protect his kin with the might of his sword, but here he was, with twelve pairs of eyes intently watching him, expectantly waiting for him to speak, delivering their orders. Clearing his throat, as much to get their attention as to dislodge the growing lump in his throat, he turned to address them.

“As you may or may not be aware, reports have come in reporting that a contingent of Haradrim warriors crossed the Harnen, now six days past these reports also suggest that they may be heading this way! Captain Anhelm is dispatching us to ride to the southern boarders to assess the situation; we are also to instruct the watch in the towers to set beacons at the first sign of any hostility from the enemy, it may yet be that they just wish to make their presence felt, but we must be prepared for anything !” He paused briefly to allow the importance of their new orders to sink in, then raising his sword he ordered them to fall in.

Turning Taayar he led the twelve riders through the village, towards the main gate. The settlers stopped to watch their procession and he could see the uneasiness in their eyes. “Astalder” A familiar voice pulled him from the faces of those he was charged with protecting and with a loving smile he looked on the face of his wife and son. “Astalder, you are riding out today? She asked. He could hear the trace of worry in her voice as she spoke, though she tried to hide it. “When will you be back?” she continued looking at the supplies strapped to his horse as she walked along side his horse. “Two, perhaps three days” he said trying to reassure her, but her deepening frown told him that he had failed.

“It’s true isn’t it…? What they are saying, the southerner are sending their army to drive us out!” she said lowering her voice so as little Falmir could not hear her words, Astalder’s usually thoughtful blue grey eyes went wide with surprise at her words, it had only been a few hours since the scout arrive with the news and already word had spread through the settlement. It pained him greatly to see fear in the proud and usually strong willed woman’s eyes. He halted his horse gesturing for his company to continue on to the gate, then turned back to look at his wife.

“We do not know that!” he answered gently, “They may just be making their presence felt.” then realising that this was the second time he had used those exact words he shook his head. “I will know more on my return; just promise me that the two of you will stay within the walls of the settlement.” Fëawyn nodded her understanding as he reached out to brush a stray strand of her soft golden hair from her face. “Promise me you will return!” She whispered taking hold of his hand as he ran it down her pale cheek. “I promise that if it is in my power I will return!” he answered bending over and kissing her lightly on the forehead.

“And you little man, look after your mother while am gone!” he smiled tousling the young lads hair. “Yes sir!” the lad answered seriously, raising his small hand in a salute, which made Astalder laugh, “I will be back soon!” he again reassured Fëawyn, then with a last look at his family he set off again, catching up to his company as they passed through the strong wooden gates.

“Sir if you don’t mind me asking how far is it to the boarder post?” He turned to face the tall dark haired young man who issued the question, “Roughly a day and half’s riding.” He answered watching the roquen’s somewhat innocent face as he made the calculations, nodding as the young man came to the same conclusion he had. “We won’t get to them in time!” he exclaimed lowering his voice to a whisper, “we should be making haste!”

“And we will” Astalder assured him “just as soon as we are out of sight of the settlement” To his relief the young man had understood his reasoning and did not question his decision. “What is your name?” he asked the roquen. “Khalad, Sir” the young man replied, his dark blue eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Well Khalad my name is Astalder and we are of the same rank so there is no need to be calling me sir, in fact it maybe that I will need someone at my side who is not afraid to question my actions!” he smiled, then standing up in his stirrups he looked back and seeing the Poros settlement fade into the distance he gave the order to make haste informing his company that they would not be stopping till nightfall.

They where less than a few hours out when the heavens opened upon them and it did not abate for the remainder of the day, drowning the already low spirits of the riders, by nightfall both horses and riders were cold, wet and hungry. Astalder sent Khalad and two other ahead to find somewhere to make camp, they returned shortly and led them to a wooded area a short distance ahead, the company then dismounted and began to set up camp. The horses were feed, a fire lit and a meal prepare, after everyone had eaten, he set the watch, four men to switch every two hours. He then seated himself next to the fire and listened to the conversations of the men and as they shared past deeds and tales of old, he sharpened his sword, feeling every notch of the Heirloom of Minas Ithil as he ran the wetting stone down it’s edge and even as he did he felt almost certain that he would have need of her soon.

Anhelm

Anhelm tossed in bed--which is to say, his cot in the back of his office. He had found that he couldn't sleep, try as he might, and every time he closed his eyes he saw the village burning.

He sat up and, lighting a lamp, grabbed some reports from the small desk next to his cot. Rifling through them but not truly reading them, his mind went out to the sleepy village that lay around him. How many were still awake? How many knew the danger they were in? Did any of them realize that all around them were enemies, just waiting for the opportune moment to attack? Did he himself really realize that, come to think of it?

All his life in Gondor Anhelm had been sheltered even as he protected his country. He was never on the front line, truly...he was surrounded by friends, friends of his and friends of his father's. He would never come to any harm, and he knew it. This time, he was the leader...he was the one who had to make sure, to whatever extent possible, that his men came to no harm. It was his job this time.

He stared dismally at the reports. This was no good. Maybe if he got a little sleep, he would feel better in the morning.

What could happen in one night, anyway?

[Novnarwen]

He took Erfâzh by the arm, grabbed him and made him follow. Finally, they aren't looking, Frôzhal thought to his pleasure. Sooner than expected the Haradrim army had approached one of the two towers. By this, Frôzhal had felt quite helpless and desperate to get out of this situation as soon as possible. However, he couldn't help the feeling of being watched by his superior and his colleague. A thought passed him by; maybe Jinan just admired him and wanted to be like him. In order to be able to imitate him, Jinan surely had to look at his colleague and see what he did that was so unique.

Erfâzh snorted. "Sir., you realise that you are keeping me from my duties," he said nervously, but still quite firmly. Frôzhal frowned, looking anxiously around, wondering whether Jinan was watching him now. He shuddered, thinking of this; as it wasn't really a comfortable feeling. Frôzhal took no notice of the man for while, as he was starting to feel quite unsure about this. However, there was no other way. He glanced one more time at his right before, lowering his voice and turning his attention to Erfâzh.

"Listen!" he started, surprising himself by the sudden courage he felt towards what he was about to say.

"When we attack, for real, you will lead the platoon!" Desperately fighting for air to continue, he was interrupted by the man's reply. "Do you hear me?!" Frôzhal asked, ignoring him. There was a pause.

"But, where are you going??!!" Erfâzh backed away, breathing heavily. He looked at Frôzhal with a disappointed look, immediately turning on his heals to go. Frôzhal, who had been standing; looking into the thin air, noticed the man's reaction and hurried over to grab him by the arm again. He dried the sweat away from below his eyes, stared at Erfâzh and raised his voice several notches when speaking.

"You will obey my orders, or you will await the same destiny as those Gondorians," he said, not quite realising himself that he was threatening a Haradrim. "I, however, will do my job by watching..." he said, thinking that he had finished. The man looked sceptically had him, as if he expected something more. Frôzhal shrugged. Hadn't he just threatened him? He thought, furiously. Shouldn't he at least frown or get a little bit scared? He straightened up and continued, stammering:" Watching... watching you... the others... and.. everyone else.. It's called tactics and strategy.. my lad." The last bit was basically just to annoy him and make him a bit more insecure. After all, Frôzhal was his superior.

Erfâzh left, hurrying over to some of the others. He looked over his shoulder, seeing Frôzhal running his fingers up and down the blade of his knife. He gritted teeth, but pretended as nothing. Hopefully, Frôzhal had managed to scare Erfâzh enough so that he wouldn't go telling everybody about this awkward explanation from Frôzhal. The Swerting sighed. He should despite all of it, be very pleased. Being in command of a platoon during an attack, he thought. He heard the Horn. He was all set for his task.

[doug*platypus]

Slipping Closer

Slowly brushing aside the vines of a tangled shrub, Gimilzôr peered out into the early darkness. His men and Frôzhal’s detachment continued to file along behind him, bent half to the ground like a troop of great apes. Such dangerous animals as had not been seen in this place for long years. Although most of the men had never seen real battle, they were many, and armed well enough to strike a hard blow to the men of Gondor.

His dark, scarred face peered out at the tower standing several furlongs away down the slope. Too close. Luckily the night was yet dark. Had the soldiers started to move into position any later, the rising moon may have shown them up, even though they were sneaking through the eaves of a thick wood near the top of the surrounding ridge. Gimilzôr could make out the movement of sentries in the torchlight below. The Gondorians were watchful this night, perhaps sensing battle in the air. There was no sign of drinking or revelry in any of the small wooden buildings clustered around the tower. It was difficult to count heads from where he was crouching, but the veteran could see that his foes were armed only as well as he was. With a three-pronged attack, the element of surprise, and at least 50 fresh and expendable new recruits, it would not take a military genius to destroy this tiny outpost. He grinned and then, replacing the foliage, took his place back in the line of Haradrim that were creeping around the east flank of the tower.

It did not look good for the soldiers manning the watchtower. Most of them would die at dawn if they could not flee quickly enough, thought Gimilzôr. But the sergeant did not have the knowledge that his commanding officer did. Lan’kâsh was well informed, and could have told his man that victory here mattered little. It was but a feint, and a test of the strength of the Poros settlement. But it was also a risky gamble by Lan’kâsh, thus revealing the strength of his force… and its weakness. Jinan had grumbled, of course, about the decision to attack here. He seemed to have some knowledge of strategy, and clearly preferred to slink past. He was more suited to be the hyena, cunning and wary, edging around the kill. Gimilzôr despised such an attitude, especially in a superior. He was ever ready for an open fight, unless of course the odds were heavily against him keeping his life. The watchtower itself would be difficult to take, as the expeditionaries were poorly equipped with archers. There was a strong group of slingers, but they would be severely outranged by any bowman in the tower.

“If only we had a Mûmak,” the lieutenant had said that afternoon. They didn’t, however, and instead had made vague plans to move close enough to raze the tower. Scouts had come back and reported this was only a wooden structure overlooking the road, surrounded by a few scant buildings, and manned with only a small garrison.

Gimilzôr had moved to the back of the line now, to make sure no stragglers were falling behind. Most of those near the rear of the column were new recruits, but some of these had kept the pace and were closer to the front. Generally speaking, they had been toughened up by a week of long marching on short commons. They had not mixed well with Gimilzôr’s lads, though, being constantly the butt of pranks and mockery. Half of it was probably due to their being led by Frôzhal. Jinan’s recruits at least marched in time and showed some signs of respectability. Several scuffles had broken out, in which, Gimilzôr had to admit, some of the newbies had shown their toughness, and given better than they got. These fights were usually encouraged by the tough old sergeant, who thought it good for the men to scrap with each other occasionally. But once he had to step in and knock a mean-looking kris from one of his lad’s hands. There was no sense seriously damaging your own soldiers. That’s what the Gondorians were for.

Owing to the tension between them, Gimilzôr’s boys and Frôzhal’s peasants were treated as two separate units by Lieutenant Lan’kâsh. It was only now that Gimilzôr had left the company of the captain, to watch over his most detested corporal. Gimilzôr himself had had little to do with Jinan and Frôzhal so far. He found it difficult, not knowing his position with them. While lower down in the pecking order, and clearly out of favour with Lan’kâsh, Gimilzôr thought they both seemed more like officers than foot soldiers. It was not wise to become the enemy of those who may some day be your superiors. Not in this army.

Suddenly there was a thud, and a great clang from up ahead. Gimilzôr sharply hissed a curse. One of the men in front must have lost his footing. He wondered if it was Frôzhal. Two days of steady rain had not only made his men miserable, but the earth as well. Even though the weather had cleared, it was still muddy underfoot, and most of them were attired in thick, covered sandals rather than boots. This was no place for men of the plains and the deserts. The column had stopped dead on hearing the noise. Sneaking around to positions outflanking the tower was the most risky part of the captain’s plan. Shortly afterwards, two of Gimilzôr’s men returned from the head of the column to speak with him. They decided that the Gondorians could not have heard the racket, but also that they would halt here and await the dawn. They had come far enough around, and did not want to risk detection by moving further. Sentries were posted and most of the men lay down to sleep fitfully, each inwardly preparing himself for what the dawn might bring; glorious victory, or an end to life, soaked in blood, far from the safety of his homelands.


The Dawn Brings Smoke

An hour before dawn broke over the northeastern mountains, Gimilzôr was fully awake, striding confidently between the trees at the top of the ridge. He was lightly kicking the men who weren’t awake, and nodding to those that were, as a signal to get up and get ready for the onslaught. Once again, he avoided the gaze of Frôzhal, trusting that he would organise his conscripts into some kind of fighting force, for today at least. Soon, the hilltop was busy with men loosening swords, checking spears and stowing gear in satchels. Some were eating a quick bite of whatever they had with them, dried fruits or hard biscuit. Gimilzôr, though, knew better than any that whatever was in your stomach before the bloodshed began, generally wasn’t afterwards.

When all were up and almost ready, he silently gathered his men to him, separate from Frôzhal’s detachment. He stood near the edge of the trees, tightly binding helm to head, while one of his men strapped up his armour of overlapping plates at the back. His shield was fastened around his arm, left hand holding several javelins taken from the company’s arms wagon. Sword loosened in sheath, he awaited the signal. His heart was pounding so that he fancied he could hear it clang against the inside of his armour. No man could stop that, but it was up to each to control it. Gimilzôr doubted Frôzhal’s ability to control his thumping heart, and looked over towards him.

Suddenly the clear blast of a Southron horn shattered the still air, as the first rays of the sun peeped down onto the plain below. The time for reflection was over. Gimilzôr plunged out of the trees with a roar, his men swift behind him. They were on the open slope now, which was covered only in little bushes, few and far between, and afforded no cover. But attacking from the east, the sun was now in the eyes of the defenders, some of whom could be seen hurriedly emerging from the buildings and scaling the watchtower. Jinan could be seen to the north, closer to the outpost than Gimilzôr and Frôzhal, and closing in fast. Jinan himself was in the forefront of the attack, sword held on high. To the south, a column of smoke could be seen spiralling up from the trees. The commander had planned ahead, and was already preparing to put the Gondorians to the torch.

Sprinting down the hill, many of Gimilzôr’s men began to overtake him. Several of Frôzhal’s recruits also rushed past, and he wondered whether their leader was close behind. He now heard swift whistling noises overhead, and to his side. Confusing, as Gimilzôr believed they were still out of range of the tower. No man he had ever seen could have fired a bolt so far. Then in front of him, two Haradrim fell, rolling to a stop after several feet. A man next to him was hit in the chest by a long arrow and stopped in his tracks. They were in range! A thrill of fear coursed through Gimilzôr, as he raised his shield higher and increased his pace.

Soon the attackers from the east were among the wooden buildings, but not without substantial losses. “Curse their bowmen!” Gimilzôr thought. His own spearmen were fighting with soldiers of Gondor just ahead. Now he was off the slope of the hill, Jinan and Lan’kâsh could not be seen, but archers were now firing down on three sides from the dreaded tower. Keeping his shield up on high, with several arrows sticking from it already, he took a javelin in his right hand and looked about, eager for blood now. A Gondorian appeared to his right, around the corner of a building. Praise the gods, there were still some unfought on the ground. Before he knew what hit him, the man was jerked violently backwards off his feet. Gimilzôr’s javelin was embedded deep in the man’s torso. He flew right past a fellow who had followed him around the corner. Gimilzôr drew his broadsword and flashed his teeth in a terrifying grimace. The man of Gondor ran to the attack. The battle had been joined.

[Novnarwen]

As the battle was joined by the valiant Gondorians, Frôzhal started regretting that he had let Erfâzh in charge. He sighed, hearing Erfâzh ordering the platoon to attack. A number of men rushed past Frôzhal, drawing their swords. The Swerting looked with squinted eyes upon the tower as the sun rose. He froze, getting a glimpse of Gimilzôr; not a very pleasant sight. He lowered his head in order not to be spotted.

Sweat from his forehead started running down his face. He trembled as he saw to of the Haradrim fall, right in front of him. They had both been shot by arrows. Frôzhal made a grimace, disgusted by the colour of the blood. He had never really liked blood. It was the proof of life and he didn't like life either, at this point, however. He was terribly scared of dying, but didn't dare admit it to anyone. Erfâzh had probably figured it by now, Frôzhal thought, seeing his opportunity to run down the slope at the western side of the tower and let the others fight. He looked desperately around, looking after familiar faces. None. He tried to hide his vicious smile, but it appeared nevertheless. He came up on the side of some 'half-fighting' and 'half-standing-waiting-in-queue' Haradrims before sneaking away. It was easier than expected, much easier, but not less satisfying.

He got out of sight in a hurry, still hearing steel against steel and horrified screams as men fell. Frôzhal, safe from all dangers, sat down on a stone and found his knife. He sharpened the knife by running it up and down on the stone. When finished, he held it up and smiled at the reflection of his face. Not too handsome at the moment, as his beard had started showing. He whistled silently before shaving. Quite a pleasant morning, Frôzhal thought for a moment. Even though he could clearly hear the battle taking place not very far away, he enjoyed the time he spent alone. He didn't live a life with luxury anymore. Those times were over. He sighed, trying to think about something else.

Frôzhal felt quite relieved by having Erfâzh as a replacement, but couldn't help feeling slightly insecure about it all. His biggest concern was that he had chosen the wrong man for the job. Frôzhal feared that by choosing him, he had something coming in return. This would not necessarily be good. Erfâzh was not a bad warrior, and when Frôzhal thought about it, the chance of Erfâzh surviving this attack was pretty darn good. He frowned. If he survived, he could tell on Frôzhal. He bit his lip. He just realised that this tactics weren't all that great after all. He should never have chosen Erfâzh. He was too well trained. What had seemed like a satisfying escape and a satisfying morning had turned into Frôzhal's greatest nightmare. But there was nothing he could do about it? Or was there? Frôzhal was in deep thought. He would have to come up with something clever for a change. He uttered a silent prayer, begging for help; council and a sign. He waited..... and waited.... and waited... Nothing happened.

Fear caught him. He had waited for several minutes and nothing had happened! He felt rage swell up in him; blowing him up, soon about to crack. He jumped up into the air, screaming, swearing and waving with his knife. "I'll kill you!" he screamed. "I'll kill you if you tell on me! I will kill....!" Frôzahl stopped. He wouldn't want to draw attention towards his hiding spot. All the same, his outburst had enlightened him; he knew what he would have to do.

[Daniel Telcontar]

Khalad gave a brief report of what they had seen to Astalder as he returned to the band of Gondorian warriors. There was little to report; they had not seen neither friend nor foe. Together with the other scouts he led the knights of Gondor to the area they had decided to camp in; it was not the best of positions if they were attacked, but speed was the most important now; they would have to sacrifice some caution for the benefit of reaching the watch towers faster.

He dismounted and took care of Palan, his war steed, knowing that it was his responsibility the horse was taken good care of; and it would end up harming himself in a potential battle if his mount was ill-treated. Then along with the other soldiers he drew forth some food from the pouch that they all wore when on a march or away from their garrison. The food nourished and strengthened him, and he could feel that he was not as weary as he had first feared; he knew very well that battle may come upon them tomorrow, and it could be fatal if he was tired.

Amongst themselves the soldiers agreed who was to take the guard duty for the different hours, and Khalad laid down on his blanket, his head sleeping as soon it hit the ground; as most soldiers used to sleeping in the wild, Khalad's body knew it needed all the sleep he could get, even if it only was for a few hours.

He was awakened, though, by the cries of the guard. "Alert, alert!" Instantly all the sleeping soldiers leapt to their feet, unsheathing their weapons. The sun was slowly rising and there was enough light for them to see what had caught the guard's vigilance. A pillar of smoke rose from the place that was their destination; and none of the soldiers were in doubt as to what happened. With amazing speed they saddled their horse and mounted them and rode towards the smoke that stood against the blue sky as an ill omen for the times to come.

[Imladris]

The arrows glided with deadly skill towards the Haradrim leaders and Jinan instantly saw that this could quickly become a massacre if the bowman were not instantly destroyed -- which could only happen if they took the tower, but they could very well be slaughtered before they had a chance to do that. As he ran madly forward, shield held high above his head, Jinan smiled smugly to himself: they should have slinked past the towers. Even if Gondor already knew they were marching toward the Poros Settlement, they still wouldn’t know when they would attack. But if the smart captain wanted a beacon to announce their coming, that would be no concern of his. Thinking of the captain reminded Jinan of Frôzhal and he wondered if the worm, his heart palpitating with fear, had buried himself in the dirt. He scoffed: Frôzhal’s absence could only aid the army, for fear was as contagious as the most deadly plague.

Ah, now they were sending out foot soldiers…the rain of arrows had somewhat slackened and Jinan knew that supplies were more than likely running out. With a small smile, the white of his teeth just barely glimmering, he drew his dagger and spat on the blade. It was awkward in his hand, but he would get used to that -- after all, one can’t carry a bow all the time.

A Gondorian, lips curled back in a bestial smile, charged furiously at him, his broad blade, stained with Haradrim blood, lunged hungrily for the throat. Jinan dodged lightly aside and stuck the Gondorian heavily in the stomach with his fist, momentarily forgetting that this was no drunken, insolent fool he fought, but a seasoned warrior who wore a heavy breastplate. Hollow popping sounds exploded from his knuckles why a fiery pain seared the bones. Jinan wasn’t sure, but he swore afterwards that he heard the Gondorian laugh loudly as he saw a flicker of a wince rush fleetingly across the Haradrim’s face. Ignoring the pain, Jinan raised his dagger and plunged it forcefully at the neck, staring in cold pleasure as the crimson blood flowed from the open wound (like water released from a dam), staining his tanned hand.

Inhaling deeply as he took jerked the knife from the dead man’s neck, Jinan paused and frowned. The pleasant fragrance of smoke mingled with the pungent smell of the dead. He jerked his around and saw smoke billowing from the top of the tower. Orange flames licked greedily at the dried thatch that served as a roof, while red flames, glimmering with blue, danced a wild orgy of gleeful delight from the windows.

The fool! Jinan cursed as he watch the tower burn. It was a signal, a warning to the Poros settlement. He could feel the dead delight as the heat of the fire tore at his face, forcing him to back away from the tower. With a toothless smile, his black eyes like onyx stones, he helped his men finish the last of the Gondorians that hoped to stay their passing.

[Manôphazân]

Excellent! thought Lan’Kâsh, watching the action roiling around him. The untrained men following Jinan swarmed recklessly around the tower, each screaming at the top of his lungs as they chased the few remaining Gondorians away. Most of the northmen had retreated into the security of the treeline where they had turned and form a temporary line of defense. Even as Lan’kâsh watched, Gimilzôr’s experienced force drove into the right side of the Winger line, and it immediately began to crumble.

Above the lieutenant the watchtower burned violently, sending a pillar of black smoke into the morning sky. Excellent! he thought again. Not a Gondorian in Harondor can miss that signal, and every peasant farmer for 50 miles will poor into Poros Crossing. By the time we get there, the place will be packed to bursting and ready for a crushing defeat. A few hundred settlers squeezed into a wooden box will be no match for Haradrim fire and iron!

He noticed with satisfaction that Jinan’s men were now fighting strongly, though several had fallen in the initial charge of the tower. Gondorian bowmen were deadly marksmen from prepared defenses, but as the Harad force had surrounded and ignited the tower and the few huts around it, the Wingers had been forced to abandon their lofty position. With the archers fleeing instead of firing at them, Jinan’s force had rediscovered their courage and chased their foe with deadly vigor.

Frôzhal was not to be seen, though his men were. A burly fellow, who even now was urging them to the forest line, where a few Gondorians still stood, led them. Several of the peasants in his group lay wounded or dead between the tower and their current position, but like Jinan’s group, they were clearly now in control and enjoying their first taste of battle.

As the last Gondorian fell or fled, Lan’kâsh signaled for his bugler to call everyone to do a quick regroup. The northmen were now on the run, and a fast pursuit through the forest would be unnecessary and dangerous. Anyways, he knew where they were headed.

“Sergeant Benel,” he shouted, and the faithful soldier soon was at is side, his spear covered in blood and a bright gleam in his eye. “Advise Gimilzôr that we will loot this position and then proceed cautiously. Our first goal of alarming the Gondorians is accomplished. Now we must engage them at their fortress and keep them pinned down until our main army arrives.”

Walking the battlefield with the sergeant still in tow, he told him, “Less than ten dead, and that many again wounded. Not bad, not bad at all. Those peasants fought better than I had thought possible.”

Sergeant Benel nodded agreement. “Yes, sir. They did fine, but I thought they were turnin’ right when the first arrows flew in.”

“I saw that,” answered the lieutenant, “but they held together. Smart. Now they know what victory is, and they’ll be better soldiers for it. This attack did more for us than just let the enemy know we are here, as I was commanded to do. This battle made us stronger.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lan’kâsh looked around again as if searching for someone. “Sergeant, after you talk to Gimilzôr, see if you can track down Frôzhal. I haven’t seen him since the battle began, and I fear the poor fellow may have fallen. Go!”

[Nerindel]

Waking suddenly, to the cries of the watch, Astalder instinctively grasped for his sword, squinting in the new days light to look upon the source of their cries. A tall dark, pillaring tower of smoke rose high into the morning sky. His heart sank, as he had feared they had come too late. “Mount up!” he cried, though the command was not wholly needed, the men already hastily prepared to leave. Quickly rolling and stowing his bed roll, Astalder mounted and lead the knights from the cover of the trees and rode with all haste towards the smoking tower, hoping beyond hope that he would find some survivors.

They had not gone far when he called a sudden stop. Dismounting he pressed his ear to the dew filled ground and listened, after a moment he rose wiping himself down. “Riders two perhaps three, coming in this way and in great haste.” he informed his company.

“I see them, there are two and they ride like the enemy is close at their heels” Khalad cried, from the top of the next rise. “Then they are Gondorian?” Astalder questioned as he mounted and rode to join the younger man. “I can not be certain the sun is against them, making it difficult to ascertain their appearance, However, it has occurred to me that if these riders are scouts of the enemy would they not be moving with more care and less speed?” Astalder nodded his agreement, looking out towards the two fast approaching riders.

Messengers, he thought as he turned and indicated for the rest of the company too follow. As they drew closer they could indeed see that the riders wore the attire of the Poros guards and that one of them was wounded, slumped over the neck of his mount. An arrow sat lodged in the slumped messengers shoulder, calling a halt he ordered two of his company to see to the wounded messenger. “Report!” he ordered turning towards the other rider.

“The southern watch tower has been breeched by the Haradrim, sir,” the young man reported.

“We didn’t stand a chance!” the wounded rider wheezed, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to sit up. “You have come too little and too late!” the messenger continued looking at their numbers, then back to Astalder, shaking his head wearily. The rider was tall in his mid-thirties by Astalders reckoning; his dark grey eyes showed his pain, telling Astalder the worst, this man had seen his friends and comrades fall.

“They surprised us at first light,” The second rider continued, “we were greatly out numbered, but we did our best too hold them off as long as we could, But when they set light to the tower the watch captain ordered riders to take word to the village. Only we remain of those riders sent.” he finished sadly shaking his head and Astalder knew he wondered the fate of his comrades.

Leaving Khalad to question the messengers further and his men to attend the wounded messenger he took a few pace ahead looking out in the direction of the tower, pondering what he should do now. A few things troubled him, he had encountered the Haradrim several times in minor skirmishes and knew them to be brutal but not foolish, so why then had they torched the tower sending them a clear signal, where they really that overconfident or is that what they wanted then to believe? A gently cold breeze made him shiver and he looked back in the direction of the village. His heart told him to return and protect his family, but his duty told him that he should at least stay and try to determine his enemies’ numbers and armaments. As he struggled with his conflicting loyalties to his fellow soldiers and his family, his gaze fell on his company and the wounded messenger who was now bandaged and his decision became clear his loyalties were as they had always been to his people all of them, from farm hand to those he loved dearly. Raising the hilt of his sword to his lips, letting the white ribbon bound to it flap in the morning breeze, he prayed to eru to let him keep his promise to his wife.

“We must determine our enemies’ strength and numbers!” he issued, re-sheathing his sword and looking upon his men with renewed strength and determination. He then ordered three of his men to return at once with the two messengers and report to Anhelm of the attack, trusting that the young captain would already have preparations well under way. He then turned to Khalad, “What are you thinking?” he asked watching the young man gaze in the direction of the smoking tower.

[Imladris]

Jinan, with nonchalant carelessness, wiped his bloody sword and tossed the rag away. He remembered the battle with grim pleasure, and it suddenly occurred to him that Frôzhal’s troops had attacked with surprising vigor -- well, as much vigor as raw troops could be expected to muster in their faint hearts.

But speaking of Frôzhal, Jinan suddenly realized that he hadn’t noticed him in the fray. He had seen the others, but not the puppy dog Frôzhal. Narrowing his black eyes, Jinan wondered if he had scuttled to the shelter of the shrubs, his tail between his legs. He scoffed, and muttered that soldier of Harad would not display such misdemeanor -- surely the boy had managed to find the shards of a warriors bravery underneath his cowering skin.

“Hello, Jinan,” a voice said, tainted with bitterness. “I do hope all is well and you do not suffer any wounds?”

Jinan laughed coldly, and turned to the field officer who spoke to him: Erfâzh. “I don’t know, friend,” he said, clapping him on the back, “but I think that I could boast a few more scars…maybe one slashed across my eye to make me look like weathered veteran,” Jinan added with a fierce scowl.

“More fitting for a corsair, if you ask me. Besides, your vanity would be violated with a scar,” he added with a half hearted shove.

Jinan looked keenly at him. His normally cheerful face was downcast, his brows were kitted together, and he glared at the ground, scuffing the dirt with the toe of his boot. “What is wrong Erfâzh?”

“Frôzhal gave me the command of his forces today,” he said bluntly, “while he said that he would watch.”

Jinan’s brows shot up and he stopped, and said, “Turned the command over to you while he crouched in the brambles like a hunted hare, you mean,” he snapped, twirling one of his earrings.

Erfâzh nodded, his lips twisted into a scowl. “The honour of leading the troops was severely shadowed by his cowardly actions.”

Jinan nodded wisely and said, “I should say so. But why don’t you mention it causally to the Capt -- Lieutenant,” Jinan amended hastily. It would not do to make a sly reference to Lan’Kâsh’s overbearing manner even in front of a friend.

“I don’t really relish the possibility of being accused of treachery.”

Treacher …the word sounded sweet to Jinan’s ears, and dripped with poisoned honey. “Not if we could prove that Frôzhal was the one committing the treachery,” he said softly. “Why else would he skulk off before the battle?”

[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.

[Imladris]

The sword whipped across his face, gashing his cheek. All around him the Gondorians crowded him, sticking him as if he was a mean boar among a rabble of hunters.

He remembered his own wild pig hunt. The boar had turned his tusks upon him.

He brought his sword down upon the Gondorian swine

and it had gored some peasant boy.

and plunged it into the heart of one soldier, ripped it out and slashed the head off of another in the back swing.

Then what had the boar done? It was so long ago....he had been wounded, but he had fought with all his wild animal intinct.

A soldier swiped his dagger, gashing him on the cheek. Blood dribbled down his chin. (Just like when a brat baby tried to eat his first meal.) Distantly, he felt cold steel in his middle. With a roar, he gripped the sword in both hands and plunged it into their midst.

The first thing the boar lost was the roaring rage. It had sunk to a shrill squeak.

Wine. That was what he needed. A cool glass of Harad wine. His voice choked and died in the desert of his throat.

Then the boar had staggered to the ground. He had screamed. Then died. Blood pouring from his numerous wounds.

There was a crack. A scream ripped the air -- his scream -- his protest -- his terror ripping from him. Jinan toppled to the ground, his sword beside him. Why couldn't he feel his legs? Why couldn't he stagger to his feet?

Then the men had carved the boar up, dividing the meat, allotting each portion the hunters.

Except that the soldiers wouldn't carve him up and degut him. They weren't barbarians. Was this how it felt like to die? This great emptiness -- the sense that the ladder to fame had toppled under his wait? The sense that time had slowed? Jinan peered around the legs of the mulling Gondorians, and saw Frôzhal. Puppy Frôzhal.

The boar had no one to help him.

Surely Frôzhal had honour enough to help a fallen comrade? Surely that still remained in his measley heart?

He would not cry out. Honour demanded that such an action would be cowardly. But he could look. His eyes could cry out in wordless agony. So he looked at Frôzhal, and saw him walk away and Death walk to him.

Just as well. Who would want to be saved by a puppy?

[Nerindel]

“We must fall back the Poros is lost, but its people are not our duty is now to them!” Astalder pressed, but Anhelm was no longer listening, his gaze fixed on the battle surrounding them and his mind stubbornly made up. He shook his head in anger and frustration, then ripping the cloth of his shirt he tightly bound the young captains wound in an effort to staunch the bleeding, then remembering the small dark bottle that the healer had given him he scrambled for his pouch, relieved to see that is was still intact. Pulling the stopper he quickly pressed the bottle to his captain’s lips. As he did so several Gondorian soldier’s seeing their stricken captain formed a protective ring about them.

“Will he live?” one of the soldiers asked as he fought to keep the Haradrim from their captain and the Roquen officer tending him, Astalder recognising the deep voice looked up to see the tall opposing figure of the innkeeper of the Poros Crossing, but no longer was he the hearty Inn keeper with the warm and welcoming smile, He’s features stolid and cold like stone, several minor wounds marked his face and arms, but none enough to slow his fierce attack. Slowly looking around he saw that four men in all encircled them, to this left though heavily stained with blood and grim, he made out the uniform of a Roquen and as the young knight turned to deflect his attacker blow he saw that it was Khalad, his once innocent face now twisted in deep concentration as he battled to protect his captain, the other two men wore uniforms of the Poros Guards and one looked no older that sixteen, his eyes wide with fear but fighting on determinedly.

“Astalder, will he live!” the innkeeper asked again through clenched teeth.

Shaking himself Astalder answered, “Yes, but I will need help moving him.” Quickly finishing off his opponent Talfas came and took the weight of the captain upon his broad shoulders.

“We will fall back to the rear gate!” Astalder ordered the others.

“No!” came a defiant groan from the semi-conscious captain, the others hesitated looking at him questioningly, gently holding his captains chin he forced him to look at the burning building and the dying men.

“Look around you my friend the Poros is loss; we defend not but rubble and burning timbers. Listen to me during my stay with our enemy I was given the distinct impression that this attack was only a small part of a much larger plot, something darker and more sinister, think about it! Minas Ithil falls, Orcs infest the northern borders of Rohan and now the Haradrim grow bolder, something is stirring and Gondor must be prepared. What purpose will it serve if we die here, without warning the Steward of the approaching storm?”

Anhelm stared at him not believing what he was hearing, Astalder features softened and he sighed wearily “I swear to you that justice will be sought, but not here and not now. I promise you that when the Steward sends his army to drive the Haradrim back I will be there at your side and will die with you if that is Eru’s plan for us, but I will not stand here and allow what we have learned to die here with us, our duty is to the people of Gondor and they must know of this threat! So court marshal me if you wish but I am ordering the retreat!” with that Astalder took his captains other arm and ordered the retreat.

Reaching the rear gate they found that horses had been left, with Talfas he helped Anhelm on to one and mounted behind him, supporting his captain as he slouched heavily forwards. Looking about at the glum faces of the retreating soldiers he realised the severity of their losses, he counted but thirty of the one hundred and eighty men now remained and it was with a heavy heart that he lead them from the rear gates of the settlement, Talfas to his left and Khalad to his right and without so much as a backwards glance he hurried the company forwards.

The Poros was lost but he was determined that Gondor would be ready, looking down at the silver chain that hung from his neck he realise with irony that to convince the steward and his council of this new threat he would have to accept the title he was born into, a lord with no lands and no real title, but it would have to do, it was all he had…. That was if he was not court marshalled first?

[Novnarwen]

Hidden in the shadows of a green bush, some paces away from the where he had ended the poor Haradrim's life, Frôzhal lay quietly and listened to the battle continue. He watched the sun make its way downwards. Hurriedly it went, making the sky reddish all over. Wonderful, he thought grinning to himself. Yes, for it was with great satisfaction he laid here. After a successful murder and seeing Jinan being left to his poor fate, he could do nothing but smile. Little did he know, however, that the sound of the last breath Erfâzh made in this life, and the cries of pain Jinan let out, would haunt him forever.

**

It was a fact, the Gondoirans had lost, and the Poros Settlement was theirs. By this, seeing the Gondorians retreating, he finally realised that he and the Haradrims had successfully accomplished their goals. He had seen Erfâzh die, or rather, he had killed him. Jinan had been screaming to the very end, and the Poros settlement was theirs! What more was there to do now? He thought, shaking with joy. After a few minutes though, he couldn't help feeling just slightly sorry for the Gondorians, but thinking it through he realised that he was a Haradrim. He was supposed to be their enemy. Moreover, he hadn't killed many of them, so it didn't matter. After this whole affair, who knew, maybe he would get another position in the army, a better position. Collecting his sword and his other belongings and putting on his armour, he went and joined the rest of the celebrating Haradrims. All the emotions he had kept inside of him for so long, all the emotions that had arisen inside of him due to the troubles that had evolved during the last days, were surprisingly just released. He sighed, smiled and waved to Gimilzôr, who didn’t actually offer him a look. This sudden feeling of freedom, the sudden feeling of finally being in control of his own life again, made him absolutely aware of his situation. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and held it high over his head as he fell to the ground on his knees. He sat silently watching everything and everyone.

For a long while he sat there, finding comfort in his great personal victory. The two he had learned to fear during this time, were gone. They were simply gone, gone, away! He had nothing to worry about, not even his conscience; as it was quite clean. For the two of them had deserved it, so it didn't matter that he had killed one of them and left the other to be tortured to death by the Gondorians. He stood up again, but to his great surprise he found himself struggling to control his limbs. They were weak. No, just stiff. After all the effort he had put into this last battle which had finally freed him of all fears, he felt nevertheless that a big lump had found its way into his throat. Suddenly, he had difficulties swallowing. An ocean of sweat ran down his forehand and down his back. His veins turned as red and bloody as the sky was when the Sun was on its way down. A feeling of being a helpless creature, made him realise that he had got it all wrong. No matter how he turned it, he had made a terrible mistake. Again his naivety had fooled him, but he was yet to realise how he had been fooled. He stood silently, staring into the air, looking utterly miserable. Feeling the wound on his arm being filled with pain, he realised that that pain was only a fraction of the pain he felt inside of him. Why did everything he had accomplished during the last hours or so suddenly feel like a downfall to him? Being rather confused by the mixture of his feelings, which he figured he had no control over, he tried searching within himself for a satisfying answer.

You've done wrong, when thinking you've done right. Unjustly, you have taken what is not yours . . . Treachery, you have committed of the worst kind, but still you are satisfied over your deeds. Who are you really? A Haradrim in mind and heart, or a Haradrim by looks but someone else in heart and mind? For nevertheless, the deeds you have committed suits none. Treachery is not supported by any, neither Haradrims nor Gondorians.

It became clear to him what he had done in the hour of sunset. At that time, the Haradrims started looking for more survivors. Searching the battlefield, Erfâzh was found; naturally dead. Not daring to approach the body, Frôzhal went with some of the others to search for others. Time passed slowly, and few were found. Frôzhal was not at all aware of whom they were approaching now, lying on the ground. He was too caught up in his thoughts and the question, whether he ought to regret his actions or not. Killing Erfâzh had felt so good. It had felt right, and now a voice in his head, which he had never heard speak before, told him otherwise. Yes, for he had figured it out, the riddle. He walked with stern steps, looking downwards when a horrible sight met him. There, just by his very feet was the man he had respected, until Erfâzh had joined him. There he was. The smell of the dead body made him sick and he turned away in disgrace for a few moments to digest what he had just seen. There was blood everywhere, a limb or two were gone; simply cut off, dirt and sweat mixed with the smell of dried blood. He wanted to leave instantly, but it would only cause suspicion if he did. After all, he was partly guilty of this soldier's death. But he did not at all regret it, he thought to himself, still not offering the body another look.

The other Haradrims Frôzhal had followed to look for wounded soldiers, had gathered around the stinking body. A few minutes passed by when suddenly Frôzhal heard a whispering sound coming from below; the sound of something moving in the sandy ground. He wasn't able restrain himself as his curiosity arose inside of him. With a hurried movement, he turned to face the man on the ground he thought had been dead.

[Orual]

The young Captain Anhelm sat in his room in the Houses of Healing, his left arm bandaged and completely out of use, but his right arm still functional. In it he held a pen, and a blank sheet of paper was in front of him. He touched the pen to the paper, but did not write anything. Not yet.

How could everything have gone as wrong as it did? His village was in flames. His career was ended. The healers were not sure whether or not he would ever be fit for service again. Gingerly he touched his abdomen, which was also wrapped in a bandage, and bit back the pain. He was lucky to have survived, said the healers. He wasn't so sure.

Lucky to survive when so many of his men had not. Lucky to hear the endless reports of their losses. Lucky to be stuck in this healing room day after day, waiting for his wounds to knit and his pain to recede, and suffering while neither happened.

His family had been supportive, but he could tell that his father was devestated. He was a disappointment: a failure. His first mission. And it should have been so simple. If only he had listened to Astalder, and retreated when it was prudent. But he had to be the hero, the pioneer, the captain going down with his ship. Well, he had gone down. And now he was at the bottom.


Are you happy now? His father had not asked him that question, but it had been implied. Was he happy? Was he satisfied? Was he proud of what he had done? No, no, and no. He had ruined his life. He had ended others.

And thus the story of the ill-fated Poros settlement ended.

And Captain Anhelm sat at his desk in the Houses of Healing, and wept.

[Bêthberry]

* * * * * * To Elvenhome * * * * * *