[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.