Defense of the Poros RPG

[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?