Fall of the North RPG

[Saurreg]

Belegorn

The huge leather clad uruk crashed heavily onto its knees and a soft wet gurgling sound emitted from its throat. With a yell, Belegorn drove his sword swiftly through its broad back, penetrated the flimsy armor and did not stop until he felt the distinctive crack of a shattered vertebrate giving way. The acting commander of the rearguard then drew his blade back up and kicked the hulking carcass of his fallen foe aside. Wiping the stinging hot sweat from around his eyes with the back of his hand, Belegorn looked around and cursed.

In the excitement of the charge, the first line of the rearguard – the newest and most inexperienced men of the regiment was doomed. Led by an enthusiastic lieutenant of old aristocracy but modest ability, the line overextended and gaps formed between bands of fighting men. The enterprising uruks exploited the points of weakness by spearheading through the widening gaps in hefty numbers, encircling the men of the first line and crashing heavily into the second line – the tougher third year veterans. The young soldiers of the first line fought desperately like lions, but with their cohesion broken, most senior sergeants and the line lieutenant killed, they panicked and dissolved into a rout.

The men of the second line were equally ill prepared for the ferocity of the huge orcs and confusion then became chaotic and was further augmented by the arrival of the remnants of the first line, who rush terror-stricken in all directions to escape. It was almost too much for the men of the second line to take and they started giving way…

Belegorn turned towards the regimental archers at the rear and barked a curt set of orders. Fearing that the second line was about to follow suite first and rout, he and the flag bearer darted towards it and found that a crisis was in the making, for the men of the second line were so closely huddled together that their shields overlapped and each man was unable even to unsheathe his sword to fight. Individuals in the rear were already slinking away while many of the senior sergeants were also incapacitated. The uruks were decimating the men in the front – easily overpowering the defenseless men with their great strength.

Swearing vehemently, Belegorn grabbed the shield of one of the guardsmen in the rear and shoved his way to the front, urging the men to spread out and give themselves room to fight. He bellowed out the names the sergeants of the line and of the men he recognized to advance and reform the line.

“Nicanor! Iarminuial! Esgalelin! Reform the line! Attack!”

As Belegorn reached the front, an uruk attempted to smite him with his black blood-dripping scimitar. Belegorn raised his shield and absorbed the blow before thrusting his own blade into the groin of the enemy. He stole a quick glance to his rear and saw that the flag bearer was still with him and sigh a relief.

It was up to the archers now, and they did not fail him.

A skillfully discharged volley of arrows arced across the second line and as ordered by Belegorn, the archers let them down amidst the mass of uruks. With their second echelon cut down by the merciless missiles, the uruks at the front lost their momentum and stopped. Belegorn dashed towards the closest uruk and let his trusty blade find the orc’s head with a loud roar. The sharp Dúnedain sword met its mark and cleaved the uruk’s head in half.

Turning towards the men to his rear, Belegorn harangued them, nodding towards the stunned host of orcs,

“You miserable wretches! Aren’t you ashamed to let your lieutenant be beaten by mere animals?”

An emboldened orc charged towards Belegorn and attempted to kill him with a thrust of his scimitar. Belegorn skillfully parried the blow and delivered a lateral backhand swipe with his sword arm and took of the miserable creature’s head. Black steaming ichor gushed forth from the severed neck.

“While? What are you waiting for?”

Several of the senior sergeants had responded to Belegorn and came up to him. Belegorn then turned towards the orcs and charged, yelling with all his breath. The movement forward was a catalyst for the necessary courage and momentum of the rearguard. With a roar the men of the second line swept past Belegorn and the flag bearer and charged towards the enemy. With concentrated local superiority, the rearguard slaughtered the uruks.

Belegorn waited for the second line to scatter the uruks before signaling to the flag bearer to wave the pennon and the trumpeters to sound the halt and withdraw – he had no intention to lead the regiment into mass suicide. The first lieutenant then turned towards the third line – the supreme elite of the regiment, and signaled to them to part ranks and allow the second line to withdraw unmolested. It was his intent to withdraw the entire regiment by this leap-frog maneuver.

For now, the reputation of the rearguard as the best of Arthedain was safe. But just barely.

[alaklondewen]

The fruit of the enemy had taken Fornost. The streets lay in ruin, and the stench of the death and despair that surrounded the Counselor and his guard sought to overwhelm and overcome them. Ereglin covered his mouth and nose with his left hand and tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword with the other as they passed yet another scene where a small battle had occurred. Three young Dunedain lay where they fell, crumpled on the street. The Elf noticed the absence of their swords and wondered at the irony of others being slain by their comrades weapons.

“We must be careful, sir.” Gaeredhel called over a crash coming from their right. “The enemy holds no order.” His words were short and clipped by the steps he took. “They seem to be charged by the chaos that surrounds them.”

Ereglin nodded gravely just as shadow covered the city. The terrifying screech that followed cut into the Elf’s heart with a blade of darkness, and Ereglin stumbled momentarily...the Witch King had arrived. Darkness covered his eyes like a thick tapestry. Frantically, the Elf grabbed at his face and wiped his eyes, but he still could not see. A growing pressure gnawed on the edge of his mind, and he called out with as much force as he could muster, “A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!” Immediately, the darkness fell away from his mind like shards of glass, and Ereglin breathed deeply as though he had held his breath for several minutes.

“Lord Ereglin!” The guard’s voice broke brought him back into the dire scene. “We must move with all haste, sir...we are nearly to the Inner Sanctum!”

“Yes, with haste!” Ereglin followed Gaeredhel as they began to race toward the gates of the third level.

A crowd bustled around the entrance trying to file through. Many of the women were crying, as were their children, but as the Elf looked over their faces as they approached, he noticed one woman with a face as cold as stone. She carried with her a babe, hugged closely to her side, and Ereglin wondered how this woman, who’s sapphire eyes blazed, would fare. The Men parted enough to allow the Elves through, and they hastened to the King’s Hall.

One of the King’s guards met them at the base of the structure. “Lord Ereglin.” The guard quickly bowed and nodded to Gaeredhel. “Minister Mellonar is awaiting your arrival. All Elves are to assemble within the Hall.”

“Thank you,” Ereglin nodded to the guard, and he and Gaeredhel ran under the eaves of the great hall. At that moment, cries rose from the people within the third level and great crash was heard above them.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The three horses galloped at full pelt through the streets of the upper level, even the two great war horses terrified by the sounds around them. North's nostrils were flared and red and his breathing harsh and shallow as he belted along the cobbled streets and up the shallow, twisting, wide twisting stairway to the Inner Sanctum, Faerim bent low over his neck, his fingers entwined desperately in both rein and mane, his brother's fingers digging deep into his sides. The boy was entirely focused on riding straight ahead, keeping an eye on his mother but otherwise taking in nothing but the paved path that lay between his family and the Inner Sanctum.

Suddenly, a terrible, fierce screeching noise came from above him, the sound of the very fabric of reality being torn apart. It was too much for North: the inexperienced black stallion whinnied and reared up suddenly in terror, snapping the twine that tied his bridle to that of Carthor's horse and nearly throwing both boys off his back. Faerim grabbed at his brother's wrists with one hand, trying to stop him from sliding off as he desperately tried to stay on the back of his horse. But then he saw the sight that made his blood run cold.

Faerim, although young, was not cowardly: he came from a line of fine Arthadain soldiers and his every cell had yearned to serve his city and his country in the army since he couldn't remember. He was brave, morally and physically; but nothing in the world could ever have prepared him for the sight of the creature that lay in front of him. He yelled in shock and horror, his eyes opening wide as North reared once more. Faerim barely tried to calm his horse: his eyes were fixed on the fearsome, inhuman figure that, as he watched, took out three soldiers with one swing of that massive icy sword. The beast didn't look at him, but it was if he could feel every moment of joy he had ever experienced being tainted and sapped away as he looked upon the one that was called the Captain of Despair.

And for once, just for once, Faerim envied his brother for his lack of sight.

A scream pierced the air, a sudden, sharp, human sound that shook Faerim from his reverie, seeming to stand out even against all the chaos around them. Startled once more, the youth's head whipped around and there, amid the rubble of destroyed houses beneath their perch on the stairs, was a woman of about the same age as his mother, clutching a young boy's hand desperately. Faerim stared at the woman: how was she still alive there, with the orcs running wild? One thing was for sure: she wasn't going to last much longer like that. Faerim wasn't sure what about this woman had called to him so particularly, amid the devastation and death of the city; but as she struggled forward, she looked up, and her fierce, bright blue eyes bore straight into his, before she fell forward, tripping and falling to her knees, a curtain of black hair falling over her pale, terrified face. That was it. Brander's arms were wrapped tightly around Faerim's slim, muscular waist in a death grip, holding grimly on, and Faerim could feel his younger brother's head digging into his back, feeling the vibration that his spine as his brother whimpered softly. North had stopped rearing but was dancing backwards fearfully, tossing his head and foaming at the mouth as he whinnied, terrified at the ghastly spectre. Faerim laid a hand reassuringly on his blind brother's hand, then turned to his mother, whose mare was reacting similarly to North, although Lissi tried to calm her, using all of her substantial skill as a horsewoman to stay seated.

"Mother!" Lissi looked up fearfully, expecting something to have happened to ehr son, and Faerim steered North over to her side, yelling over the chaos of the witchking's descent. "Mother, I must...there is a woman, and a child, they have been left there. I must...I..." he trailed off, not knowing what to say, not knowing why he felt such a strong bond of duty towards this woman. Lissi paused, then nodded. "Go, go! But Brander..." Faerim nodded. "Aye, he-" Brander spoke quietly, the vibrations of his voice being felt more than heard by Faerim. "I will go, Mother and I must get to the Inner Sanctum."

His brother's calm sensibility made Faerim feel weak with love towards him. "I love you, brother," he said softly, squeezing Brander's hand tightly for a brief instant. Brander was quickly moved over and seated behind Lissi on her mare, but Faerim couldn't immediately move. Lissi drew the blade that her son had given her and gave him a look of fierce, strong emotion that Faerim couldn't quite understand, tendrils of black hair whipping around her face, her grey eyes bright, looking like the warrior queens of legend. The youth lent over and kissed her roughly on her forehead then, with a last look, he reared once more, turned, and sped away from them as they rode up the stairs towards the Inner Sanctum, as he galloped in the direction they had come from. Looking around, his blonde hair blowing into his light eyes as he narrowed them against the wind and dust of destruction. He was surprised to find that Carthor's warhorse had stayed close, as if taking comfort from the presence of North, but he didn't immediately pay attention to the creature, focusing intently on the woman and her child. He rode towards her, crouched low over North's back as the last remaining survivors fled past his horse's sides. Stopping beside the woman, he offered her his hand.

"Lady, please!" he yelled over the tumultous noise around them. Glancing sharply up at the dark, ragged silhouette like the image of death that seemed to hover on his horse in front of the rearguard, he was once again sharply reminded of how little time they had. The orcs were so close he could almost smell them: in less than a minute, he estimated, both he and this woman would be dead meat.

The woman, unbelievably, hesitated, and Faerim took a second to realise why, then it hit him: he hadn't thought ahead - how was the woman going to fit on, with her child? It would certainly slow them down, even if it was possible. Then a revelation came to him, a revelation of hope that relied on one thing. He looked at the woman hopefully. "Can you ride?" he asked bluntly.

The woman nodded, her face brightening. Faerim grinned in relief, despite the situation and turned to Carthor's warhorse, who was still close. Dismounting, he helped the woman and her child up as fast as he could, then leapt deftly back onto North's back. Grabbing the reins of the other horse, Faerim spurred North on impatiently - as the tide of orcs broke on the rubble behind them. Faerim, his knuckles white on the reins, spurred North on as hard as possible, praying that he, as well as the woman and her child, could get to the Inner Sanctum in time...

[Nuranar]

Morn was, on ordinary occasions, the most placid mare Lissie had ever met. Unfortunately, this was no ordinary occasion. There was no need to urge her
to a gallop as they fled from the house; indeed, the frightened mare did her best to pass North. But Lissi just let Morn run herself out. She had other things to think about. Her eyes kept her sons always in view and glanced from crevice to shadow, looking for danger before it found them. Even as Morn leapt debris and rounded corners at breakneck speed, Lissi rode with superb balance, only her left hand on the reins. The hilt of Faerim's sword, tied above the sack on the right of her sidesaddle, was within hand's reach.

Despite her vigilance, Lissi knew nothing of the Witch-King's coming until his cry split the air, echoed appallingly by a horse's terrified scream. For an instant Lissi knew blind panic, as her body felt the chill of horror and the world around her darkened. Morn swerved violently and reared, and Lissi's muscles tightened instinctively. Her reason returned as she fought the plunging mare to a trembling halt. She couldn't afford to look up, but even in the midst of the struggle she was thinking. They were ahead of me, and so was He... He's closer to them... He's between us and the Sanctum!

"Mother!" Lissi's head snapped around at the urgency in Faerim's cry, but she gasped in relief as Faerim and Brander rode to her side, uninjured. "Mother, I must...there is a woman, and a child, they have been left there. I must...I..." he pleaded, eyes strangely compelling. Lissi hesitated for but a moment. If he feels it's his duty, I cannot stand in the way. She nodded quickly.

"Go, go!" Wait!... "But Brander-" Faerim started to say something, when Brander himself spoke. "I will go, Mother and I must get to the Inner Sanctum."

Good boy! Lissi thought. Quickly they shifted Brander over to sit behind her; instantly he wrapped both arms around her waist. "No, I'm not big enough to hold you on!" Lissi said urgently, guiding his right hand to a grip on the saddle. If he's only holding me and he starts to fall, he'll drag me with him. She glanced up the street. Orcs were fighting with the men of the rearguard, driving them slowly back. I'll need every bit of balance I've got as it is, if we're to get through - she shook off the thought - WHEN we get through! We'll be waiting for Faerim when he comes. Lissi drew Faerim's sword with an instinctive flourish and turned Morn's head. Faerim was still beside her, and she glowed with pride as she saw him. Abruptly he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, then turned and galloped back. Lissi's eyes filled with tears as she cried out to Morn and kicked her into a canter.

Swiftly they fled through the chaos of soldiers, fighting and fleeing. Somehow they passed the shadowy horror unharmed, although Morn tried to swerve and Lissi felt Brander trembling. One orc, hearing her approach, turned to brandish an oversized battle-ax; Lissi shouted to her horse and ran the orc down, swinging the sword at another nearby. The very desperation of her onslaught was an advantage, as some of the enemy gave way and others were outdistanced. Morn developed an unexpected ferocity, now that the Witch-King was out of sight, striking down orcs in their path.

Lissi raised her eyes for an instant and sighted the gate to the Inner Sanctum. "We're almost there!" she cried to Brander. Abruptly they burst into their own rearguard, and Lissi had to rein in her mount to let the soldiers make a path. They rode up through the gate, into the chaos of companies and officers, dead and wounded. At any other time Lissi would have been fully aware of her appearance; as the only women in sight, on horseback, a boy behind her, and a blood-spattered sword in her hand, she made quite a picture. But to all this she was oblivious. Even as Morn shoved on through the press, she was looking back. Please, Eru, let him live!

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen’s world was falling apart around her and yet the child still slept, wrapped in his blankets and strapped firmly to her chest. He was his father’s son, she thought to herself as the threat of tears began to prick her eyes once more. He was all that was left now. It was her and the child, alone, in this chaos and the heaving mass of struggling, frightened people. She clutched him even tighter as she tried to squeeze towards the gate, and struggled to keep her feet on the ground, lest she go under and be trampled.

As she turned her head about to get a breath of air she saw a garden she had once envied, and fell back from the struggle. It had been a beautiful place, shaded by drooping trees and filled with scented plants, and she had often gazed on it in silent envy. Now it was littered with tumbled masonry. The shrubs were crushed by many feet and the trees had been hacked at. A statue of a woman which once stood in the centre of the garden now lay on its side, its cold stony face gazing sadly on the equally stony face of Renedwen.

She faltered, thinking of her elderly parents not far away. Should she have gone back to them and insisted they join the escape? Or should she have joined them in their defence of their home? She could feel the warmth of her child’s gentle breath through her gown, and she looked from him to the struggling crowd at the gate. Surely the sensible thing to do would be to give him to another woman, bid her to take him to safety? It would not be so bad. After all, he had no father now, no home, and precious little hope of growing up in the luxury she had planned for him. Now she was no better than any other widow who struggled to get through the gate and to safety; all notions of wealth and status meant nothing now.

Renedwen had almost decided that the child would fare as well away from her when he stirred within his swaddle of blankets and opened his eyes for a moment. She suddenly found herself looking into the eyes of her husband and her heart seemed to turn within her. Wracked with grief and love she turned back to face the gate.

The cold screeching which issued from somewhere above filled her with a sudden need to be out of there, to take her child and get to safety and cold determination surged through her bones as she set herself amongst the crowd. Her deep blue eyes were intense as she tried to work out how best she could get through this gate as quickly as possible, and as she looked over the crowd, planning her escape, she noticed a tall elf with dark grey eyes watching her. He was a King’s Councillor, reduced to trying to escape as much as she was, and she watched him as he made his way skilfully through the crowd.

She was not watching what was coming from behind her, and no sooner than she heard the cries, the creature was upon her and she seemed to fall into a stairwell for protection. Then the walls started to come down and all she could do was cower with her arms covering the boy’s head. She did not even have time to cry out, and time seemed to halt as she stumbled forwards, only knowing that she had to move, had to get away, had to be elsewhere.

Renedwen looked into the eyes of a young soldier who was watching her, horrified, and then she fell. She did not put out her hand to stay her fall, as she could not bear to let go of her son, and winded, she lay in the rubble, shaking her head in despair. All the thoughts of who she missed, her husband and family who had suddenly been taken from her, whirled about her and she felt as though to give in was the only thing she wanted. She thought of meeting them on that green field and what bliss it would surely be. A hand touched her arm and she thought she might already be dead and that it might be the welcoming hand of her husband, but as she opened her eyes again, she saw the young soldier, somehow bright on his horse against the backdrop of smoke and dust.

She barely noticed as he urged her onto a horse with the child. She thought she must be smiling, but she was numb with the horror of realising she was alive after all. She automatically hooked her fingers through the halter and urged the horse on with a squeeze of her knees, but it did not seem as though it was herself who was doing anything. She felt that somehow she had left her real self elsewhere, that she ought to have been out on that green field, not here, urging a horse on in blind terror.

[Arry]

Rôsgollo

The Hall was in sight. What should have been an easy passage became a rat’s maze of dodges and twisting turns as he maneuvered his way at a run through an increasing mass of bodies. They were frightened . . . panicked . . . and it was this sense of chaos and despair that pulled at him. Help me! . . . the words beat against him, repeated over and over in little images he pushed away. His duty was to his Lord; the keeping of his Lord’s safety, his pledge.

Still he helped as he could. A hand here to one fallen in the melée and a spurring thought . . .Run, man! Seek safety. The King will lead you out soon. Another hand to a woman on her rearing horse, a child in a sling at her front and one several years older clinging desperately to her from behind . . . Shhh . . . shhh, brave one! he coaxed the frightened animal. Take your charges to safety. He ran on, speeding his way to his brother’s side without pause, save for one from which he could not turn aside.

A young woman had fallen, the victim of some foul Orc missile. She lay on her side, crumpled on the smooth paved way, a tangle of bloodied clothes and pale limbs. Her sightless eyes stared up at him as he passed; the horror now fled from them in the peace of death. Her long dark hair was snarled from her panicked flight, strands of it splotched here and there with her blood. Save for the color of her hair, she was nothing like his wife, lost long ago to this same foe. And yet he gasped at the sight of her, recalling the image of his wife and child dead in that battle. The fleeing hordes swirled about them as he paused to look down at her.

He wrenched his thoughts from her, shoving his fresh-turned grief down deep. A little movement beneath her cloak stopped him as he turned to go. There were soft words, in a tremulous little voice. ‘Mami! Gilly safe now?’ Rôsgollo crouched down, turning back the section of the cloak that covered the woman’s chest and hips. There, tucked into the hollow formed by her belly and hips was a little one, not more than three years old. He lay sucking his thumb, his grey eyes blinking in the sudden light, a frightened look on his pale face. She had tucked him there before she died, telling him to be keep quiet – they would be safe soon.

‘Come, little one . . . Gilly, is it?’ Rôsgollo murmured soothingly as he took off his leather gloves and tucked them in his belt. His hands reached for the child, who protested and pushed closer to his mother. ‘Mami!’ The plaintive cry tore at the Elf’s heart. ‘Gilly is safe now,’ he said in a gentle voice as he picked the child up and cradled him in his arms. A fat tear rolled down the little boy’s cheek. ‘Mami?’ Rôsgollo tucked his cloak about the child. ‘Yes, Mami is safe now, too.’ He leaned forward a little and closed the eyes of the woman. His voice kept up a soothing patter as he stood and began to hurry to the Hall once again.

You will not claim this one, foul Shadowspawn! he vowed as he entered under the eaves of the King’s Hall.

His brother and Lord Ereglin were soon found. ‘We are waiting on Lord Mellonar for his instruction,’ said Gaeredhel eyeing the child his brother held in his arms. ‘Best we do not wait long, my Lord,’ Rôsgollo said, shifting the boy in his arms. The last spire on this Hall has fallen to the enemy’s missiles; it will not be long before the Hall itself is in ruin. If Mellonar does not come soon, we need to get to the North Gate.’ Gaeredhel leaned in close to his brother’s ear. ‘And what about the little one. Should he not be with his kind?’

‘His mother is dead,’ Rôsgollo answered. ‘None stopped to see to her. For now, I am his “kind”.’ He looked down at the boy’s face then back at Gaeredhel and Lord Ereglin. ‘I will not abandon him,’ he said evenly.

There was a stir as Mellonar approached the gathered Elves. The focus shifted to the minister as he began to speak . . .

[Amanaduial the archer]

The woman didn't seem in any fit state to control the horse herself: she seemed to be in a state of shock, numb, frozen up, with just the strength to cling onto the reins of Carthor's horse - steering was out of the question. Faerim was therefore left with the non-too easy job of steering both horses, and as he didn't have a piece of rope or the time to tie the horses together, this meant holding the larger horse's reins with his free hand. If this wasn't enough, the orcs were catching up now; Faerim risked a glance over his shoulder and saw in horror that they were but a few seconds behind, despite the speed with which he was travelling. If either horse slowed down, they would be on them in a trice.

Swearing repeatedly under his breath, Faerim turned around again and realised a decision was going to have to be made. Shaking the woman on the shoulder, rough in his desperation, he called to her. "Hey...hey!" he called, and she turned her head to look at him, fear showing in her bright, tear-stained eyes. Faerim didn't have time for compassion though, not at the minute. He flapped the reins at the woman. "Reins - take them!" he snapped, curt from tension, still riding at full pelt, only watching the woman with one eye. By the expertise with which she had mounted, Faerim guessed this woman could ride: he hoped so, certainly, for both their sakes. Thankfully, she took the reins and took control numbly. Faerim flashed her a grateful grin and nodded upwards to the top of the stairway where he had previously come from. "Take your child up there, as fast as you can - go, go!" There was barely any point in speaking in full sentences: she probably only heard a few of the words as the wind gained confidence and blew his words away over the ruined city.

Talking of gaining confidence... Faerim glanced back at the half a dozen orcs as the woman sped past him on his father's horse. They were keeping pace worryingly well, seemingly tireless, howling and whooping as they followed the boy, like a monstrous fox hunt. Faerim swallowed his fear down hard, knowing what he had to do: it was the hardest thing he had learned when training for the army, a skill that would be invaluable in battle but which, unfortunately, he wasn't sure he had really 'perfected' yet. Shooting from a horse whilst riding. And that would mean letting go of North's reins...

Doing so in an instance, Faerim tightened his grip on North's sides with his knees, taking a precious second to balance himself, his arms out at his sides to improve it, but only for an instant. Still gripping tightly, Faerim slid the bow off his back and whipped out three arrows from the quiver at the side of the saddle where he had fixed it. Fixing the first deftly in the bow, Faerim performed the trickiest part of the manoevure: checking the way was clear ahead of him and that North was headed straight, he turned, sighted briefly, and let rip with the three arrows in quick sucession, aiming for the nearest orcs in a volley, meaning he would hit at least one of them with the three arrows. But his impeccable aim didn't fail him: he took out two of the orcs, and a third fell behind, an arrow embedded in his knee. Not that Faerim had taken any notice: he had turned to face the horse's head as soon as the third arrow was loosed, grabbing hold of the front of the saddle, gulping deep breaths of acrid air. But there were still several behind him. Dreading performing the risky manoevure once again, Faerim took another three arrows, let go of North's saddle, and fired again: once, twice, three times the arrows found their marks in the orcs, Faerim's silhouette like some legendary centaur as he fought back. Most of the small pack had fallen now, and the remaining pair were falling behind him. Relieved, the youth slung his bow carelessly over one shoulder and took hold of his reins again as he shook his blonde hair out of his eyes. The half-crazed horse kept galloping, but on top of him, his rider was almost shaking.

They mounted the stairs and Faerim urged North on a little harder as he gritted his teeth and rose in the saddle, but with some difficulty this time: he was beginning to tire. Halfway up the steps, a shadow seemed to come over the youth, and he looked up at the top of the steps...where he saw that spectral figure again, rearing up, his sword pointed forward towards the Inner Sanctum, silently commanding his nightmare troops. Faerim let rip with another volley of curses under his breath, and drew his sword from the saddle sheath just in case, holding the reins with one hand. North didn't need to be urged on further: he was almost blind in panic. Above them on the steps, Faerim saw the woman and Carthor's horse falter as she saw the witch king turning towards her...

"Ride!" Faerim yelled the single word like a catapult shot, and the woman's head turned towards him, her gaze ripped from the witch-king's. He was almost directly behind her, and, in desperation, he slapped the warhorse's rear with the flat of his hand. The horse was jerked into action, as if it to had been captivated by the witch king. They were so close to the Inner Sanctum, but Faerim made the woman ride ahead of him so she got in there first, as he rode behind her, just in case any more of the orcs came - or even... He turned, pausing his frantic horse as he stood at the gates of the Inner Sanctum, and looked up at the terrible, mysterious figure. It looked towards him and the youth looked back with burning eyes, pointing his sword defiantly at the creature who had made his city fall. North reared once more, terrified, and Faerim let his arm fall, turned, and rode through the gates. They shut behind him with a ominous clang, and Faerim suddenly felt faint with weariness - and the realisation that, at least for a time, he was safe.

[Novnarwen]

"We're almost there!"

His mother's voice drowned in the chaos surrounding them. Cries of pain and despair rung in his ears, penetrating his mind and body. There was something about the terror in his fellow kinsmen's voices, echoing, which he couldn’t' explain. What pain and suffering could possibly make a man scream with such horror? Brander shivered with fear where he sat, clutching his arms around his mother. He could not imagine the scenes evolving in the city, and deep in his heart, he was happy for the lack of his sight. He was in a way grateful for not being able to see what was taking place; men dying by their swords, fighting courageously until the end, women and children slaughtered; he was glad he couldn't see all he had known all his life being put to ruin by the greatness of a power he didn't and couldn't understand. However, even though he wished to be spared for the pain of witnessing this, the pictures which were being formed in his head by horrifying sounds, which seemed to be coming from every corner of the City, were merciless. In truth these images were just as cruel as the ones that were presented to everyone else.

As they rode, the wind rushed roughly against his face. He did not know exactly how far they were from the gate, but he did not dare ask. It was no time for questions, he knew that much. He thought of his brother. Faerim had left them. Bravely he'd done so, to save a poor woman and her child from an evil fate. Although Brander was proud of his brother's immense courage, he knew that this time it might have been the last time they had heard from him. The thought of his brother being somewhere out there, behind them, where orcs were roaming, slaying everyone in their way, made him swallow with anxiety. What was he supposed to do without Faerim, the only person he truly cared for? He frowned, immediately reproaching himself for his self-centeredness. How could he think of himself, what would happen to him if Faerim died, in a situation like this?

The pace of the horse seemed to finally slow down; his mother’s mare was no longer galloping in a ferocious speed, it was trotting hurriedly. Brander listened to the sounds from its hoofs, thumping the ground continually. “Mother, please tell me that we are safe,” said the blind, young boy silently, loosening his grip. He felt petty and unimportant where he sat, and when Brander discovered that his mother hadn’t heard what he had said, he was, in an odd sort of way, glad. Suddenly, the feeling of being weak, which he had felt quite often when being underestimated for being blind, came over him. But the sensation of being of no use, more like a burden, was stronger now than what it had ever been before. Suppressing his other feelings, he felt choked by thinking of his valiant brother. He felt ashamed. Brander was a young man; he should be fighting to protect the city he loved, the only city he knew. He should be one of those who were willing to go back to save women and children from the orc’s slaughtering. He should be one of the soldiers fighting against the terrible enemy who was threatened put everything to ruin. I should've been fighting, side by side with the other young men at my age.., he thought to himself sighing. Yes, he was truly ashamed. Brander knew that Carthor probably was too.

“Brander,”

“Yes, mother?”

“You must stay here. You will be safe for now. We are in the Inner Sanctum. The gates will still hold for a while. I must go and look for Faerim. He might be here, and we must find him.” He heard his mother jumping off the horseback. “If something happens when I am gone, pull the reins and ride. Don’t wait for me. You won’t . . see me . .”

Brander bent down, his mother leaving a dry kiss on his forehead. Tears were in his eyes, and already before she had left, he was praying for her to come back.

[Garen LiLorian]

The trip had been swift, and without event. Whether it had been luck or fate that guided their steps, not so much as a solitary orc showed his shadow on the path that Angóre and Erenor had taken. They could hear the shouts and screams of the dying, and now and again Angóre would stop to listen as the tramp of footsteps came close to the streets on which they walked, but they quickly left the scene of battle behind, moving on silent feet towards the citadel.

"Halt! Stand and declare!" The challenge rang out as the two elves reached the walls to the inner sanctum. A pale, scared face peered out over the wall.
Angóre and Erenor stopped. Erenor answered the lad, and a small portal opened for the Elves.

Inside, the chaos continued. Every now and again, missiles arced over the walls, wreaking havoc on the towers and halls of the King's sanctum. The Elves were instructed to meet with Mellonar inside the King's Hall, and they hurried inside, just as the councilor began to speak...