Defense of the Poros RPG

[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]

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.

[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?"