Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Arry]

Skald’s hands grew slippery on the haft of his poleaxe. Even though he had put on his leather gloves for a good grip, still the rivulets of dark Orc blood had wet them thoroughly and lessened their ability to grip. He glanced to his right, where Bror stood, his brother’s axe cutting in clean arcs against the advancing foe. Stepping back a pace or two, Skald threw off his gloves and hastily wiped the shaft of his weapon along the side of his breeches.

Just as he was stepping back up to the fighting line, a spray of blood from somewhere on his left hit him. Axe at the ready he turned to see Regil Brassbeard fall, his head nearly cloven asunder by a great Orc’s blade.

Even as Regil’s body slumped to the ground, Bror had roared up, attacking the filthy Orc with his axe. For his part, the wiry creature was able to parry many of the blows Bror rained down on him. Though, a number of the swings seemed close enough to nick the foul hide before they were thrust away.

Too close for Skald’s comfort were the strikes of the Orc’s blade toward his brother. The foul creature seemed mad. Unlike other Orcs they had encountered this one did not run from the fierce blows of the poleaxe. It was almost as if he wished to hasten his own death. Skald swung his own axe at the Orc. The shaft shifted in his hands a little at this sideways strike. The flat of the axe head hit hard against the Orc’s thick skull, causing the creature to stagger and fall. Not waiting to see if his blow had killed the Orc, Skald turned to other foe.

Through the haze of battle, Skald could see that Men were now pushing their way to the front of the lines. Arrows now flew against the Elves of Lindon and Lorien. And the scimitars of the Men of the East were assailing the front ranks of Lord Celeborn’s ground troops. Here and there with deliberate charges could be seen the Lindon Elves on their great horses, their swords cutting down the advancing troops of Sauron. And at times, they fell themselves. Their bright and terrible beauty swept over by the darkness.

Skald saw the Elf, who had borne him into battle on the back of his horse, as he fell to Easterling spears and swords. And a moment of grim cheer rose in his heart as the great horse reared and slew several of the attackers with his slashing hooves. Then he, too, fell to the long, sharp staves that pierced his neck.

The rage of battle grew in Skald’s breast at the sight. His eyes hardened as he ran toward the Easterlings, a number of other of his Dwarf companions close on his heels.

Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!

The great battle-cry of the Dwarves thundered about them as they hastened toward the foe . . .

Axes of the Dwarves! The Dwarves are upon you! . . .

[Firefoot]

Since Grimkul’s disappearance, Ulwakh had been going through the city, deliberately avoiding any areas of concentrated fighting. Nor did he wander about looking for lone Elves to kill. Instead, he forced his way into the Elvish buildings, looking for the young and the weak. When he found them, he killed them: slowly and painfully. Only a few had possessed both the courage and the strength to resist him, and even then their struggle was futile: though he might be wounded minimally, the knives and daggers that they came up with at short notice were of little help against Ulwakh’s cold hatred.

These prizes were less than frequent, however; many homes had been evacuated; some, already ravaged; still others, too tightly locked up. The thrill was almost not even worth it, for all the work he had to go through. Exiting yet another abandoned house, a thought occurred to Ulwakh. Perhaps Grimkul had been right. If ever there was a time to escape this cursed army, now would be it. Under no particular chain of command, the Orcs roamed freely through the ravaged city and killed at will. Small and semi-crippled as he was, no one would miss him. As for Grimkul, Ulwakh could find nothing in his heart but contempt for his dumb if occasionally useful companion. Besides, Grimkul had left him.

With that in mind, he abandoned his largely futile attempt and set out to find an exit from the city. He had heard the sounds of fighting at the main gate; it would be no good to use that exit. Instead he headed for one of the other breaches in the wall, hoping to avoid all but the very fringes of the battle.

It was even as he had hoped. He left the city unnoticed, skirted around the edge of the battle field, and gave fight only when pressured. Now, he only had to get past the small band of Dwarves where they gave fight to a black mass of Orcs, and after a short dash he would be lost to sight in the broken landscape.

But as he approached, he could not help but notice one crazed Orc fighting in the midst of the Dwarves, and after a short moment, recognized him: Grimkul. He nearly cried out, then silenced himself, remembering his cause to go unnoticed. And even as he watched, Grimkul took a nasty blow to the head from an axe and fell to the ground in a heap. A curious look crossed Ulwakh’s face, akin to remorse. The expression passed as abruptly as it had come, and he spat out one word: “Idiot.” Then he turned and fled.