Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[piosenniel]

King Durin leads his men in an attack against the rear positions of Sauron’s troops

King Durin paced the width of his great hall, his booted footsteps thumping heavily against the smooth marbled stone of the floor. A decision must be made . . . and soon . . . he thought to himself. ‘Think, man, think!’ he spoke harshly to himself, his eyes fixed on the floor as he walked along.

Of the thirty Dwarves he’d sent to accompany Lord Celeborn and his Elven warriors to where the Elves from Lindon were encamped, only ten had returned. He recalled his moments of panic when the message had come to him of this small number and the small measure of relief when he learned the others were unharmed, but staying on to lend their axes to the Lindon Elves. Since then, he had increased the number of scouts he sent out each day to bring him news of the battle raging against the Elven city.

Rori Ironfoot, who had led the Dwarves accompanying the Lorien Elves, was one of the Dwarves who had volunteered to go back out as a scout. His brother had stayed behind with the Lorien Elves, saying that he wanted to blood his ax on as many Orc necks as he could. The Ironfoot’s youngest brother had been killed a few months back during one of the times the Dwarves had escorted a group of Lorien warriors to the jewel-smiths’ city. It was Rori, on his way backwith the remaining other nine Dwarves, who brought back the news that the city was nearly overrun. And that the size of Sauron’s forces was so large that even the combined forces of Lindon, Lorien, and the Dwarves would not be able to get through them. In fact, he had told the King, it would be most likely that they would be overrun themselves and slaughtered.

The sun was going down as Durin poured over his reports and looked at the map on which he’d plotted the reports of Sauron’s troops activity and the placement of the Lindon Elves. The long shafts that let in the sun’s light had grown dark and now several retainers had come into the hall to light the many crystal lamps which hung from the cavern’s ceiling and along the smooth stone walls.

The King’s attention was caught by the mirror like surface of the hall’s floor. He could see the soft reflections of the retainers as they passed from lamp to lamp and those of others as they brought in a tray of food for him to eat and pitchers of water and of wine. For one small window of time their images would sharpen as they passed through the direct line of his gaze. Their images would begin to soften about the edges, then, and fade. Disappearing altogether as they moved farther from him.

Durin’s fist closed hard about the vellum map that lay before him, crumpling it into a tight, ungainly wad. He shook off the cloud of indecision that had him at an impasse for so long. If he did not act soon, his subjects would fade into nothingness . . . death would take them. They would be gone, much as the images of those who passed across the marbled floor were at last lost to his sight. And how would he explain then, to their families and their Forge halls that he had hesitated and they had paid the price?

‘Call the Captains to me!’ he cried, startling one of the lamplighters as he did so. The Dwarf nodded his head and took off at a run, as did the other lighters, each heading for their halls to spread the word. The great horns that called the gatherings were blown as they headed out toward the passageways. And other horns, in farther reaches of the caverns, sent the call on.

The King has need of his axes. Come! Come! He commands you!

~*~

In a day’s time there were seven hundred Dwarves armored and weaponed and bearing shields slung on their backs. More would come from the further halls to the east, but not for several days. The seven hundred would leave now; the others follow.

Riv listened closely to the King’s plan. Sauron’s troops were for the most part occupied with looting the fallen city and those who had come against the Elves of Lindon and the Dwarves paid no attention to their rear. And why should they? There was nothing to challenge them from that direction.

‘But we will challenge them with our axes, staves, and blades,’ the King went on. ‘Falling upon them unsuspected. Their doom will march in our ranks and claim them!’ There were cheers at these stirring words, but the King quieted those gathered with a wave of his hand. ‘Some of us, too, will meet our own doom. Though our numbers are large, our blades sharp and our aim true, still we cannot outmatch the sheer number of them. So we must be quick and canny in our attack. Swift enough to make a significant number of kills and canny enough to draw them away from our beleaguered companions – lead them on a merry chase back to the West Door. We’ll slip in safe, then, and close it hard against them. Those with the Lindon Elves will have time enough to get away. And the Elves, if they use their vaunted wisdom will flee with them to safety.’

As did the other men, Riv had but a short time to make his farewells to his family. Ginna slept soundly through it all; the innocent sleep of babes for whom war and death have no meaning. Leifr held back as his father called him to him. His eyes were wide at the sight of the armor, shield, and warhammer. His memory already holding an image of his father injured and pale from an earlier encounter with Orcs. Riv crouched down and coaxed the boy to him, ruffling Leifr’s hair with his fingers as he pulled him in against his chest. The boy’s cheeks were red with the effort of holding back his tears. ‘It will be alright,’ he whispered to his son. ‘You’ll stay here with your Grandpa and keep Mami and Ginna safe for me.’ Leifr snuffled against his father’s chest and shook his head ‘yes’. Standing up, Riv opened his arms to Unna and clasped her hard against him. No words passed between them, they had all been said before. She stepped back a pace and clasping his hand, kissed the ring of promise he bore upon his finger there. Then gathering Leifr to her and Ginna snug against her shoulder she composed her face into a smile and withdrew to the ring of families who would be waiting for their loved one’s return.

~*~

With haste the King led his troops from beneath the mountains, their quick strides eating up the distance between them and the rearmost position of Sauron’s troops. And when they had found them, they fell upon the Orcs and Men without mercy, hewing them down in great numbers until the ground ran slick . . . the red blood of Men intermingling with the darker blood of Orcs . . .

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo ran as best as he could through the city streets. His right ankle hurt with dull pain at each step, but that did not stop him. To fight the orcs was useless. There were too many of them, and the city would fall anyways. He just wanted to be back with his wife and children, and far away from this horror. They could've escaped since Cainenyo had left them in the dark street, and they might've found a gate through the wall, towards the northwest. That was were Cainenyo ran, just wanting to escape. This was not a fight, but a massacre. Dead bodies lay in the street where orcs had passed, and every street was home to a burning house. He ran through a wide plaza, with nothing but dead, broken elves staring at the night sky smeared with smoke for company, and the mangled corpses of orcs lay slumped in each alleyway, just ready to spring to life and snatch Cainenyo by the throat with their bloody claws. Cainenyo even stabbed dead orcs to see if they truly were slain as he passed them. He recalled a story, told in his youth, about people who sat like stones for hours, and now he greatly prayed that the orcs had not learnt this cruel new trick.

There was a wounded orc crawling through the mire. Cainenyo stabbed it firmly in the back and it collapsed into a puddle of blood with an inhuman shriek, and Cainenyo ran on, not wanting to see so many dead people ever again. So much death was in the city that night that it hung in the air like a dreadful fog, so thick was it that a feeling of dread and horror filled everything. Houses that were once beautiful and joyful now sat abandoned by their owners and looted by orcs, with their tall, arched windows staring blankly like the eyes of a skull. Where a home was burning, shadows danced wickedly all along the street, illuminating the carnage that lay all around. Cainenyo turned his eyes away from the horrors of war only to be met by more grim death. He turned his eyes towards the sky, where through the thick smoke a few stars glittered like diamonds, and Cainenyo spoke a short prayer.

"Elbereth, sweet Elbereth, guide me from this city and to my family . . . " His voice weakened at the last word and sharp worry entered his heart. His family! Were they dead, lying like those stiff corpses in the plaza? Were they saved by some miracle of Eru? There was only one way to tell, and that was to head to the northwest of the city. And so he ran, with his family in mind, ignoring his hurt ankle as best he could. The city walls were within view, and as he turned a corner he came to them. He began to panic. How would he cross over the wall? Had his family escaped this way, if at all?

Then a sweet sound came to Cainenyo's ears. The sounds of war silenced as the creaking of a wooden door floated through the air: the sound of an escape, a wooden door through the wall, unlocked. It was far down the wall, to the left. As he came to it his heart rose with happiness. It was large enough for a cart to pass through, and in fact, it must've been a small version of the main gate itself, perhaps used to move garbage out of the city where the people would not see. He felt elated. This was his escape! This is where his family escaped! The tracks in the dirt road leading from the door told him so. He pushed aside the swinging door, and ran down a grassy yellow slope from the city. He was free! The river stood before him shining in the early morning, and further down the river stood a stone bridge. And beyond the river stood dark brown and green woodlands, crawling across the hilly landscape. Oh, thank you, Elbereth! Cainenyo thought he could've sung out loud in his elation. The sun was rising over the Hithaeglir, and Cainenyo ran towards the bridge, following the tracks in the red dirt road.

[Folwren]

Bror’s head ached fiercely and his vision was blurry. The night had been long and seemed never to end. It was true that the forces of orcs and men had not kept up a constant attack all night long, but the Lindon Elves and the Dwarves with them had been able to sleep only a little, if at all. The attacks had come in spurted intervals all throughout the night. In one rather fierce, though short fight, Bror had received a nasty cut down his left arm. Though he claimed and insisted that it was only a scratch, Skald would have it looked at by an elf and cleaned and bandaged.

Dawn was breaking over the mountains now. Bror sat on a large boulder, his hands leaning on his axe, and his eyes watching the light grow. He wondered where Riv was, and whether he had gotten back alright to the mountain, and if he were safe. His mind reflected back to his home and the bright fires - the late evenings in Riv’s kitchen, and then mornings, sometimes, when Leifre and Unna would come out. A deep sigh escaped him as, finally, he considered his chances of actual survival and of getting back there. Those chances were slim at the moment, and he knew it.

Shouts to his right brought him out of his gloomy reverie and he got reluctantly to his feet. He moved his axe up to the ready and went forward towards the fighting.

The enemy was at it again, and they didn’t slack off, as they had in the night. Once again the Elves and Dwarves were put hard to it, and it was a desperate, if not hopeless fight. But then, suddenly, there were great cries from the East - strong, resounding voices that echoed. Bror lifted his head. The sun pulled free of the mountains and then found a hole in the clouds. Shafts of sunlight fell about the battle field, illuminating the fighters and the dead, glancing off of mail and steel.

In the distance, all the way across the battle of field, and new army was appearing, pouring from the rocks itself. Bror smiled, and then laughed, and raising his axe he gave a great cry to answer that of his kinsmen and friends from the mountains. The enemy before him fell back, being called and regrouped.

‘They’ve come after all,’ Bror said to himself. ‘Well, I am glad to see them, even if it is miles away.’

[Envinyatar]

‘They are falling back, Captain!’

Ondomirë spurred his mount on to the front of the line. His archers had ceased their shooting, he noted; their targets now quickly pulling out of range. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked of those fighting at the front. From his position he could see the Orcs and Easterlings scattering, turning westward as their captains barked orders at them and flicked their whips for emphasis.

‘Someone has come at them from the rear of their position,’ one of the Elvish captains told him. ‘It must be a large force of some sort. And hitting them hard enough that they would turn all their force against it.’

A silvered horn rang out from the Elven ranks, calling the troops to gather together. Lord Elrond and his advisors had made a quick assessment of the situation. Ondomirë rode at the back of his company as they made their way to where Elrond stood. He felt uneasy at this sudden turn of the battle, suspecting some sort of trick from Sauron’s captains. Ondomirë was watchful, should there be any sign that they would be attacked again, he would order his troops to turn and fire.

-----

‘Someone has given us a chance to move closer to the city,’ Elrond began. He held up his hand to quell the murmurings that Orc still roamed the city. ‘Yes, we must be careful. The city is fallen. Most of it burned, my scouts have told me. Ours now will be a mission to find what refugees we can.’ His hands smoothed out a map on the small wooden table that had been hastily set up near him. ‘I doubt that there will be any left alive within the city now. But my hope is that those who were able to escape the destruction will have gathered somewhere beyond. To the north here. In these wooded areas.’

His finger traced the area west of where Ost-in-edhil had once stood – moving toward the marshes, to where the rivers converged. ‘Sauron’s forces will already be moving westward from the city. It is his intent, I believe, to sweep through Eriador, coming at last to Lindon to wreak his vengeance on Lord Gil-galad. We must move to a place of safety for the refugees, a defensible place; that is our primary charge.’ He looked eastward, his grey eyes glinting with his thoughts. ‘At some point Lord Gil-galad will have need of us. We must regain our strength until then and keep our eye fixed on Mordor and the stirrings there.’

He called for his horse and mounted up. His captains at his side, he urged his mount toward the western outskirts of the city.

[Arry]

The sound of the Dwarves’ horns brought hope to the beleaguered troops as they fought the losing battle against Sauron’s troops. The Elves wondered at who had come to their aid, or if it were some new foe bound to slay any who stood in their way. It was the Dwarves who fought alongside Elrond’s men who let them now it was their kinsmen who had come to harry the Orcs and Easterlings.

‘Can you not hear that sweet high sound, the one singing above all the rest?’ cried Skald. ‘Tis the horn of the Stonecut Hall.’ He looked up at the Elf near him, an expectant look on his face. ‘Well, are you giving me a hand up, man? Or I must run behind these great beasts to a safe retreat? My kinsmen cannot hold the Orcs and Men forever.’

-----

To his left, Skald could see Bror clinging onto the Elf who bore him on his horse. He was jostling up and down, his axe slapping against his back with each stride. Skald pushed his helm up from his eyebrows, where it had slipped, and gave his brother a resigned look, followed by a nod of sympathy. The Elf he rode with urged his mount on at a faster rate and Skald’s attention was narrowly focused on not falling off.

-----

Less than half a day brought Lord Elrond and his remaining troops to the western outskirts of the jewel-smiths’ city. The pace of the ride slowed as the Elves fanned out, looking among the rolling hills and low-lying forested areas for any of their kindred who might have escaped. In the more thickly wooded sections, the Dwarves dismounted and went in twos and threes looking for any in hiding.

[Mithalwen]

Perhaps there was a limit to misfortune even in such desperate situations. Somehow Losrian got herself, the child and the pony out of the city. Somehow she evaded the hoardes of foes who had invaded the city while using a breach they had created to escape. The fabled wealth of the mirdain was of more interest to them than a few pathetic refugees. The smoke they had created provided cover as the trio left the city and picked their way across the battlefield then across anxious miles to the shelter of the woods.

Though this provided some cover, Losrian was far from feeling secure. While she could go on Galmir was another matter. Although he could walk he was too small to cope with long distances or rough terrain and had been carried by Losrian until they left the city behind and now was curled up in one of the pony's panniers. The pony had stumbled and was now a little lame. They would need to find somewhere to rest for a few hours at least.

Losrian remembered that deep in the woods were huts used by the elves when doing forestry work .... that would be safest she thought .. not that anywhere was truly safe. At least there would be shelter and she could tend the horse and the child ...and herse lf.. she realised she had many cuts and bruises - but her injuries were negligible compared to... no she mustn't think about Ferin. Not now. Though the grey clothes she wore were heavily stained by his blood. She would have to keep watch and listen for danger while his son slept. Try and get him to safety, maybe to her parents in Lindon - if even Lindon was safe now. She feared that having destroyed Ost in Edhil they would move to the last realm of the Noldor in Middle Earth.

So even when she reached the hut and settled child and beast as best she could. There was some provisions there - hay, old but not musty (and the pony was not fussy) - and a supply of firewood . A fire would be cheering but it was out of the question while pursuit was so possible.

Losrian sighed and drew her cloak about her. She had her bow strung and and her knife to hand. She was exhausted in body and spirit but deperately tried to alert. For if she let down her guard, she would be trapped.

So she remained for some hours until tiredness won over her resolve. She was woken by a faint rustle - chiding herself for her weakness and looking across to the pony who she hoped was the source of the noise.

To her horror the beast slept as did the child. The noise was outside. Soft footsteps - those could be elves but heavier ones too .... a vision of orcs guarding a group of thralls filled her mind. Her greatest fear and it was too late seemingly to escape. She took up her bow and nocked an arrow....She thought she heard horses and the pony stirred... was this a strand of hope - orcs did not ride she knew ... but they were not the only servants of the enemy. She held her breath...