Sandos' cave of Tomes
"...Plop!... plop!... Plop!.." .. The sound of droplets falling from the rocky ceiling into unseen pools below reverberates through the cave, mixing and breeding with one another, reflecting back and back again each time losing some of its voice to the darkness, all the while eerily emphasizing the utter lack of other sounds. The air smell of stagnant water and cold rock so prominently that you feel you can actually taste the walls around you. It makes you aware of the mountain above you in a way that clutches at your throat making it hard to breathe.. The footing is slippery, a fall treacherous. You press onward.
Suddenly, a sliver of light! It blazes like a strip from the sun in the perpetual darkness. Hurriedly you make your way towards it, elated on the brink of tears. As you approach what you can now tell is an old and ragged door standing ajar, you slow down. Your own heartbeat is nearly drowning out the rythmic echoes of the falling droplets as you slowly push open the door the rest of the way. To your immense satisfaction, it does not squeak. Inside is a room well lit by large flickering torches, containing a semi-circle of raised pedestals. Not a soul is in sight. Finally. As you take your first step into the room, a booming voice fills it and stops you dead in your tracks.
"Welcome, one who would seek the tomes of the Cave.. If your heart is true and your intent is pure, you will find that which you seek. But heed my warning, should your soul be corrupt and your goals be foul, not only will your search be in vain, but you will never again see the light of day."
Silence.
You nervously take another step. The booming voice returns, the door behind you slams shut making you jump so high your head brushes the ceiling.
"Twice welcome, honorable traveler. I have seen that which dwells in your heart and deemed you worthy. Should you wish to read from the tomes, you may. Should you wish to leave, you may. The choice is yours."
In a flash of light, a tome suddenly appears on the far right pedestal.
Hesitating, you make your way into the room towards the one tome. Your mind is racing. Only one tome..?
The voice reappears.
"Patience is a virtue, one you should embrace. More will come, as time passes by. Do not be troubled, for while you are here you are not weighed down by any mortal needs, or worn by the passing of time. More will come.." The echo of the voice slowly fades away and leaves you with nothing but an empty room, and a tome still unread..
Pedestal one:
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:The Battle of Durion the Mighty
The precursor to the fall of Mordor.
Carefully flip the delicate pages open.. Pacing in his command tent, Durion had the siege of Minas Morgul filling his thoughts while the rain hammered away outside, driven to a rage by the wind. They had barely started organizing the assault force and building the siege equipment, but being a veteran from countless battles the last ten years he already had the plan finished. There were no second chances when fighting the forces of Mordor. Either you came prepared, or your military career would end swiftly. And unpleasantly. Well, Durion wasn't a man to underestimate the Dark Lord and his minions, and he always had at least a backup plan to his backup plan. Preferably a backup to that one as well. One could afford the luxury of that when time was on your side.
Splashing sounds in the mud outside the tent made Durion look up and automatically put a hand to the scabbard of his sword. An unnecessary preparation seeing as his bodyguard outside the tent would give fair warning if anything was amiss, but old habits die slowly. A few seconds later a soldier drenched to the bone and panting hard entered the tent, wearing the white band signifying a messenger on his right arm.
"Yes?" Durion said with a frown. "Breathe man, if you die of fatigue on me I will never get your message which judging by the looks of you is rather urgent."
The messenger took a few deep breaths to steady his voice, then said "The orcs are sallying out. Thousands of them. They must be emptying the entire fortress."
Well well well, Durion thought. At times like these, the backup to the backup really is a luxury indeed.
"Send word to the officers that we move with all haste to the secondary defensive position. With all haste. Leave anything that can be spared behind." The messenger made a crisp salute and left the tent at a run.
Bold move trying to hit me unprepared, he thought. Unfortunately for them.. I am never unprepared.
Smiling, he left his tent and walked out into the pounding rain.. He had a battle to win.
A few hours later and the downpour had stopped. They had arrived at the site of his choosing, and here he would make his stand. It was always better to meet the enemy on your terms, and the host from Mordor was committed now. There was no turning back, in a few hours the soil here would be covered by a wetness quite different from the recent rains. He took a small handful of black dirt and put it to his nose, inhaling deeply. The acrid smell of sulphur was prominent, even this short distance into the shadows of Mordor. Quite different indeed.. He mumbled a silent prayer that the blood soaking this foul ground would not be that of his men.
"Sorry sir..?" His adjutant, right hand and friend through years of campaigning looked a question at Durion.
"Nothing Ergol, nothing. Give the order for the Fountain Guard to take up position on the approach." That was what gave this site such tactical value, it was a natural defensive position on high ground, on one side a sheer cliff and on the other a narrow approach easily defended, the high ground giving archers a great vantage point from which to establish a killing field. As Ergol issued the orders metal and leather made the familiar sounds of armored men on the move. And some men they were. The Fountain Guard, grizzled men sworn to protect the white tree handpicked from the most promising of soldiering talent and skill in the regular ranks. They would never balk, never falter and never rout. And they were deadly. If anyone could hold the hordes of Mordor from getting through to the upper platform, it would be them. Their winged helmets glinted in a sudden shaft of sunlight, the first they had seen in days.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
Soon, the sounds of the approaching army could be heard. Terrible cries of bloodlust and anger soared over the flat plains below, and in the dim light of a clouded twilight the large horde slowly crawled closer, a blacker black against the dark soil. It moved like a river of charcoal towards them, unstoppable, ready to wash anything in its path away. The profane and guttural screams of a thousand bloodthirsty orcs mingled with the rising clang of metal against metal, the plash of boots against the water-sick soil and a thicker darkness of the air, as if the river of charcoal were feeding on the very light of the air to nourish its wrath and hatred. Amazingly though, the shaft of light glinting off of the polished armors of the Men of Gondor never wavered. It stayed there, in bold defiance of the black river that was gushing towards it, lending heart to the men who would soon have the rushing, screaming river upon them.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
"LOOSE!"
The word was repeated over the entire cliff ridge sending the first wave of deadly shafts flying through the air and into the vast blackness of orcs below. Howls of pain and anger answered them as the arrows plunged into foul bodies, crippling or killing them on the spot. Another wave, more howls. Then another. The Fountain Guard lowered their long spears and made ready for the coming tide of evil, meaning to greet it with a spearpoint to the heart.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
So far, so good, Durion thought. Things were mostly out of his hands now, the battle was joined and there was really only one way they could come at him in this location. His archers were wreaking havoc on the Orcs as they labored up the rise towards the mouth of the approach where the pointy ends of a few hundred spears were waiting for them. Killing field indeed..
The clash of metal against metal announced the first orc to reach the defensive line of the Fountain Guard, hacking away a spearpoint with its sword. The guttural scream of pain announced its death to the second row spear instead. Soon there were more clashes, more screams. Tired from running up the steep hill and scattered by the merciless hail of arrows from above, the orcs were being torn apart by the solid wall of spears. But on and on they came, a neverending tide of distorted bodies and hacking swords. They died by the hundreds. Still they came. And still the defensive wall of spears held.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the howls of the black river started to change from anger and bloodlust to screams of terror and fear. Another volley landed among them, and the Fountain Guard took a uniform step forward sending a loud "plosh" out as hundreds of armored boots stepped on the bloodied ground before them. That was when the first orc turned and ran down the slope with a wail, trying to escape the fate that awaited it. The wail soon triggered an avalanche of fleeing bodies. The black river started flowing backwards in panicked abandon. Orcs fell on their already fallen brethren, tumbled down the hill over one another in their frantic attempt to escape.
"Ergol, signal for the cavalry to advance. Not one orc will leave this place alive."
As Ergol gave the orders, Durion let his mind drift. The battle was won. Now he had eliminated the garrison at Minas Morgul, and left the entire western gate into Mordor wide open. Not in a long long time had any man set foot in the blasted lands of the darklord with vengeance in his heart.. The time to reclaim Minas Ithil was now. The time to rid the world of the foulness of Mordor, was now.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
An old Kingdom come anew
The first battles in the campaign that was to be the baptism of fire for the fledgling-nation of Arnor, less than half a decade after its reemergence. General Araphant, a grizzled veteran from the war against the orcs to the north leads this host as they march for Isengard to eliminate the growing Uruk-hai threat.
Continue the read..
The fire popped and sizzled as the flames slowly but surely consumed the pale logs of birch, spreading a sweet and warm aroma in the air that stood in sharp contrast to the stark stone walls and sparse furnishings otherwise present. General Araphant sat in his favourite chair, idly sucking on a long-stemmed pipe and going through an impressive stack of reports piled up in front of him on the only other thing in the room except his chair and himself; his desk. He did that more and more of late. Sitting that is. His many winters were beginning to claim their tribute, even though he fervently dismissed any such notions.
A knock on the heavy wooden door suddenly brought him out of his reports. "Come."
The large door swung soundlessly inward to reveal one of his bodyservants, James, who gave a bow and took a step into the room.
"My Lord, I believe everything is ready for departure very soon. Reports has come in from Annúminas that the rest of the army will be waiting in Bree and join our main force there on our way south." Another thing that James was, covertly, was his head of information.
"Good, good.. We will depart as soon as possible." His voice held no enthusiasm. After nearly two decades of war against the northern orcs, a war that ultimately forged the lands of Eriador together strongly enough to rekindle the realm of Arnor, he had long since passed the belief that battle held anything other than death and suffering for those involved. There was honor in defending your lands and those you love, true, but there was definitely no glory. Glory was a thing of songs and stories. The reality was something altogether different. Besides, a saddle was far less comfortable than the chair he now occupied.. Even if Fornost was a place of small comforts, at least one could find a decent place to sit. Perhaps I am getting a bit old, he thought ruefully, but then clenched his jaw. Though Saruman and his foul Uruk-hai will soon find that this old dog still has a nasty bite.
He took another long draw on the pipe to calm himself, and started to get ready for his departure..
Several hours later, and the procession was finally under way. Sitting erect in his saddle, Araphant stared off into the distance seeing neither land nor sky as his mind constructed the final pieces of his plan of attack. He would have to be swift and decisive. Isengard did not know the intentions or scope of their military power, thinking they were still licking their wounds from their previous lengthy war to the north. And they were partly right. This force was about every man the kingdom was able to scramble together while still maintaining minimum garrisons at their borders. But hardened he knew they were, many a veteran forged in two decades of warfare marched with him now, this time for a new flag and a new kingdom but with the same intention at heart; the defense of one's home and one's family. Given the right leadership, these men could defeat forces many times their number.
Swift, and decisive.
The twilight color the cloudy sky behind them a kings purple as they make their way steadily south, towards the very shadows of Orthanc itself.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
Weeks later, they find the first taste of what they came for: Battle. About a week after passing over the river Gwathló, or Greyflood as it is called in the common tongue, they came upon a full two thousand Uruk-hai and wicked hillmen clad in furs and hides, hefting long spears. Or perhaps came upon is a bad coice of wording, as both sides were equally aware of the other. Now the large horde of halfbreed-orcs and dunlendings where running towards them in wild abandon up the small hill he had maneuvered his forces to. Using his largest advantage, cavalry, he had herded the enemy towards the location where he wanted them. The relatively open area, with height on their side, would deliver them this victory as surely as if the Greyflood itself would have come to life and swallowed their enemies before them. Death rained down from above as his archers fired salvo after salvo into the wretched creatures sprinting towards their formations. They singled out the men with spears as best they could, trying to break their rugged formations apart for the cavalry to have as few spears as possible to meet their downhill charge.
The warcries of the Knights of Annúminas echoes over the plains as they smash into the enemy infantry, plowing deep rifts in their lines.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
This first battle was almost over before it began.. In truth, the second the enemy let him set the conditions for the engagement, they were doomed. Two thousand of the enemy dead. Less than a hundred on his side. Still a larger tally than he had hoped for, but he knew it was small in comparison to what was coming. A few days further ahead lay the city of Duneard, the stronghold of the Dunlendings, and the first real test on their way towards Isengard.
--------------------
The siege had commenced. Araphant watched from his saddle as arrows and flaming rocks descended on the city walls, rushing downwards ever eager to claim a soul or a piece of stone and mortar. Buildings inside were catching the fires the catapults brought them, towers collapsed with deafening roars as huge boulders smashed away the walls that held them erect, and the sounds of dying men could still be heard even at this distance. Adding to, and almost drowning out the morbid sounds of destruction, the men all stood lined up in front of this big bleeding monster, singing at the top of their lungs. It was the song they had begun singing back in the northern war when they faced a battle they knew would claim many of them. He didn't know what it was called, but he knew well enough how it went;
We march all day and we drink all night,
we eat our meals and we dance 'till light,
we dream of home and that's why we fight,
to scream to death in defiance.
We shine our blades and we dress real nice,
we shave out chins and we kill our lice,
for butchers work does not just suffice,
we must scream to death in defiance.
We swing our swords and we raise a cheer,
for the evening comes and the fight is here,
when our blood is spilled and the end is near
we still scream to death in defiance!
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
Urban fighting is never pretty.
Araphant sat, as so often was the case these days, upon his decidedly not so comfortable saddle. The walls had been breached a few hours ago, and the siege of the city was progressing as expected with casualties heavy on both sides. The hillmen were outnumbered, but numbers count for little when fighting in cramped streets, and the savage hillmen fight with an otherworldly intensity letting their hatred for other men fuel their efforts. Shifting slightly on his saddle to find a better spot, he did the only thing he could do at the moment;
Wait.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
Eventually the sounds of fighting around the city were beginning to die out. Resistance was dwindling. Slowly riding in through the now open gates, he met a company of infantry as they made their way out of the alleyways where the last remnants of resistance had been quelled. Bodies lay everywhere, making it hard to walk on the soft slippery surface. A lieutenant approached him, covered from head to toe in bloodsmears and wearing the face of someone who has just committed something atrocious yet necessary. A fitting face, Araphant thought.
His crisp salute sent still fresh blood flying everywhere. The officer looked apologetically towards where droplets had landed on Araphants formerly clean armour, but he waved a hand and pulled up the corners of his mouth. "Blood is not something I am unfamiliar with, Lieutenant."
"Of course, General." He cleared his throat. "This part of the city is cleared. If my hearing still serves me right, most other parts of the city is ours as well. What would you have us do, General?"
"Care for the still living, then care for the dead. We have a few days to recover and regroup here." He gave the Lieutenant a hard look. "Then we march for Orthanc."
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
Pedestal two:
Currently empty.
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