Thirst. Malthurs head was filled with the word, the feeling, the need of drink.
He had been wrong. The army could pack what they needed to eat for a few days, but they had not the water they needed. And neither did they have the time to search for a lake or river, lest the Gondorian army ahead would escape their grasp. In these southern parts of Ithilien, the springs were few and far between for the landscape was already giving way to the open ground that would become the plains and steppes of Harad. He had lost scores to the thirst and the sun, always despised by the orcs and always a torment without ample food and drink to give you the strength to stand it. The stragglers were left as they were, he hadn't even bothered to make examples of them. Some might catch up later, but probably not.
The uruks marched with heavy steps, struggling forward. The lesser orcs dragged themselves along, wheezing and panting with hanging red tongues. None cared about formations or scouting, only the road and the sun and the thought of fresh meat and water at the march's end.
Pilimor, captain of Gondor, steered his horse to a hill beside the road. For the tenth time today he imagined seeing distant shapes coming up behind them. He held no illusions that they were the last. If Duinhir had been successful he was sure that he would have heard of it several days ago. It had been a hasty message delivered by an exhausted courier that had told him to make all haste towards Tir Ethraid and take it back to hold against the enemy. Duinhir would attack to buy him what time he could. His gamble had failed, but it had been worth a shot, Pilimor still thought. Duinhirs plan had been to lure the orc army into the wilds while Pilimor led his force to strike at any outlying camp and outpost far away from the armies, denying the enemy shelter after shelter until dissent and starvation would force them to retreat. Then Duinhirs rangers would torment them for every step back.
But something had not worked out with the strategy. Pilimor didn't know what. He admitted to himself that both he and his people probably knew less about the orcs than they would care to admit, and had allowed prejudice and tradition to fill the spots that their experience, or lack of it, left open. The catastrophic early battles and the dreadful encircling and siege of Cirions and Aravirs combined army had proven that. Pilimor held few illusions as to his chances to achieve victory on his own now. But he would not relent. He would push hard and take that orc nest that the town had turned into, and he would make them bleed for it and then he would torch it before seeing it back in enemy hands. Even this enemy that seemed to defy every rule of conventional warfare would crumble after that. Then others would come to finish what he had started, no, what Duinhir had started and he continued, and Gondor would endure.
Gondor would endure and remember them.
One last hill. One last step. Water. Meat. Blood. Rest. One last step. One more breath...
Pilimor had lost count of how many times he had gazed back. He should be riding backwards, he thought dryly. At one time he had imagined seeing something move over this hilltop or that. But he was experienced enough to recognize when he was starting to see things that weren't there, and when it was time to trust in others eyes along with his own. That would be Gondors strength. Her people fought for one another and not to grab the heaviest sack of loot like the orcs or southrons did.
Malthur had not even the energy to kick the panting scout in front of him that couldn't find his breath to report. He caught the eye of the subordinate orc and pointed south towards the nearest ridge that the road passed over as if to ask. The scout nodded, drawing wheezing breaths, and pointed in the same direction, as if to confirm. Malthur straightened with his back aching and shoulders stiff and numb from the weight of the plate and held up his fist for the nearest part of the marching column to see. It took a long time, long enough to provoke a violent response under usual circumstances, but at last the column came to a halt. Malthur pointed ahead, to the right, to the side of the wood that grew next to the road and the open fields on the other side. The column started to move again.
The fore riders said that Tir Ethraid was near. It was not in sight but it was less than a day ahead. Out of the woods where rolling hills and ridges littered the plain, almost like the sand bottom of an ancient sea. And over those ridges rolled death in a black mass, round the forest and intercepting their course, battle line formed and artillery deployed.
Pilimor glanced at his lieutenants. He nodded at them.
"For Gondor."
"For Gondor."
Gondor would endure.
The last of Pilimors men had scattered, a third, half a thousand. The rest were slain or lay dying on the field, only left with the hope that they would end before the first orc reached them. Malthur had descended from the ridge and stood among several hundreds of the remaining parts of his army, which now only numbered around a thousand, having paid for the victory with two and a half hundreds, almost all of them infantry. Malthur stopped for a moment, letting it drag out for a bit, and then drew a deep breath and shouted as loud as his dry throat would allow.
"Well, looks like meat's back on our menu, boys!"
With cheers, mad roars and hoarse cries of triumph the starved horde threw their equipment aside and gave in to their hunger. On this field, none bothered to cook any meat, nor to make sure it's owner was definitely dead. Only the chieftain contended himself with hacking off a slice of tender, bloody flesh from the nearest cleaner whiteskin and started to walk determined towards the area where the Gondorian commander had been stationed. He knew there had to be something here, something that they would have wanted to keep from him. The Gondorians had not had time to burn it, he had kept his eyes on their commanding staff. In a sturdy leather cylinder, Malthur found what he hoped.
The map was a sturdy booklet containing a large scale general map of a region, such as Ithilien, followed by a few more detailed ones of specific parts of the region, such as the plains of southern Ithilien, the central parts along with Osgiliath and the Morgul Vale, which the Gondorians knew precisely from the ancient days when it was Minas Ithil, and the northern parts bordering the marshes and the road towards the Black Gates. Not only the lay of the land and the towns were featured but also what seemed to be small notes about suitable camp sites, seasonal obstacles that were likely to hinder one path or another as well as pieces of advice about crossing various types of terrain. All scribbled in the language of the humans, but that would not be a problem as Malthur had access to a human interpreter these days, he thought with a wicked grin. Dragging that pathetic whiteskin along might have proven just what was needed to tip the scales in his favor here in the south. Or rather in Mordors favor, as a dutiful commander should send the map immediately to his superiors to be used in accordance with the wishes of the great eye. An obedient commander would waste no time letting the maggot dung of Nazghuls and their bootlickers enjoy the spoils of his labours.
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