Word soon reached the northern neighbor of Amon Eithels end. Nindad Estolad was the largest Gondorian settlement south of Anduin, from where one of the main roads south began. The place was a natural point for a settlement, where the river running from Tir Ethraid in southernmost Ithilien joined the Anduin and formed a large bay, ideal for mooring a large number of ships relatively well protected from harsh weather. Only the exposed position on the wrong side of the great river and the lack of nearby forests with good timber had prevented the place from growing into a massive shipyard. The bay was treacherous, though, with sand banks that shifted over time and shallow in many places so that great high seas vessels could not enter without risk. Along with that, the currents were shifting and treacherous where the two rivers met in the bay. Therefore Gondor had chosen Pelargir to be the home port of her navy, where the river ran deeper and steadier.
The town itself was built on low hills a little south of the bay for the lower ground was swampy and would be flooded in the spring when the Anduin ran especially swift. The higher ground was an asset in times of war as well, but with an enemy well supplied with siege weaponry the marshy ground may have been the better defense. As the middle of the autumn passed, the first refugees from Amon Eithel reached Nindad Estolad and added their tales to the reports of scouts and sentries that had watched from afar. Not only the orcs but Haradrim raiders were on the move again, riding up through Ithilien and harassing the Gondorian troops in the region, having forced Gondor to devote a large force to check them. One that would have been much needed to keep Nindad Estolad safe.
Malthur stared intensely at the scout. He had started to get used to his subordinates cowering in terror, to the point here he almost welcomed someone with the spine to meet his glare, like Muzul and some half-dozen other captains. The report was quite incredible, though, so the sniveling maggot might have his reasons to shiver.
“WHERE have they gone, then?”
“Uhm, some of them tark archers still hide in the houses and one of us caught an arrow, see, but they be a decoy, and them other tark, they be setting up the camp in the marshes by the big river. They have patrols out and we cannot get close, but we can spy wood walls and wood roads through the swamp so they can move quick.”
“So, they’ve been planning this for some time, huh… Can the catapults make it through the swamp to firing range?”
“No chief, too heavy. We were sinking with the boots most times so not even heavy troops will make it through that with any speed.”
“Figures. Muzul! Set up the catapults and burn down the damned town to start with. Take a band inside afterwards and see if there’s anything worth taking, but don’t hold back on the fire for the sake of spoils. We have more than enough to last us for months.”
Malthur arbitrarily ordered a camp to be set up. This would be a long-winded mess. What were the whiteskins up to? They holed up on the eastern side of the bay, where there was neither hills nor trees, but only that unsteady ground. Sure, that would delay him but he would find a way through eventually. But he didn’t like having the fight near the river. It disturbed him. That large mass, it whispered of evil towards all orcs and waited to drown them if it could. No orc he knew of had any fondness for the rivers or the sea.
The smoke from the still smoldering ruins of the town obscured the next morning, mixed with the common mist from the river. The orcs camp was ready, lying next to the hill with the town and at some distance from the river. Malthur was calling his captains to a war council. He had a fairly clear idea of what would need to be done but it never hurt giving the pack the impression that they were of some importance, and occasionally they coughed up something half sensible. He had included Cirion but he was starting to tire of the tarks recent surly mood. That whiteskin maggot had apparently grown comfortable with Malthur chewing up people he didn’t give a  about anyway, and wasn’t too keen on him turning back to smashing the tarks. Well, that resentment might still provoke something useful, who knew?
“So, listen up you louts. As you should know by know if you’ve been paying attention to our scouts the whiteskins of the town are holed up in the swamps and marshes next to the small river here. We don’t know if they wait for reinforcements from the big river or something else. The swamp’s too wet for catapults and trolls, and heavy troops move like slugs. The whiteskin’s position’s fortified with wooden walls and such and they are likely adding more as we speak. Any bright ideas?”
“Night attack. We surround their camp in the darkness and attack with a broad line.”
“Worthless. We’d need to bring rams, lots of them, to make it work and then we’re back to siege weapons in the mud, you idiot! Besides, the whiteskins will hear us from miles away and even the last stretch closest to the walls will be a bloody mess. They are going to have good positions for their archers among those walls.”
“Spoken like a flaming tark yourself. Where’s your spine, coward?!”
“Where’s your wits, maggot?!”
“Break it off! Let me hear something with a pinch of sense in it for a change.” Malthur glared irritably at the captains.
“Why do we need to storm the place at all? They’re trapped. They’re not going anywhere and we can wait ‘n starve ‘em out.”
“That can take flaming months. You want to sit here for months staring at the water, go ahead.”
“And where are you goin’, then? Off to some little fun trip when the job got too boring for ya?”
“I – chief, what are the orders?”
Malthur grunted. At least some of them remembered who was in charge, but he would have liked some more wit inside their heads.
“We’re not going to stay here for months, that’s for sure. But I’m flaming not leaving that little dung heap untouched just because we’re in a hurry. I want those tark scum burned when we’re done, so cough up something better!”
“Can we lure ‘em out, then, and tear them up in the open?”
“Now we’re talking! But they are a cautious bunch and we don’t have any tark prisoners or such to bait ‘em, but feel free to dress up and call to them for help!” The chiefs comment was followed by some good-natured and some malicious laughs. “More! Keep the ideas coming, you witless maggots!”
“The real fix here is the ground, right? If it wasn’t for the flaming swamp we would have torn them apart by now.” The captain that had spoken was Lugduf, the youngest as far as he knew and head of a portion of the catapults. He had done his job so far but had little influence and respect. The artillery crews rarely had.
“Figured that out already? Smart!”
“Screw you. What I’m saying is, why can’t we do something about it? If the whiteskins fortify, so can we. Then we fight on steady ground and they are done for.”
“Have you looked at that marsh!? It’s flaming huge, it’s gonna take months finding timber to build all ‘round it, you fool!”
“Well, why don’t you go out there and start chopping then, so you can make yourself for a change, you filth!?”
“Why, you pathetic little…”
“SILENCE!” Malthur bawled at them but did not rise from his seat. It seemed like it was time to make a decision. “You lot don’t impress me much, but Lugduf came closest to something making sense here. Bring rocks and wood to the closest part of the swamp, and start laying down some solid road and platforms for the catapults in firing range of the enemy palisades. We can take stone and timber from what’s left of the tark town, the walls were left largely intact.
“Chief, the tarks are gonna notice this for sure. Won’t they be massing to that one portion of their wall when they see us sieging it?”
“And since when is tarks gathering and massing within firing range, front of our artillery instead of spreading out, a flaming problem?”
“Er…heh…I see what you mean there, chief.”
“Caught on, at last? Only took you too long time. Let the whiteskins come! Let them see us and shiver and come to stand in line to be torn to pieces! Lugduf! You’re in command of the sieging. Requisition whatever the hell you need but the catapults had better be firing when I come by to inspect, got it?”
Walking out of the tent, the orc chieftain suddenly remembered the days of overseeing the road workers in the middle of Gorgoroth. Here he was, years later and chieftain over Mordors mightiest army, and yet still commanding a flaming road building rabble!
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dutch speaking
Re: [Third Age MOS AAR] An Orcs Tale - Chapter VII - IX
Frothy Goodness
Senator
Primicerius
Originally Posted by Darkan
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