The wood did not crack, but splinter. Cirion could hear it well. It was a sound of weaker wood being crushed and it was fittingly accompanied by the rupturing of rope as the anchor cables, already stretched by the wind which pulled the pontoons inward, that could not endure the impact. Dried and weather-bitten planks and poles from a small towns palisades and houses was no match for stout oak, reinforced by carefully tarred steel on the forward side, driven into it by the weight of the Alcarondas.
The two halves of the boom were pushed outward and forward from the bow of the ship, the anchors dragging along the bottom where the cables hadn't torn. One of the sloops followed the Alcarondas, it's crew receiving a pair of lines from the ships crew and coming up on the side to help the greater vessel turn. Cirion could see her already shifting and reducing her sails to slow down and help the rudder work. The other rowed sloop was attacking the broken up boom. With several anchor cables cut and with the northern third of it on its own the construction was pitifully vulnerable to the assault from a maneuverable boat and the axes of its crew. More cables were cut, and next the many layers of rope that held two pontoon sections together, allowing it to follow with the waves to lessen the risk of damage from rough weather. A large section of the boom broke free and was starting to float towards the innermost part of the bay and the mouth of the river, the wind currently being stronger than the current.
Cirion felt himself smiling. It was odd. When had he last done that? He could not remember. He could see the other ships nearing slowly, having already hoisted their sails. With just a bare, bare minimum of fortune the orcs could be held off long enough for the townspeople to embark. They couldn't be multitudes like the people of cities like Dol Amroth, and merchant vessels could take a perplexing amount of cargo for their size. Now, with the sloops to help them maneuver and so short a distance to cross, they would hardly need any provisions and could load more people than would be safe under common circumstances. Cirion decided that he could do with some bread and drink, even the stale and dull kind that he had to make do with these days. He would bring his spare cloak that he used as blanket as well and sit down to watch the sun set over the bay and his kinsmen in the distance across the bay. For once, Malthur would not despoil the day.
As he thought about the orc chieftain, Cirion looked around for him. He wasn't worried, not really. There was no way Malthur could turn this around. There. The orc was standing on the shore along with a group of captains, seemingly giving orders. He looked collected, but that did not say much for Cirion knew that he was capable of great focus of his wrath even when he was furious. He shook his head. No, he was just being paranoid. Now he would get his cloak.
The evening passed without incident and the orcs made no visible attempt to reclaim or repair the bridge or otherwise attack the Gondorians. Cirion sat up until the sun had almost set and watched the ships in the distance and what he imagined must be the people preparing to embark the next day. Despite the warming sights, sleep did not come quickly and he dreamt of something unknown threatening, watching and casting its shadow over him. When he awoke it was still dark, not yet dawn and the air was thick with mist, wet and sticky. He wondered if he could roll over and go back to sleep but he was too cold, and something gnawed at his mind. He could not put his finger on what it was. It was something like a hangover after a fine and very late feast, when the bleak daily routines came back pounding on your door. Sighing, Cirion rose and wrapped his cloak tight around him. He saw movement ahead of him and squinted in the dim light. Orcs were hurrying to the shore. What did that mean?
Cirion followed them to the slope next to the sand and rocks bordering the water. There were a lot of movement on the shore and he could hear the splashes from the orcs rafts as well. It seemed as if they were doing something with the bridge, were the orcs dismantling it? For some time he could not make more sense of it but the fog was lifting and the wind was starting to increase and Cirion could see further. The bridge was intact in itself but the orcs seemed to be removing the rope for the anchor cables. That made some sense of course, the thick rope was precious for an army relying so heavily on siege equipment. But something felt wrong. Why were they bringing the poles used for fastening in the shallow water ashore as well? Cirion walked closer, straining to hear what was going on. He could not distinguish among many of the orcs, one hateful grunting sounding much like the other, but he recognized Muzuls voice, Malthurs second in command and seemingly most trusted captain. As much as orcs trusted anyone, that was.
"Right lads, hold it steady! Steady! So! Better! Come on then, you slugs, tar it up!
Tar. What the hell was going on?
Orcs were scampering out on the bridge, held steady mostly by other orcs pulling a couple of lines tied to the shore end of it. They carried with them the cauldron-like pots used for the tar when the army prepared the catapults flaming ammunition. Some of them, in characteristic impracticalness of the mindless thrall, started pouring the tar on the bridge closest to the shore, even before the orcs further out had completed their task. More pots were being handed out from further inland. It seemed that some large enterprise was in motion. Now Cirion could smell the characteristic scent of the tar in the air. Soon large parts of the boom had been covered in thick string of tar and the orcs hurried ashore, taking care to avoid the unpleasant substance. Muzul was shouting new orders.
"Don't slacken off, maggots! Are the poles up on the right side? They better, or I will have your filthy hides! Now, nice an' steady, let it slip out!
Cirion noticed that the ropes were not tied to the boom but ran around poles on it. Now when the orcs let go of one end the pontoons, let loose from the anchors and poles on the inner side, started to drift out into the bay, like a gate hinged on something further out. As if to confirm his line of thought, Muzul spoke to the orcs returning from the bridge.
"Are the lazy maggots ready out there?"
"Aye, and we cut the rope almost through and tarred soaked it in tar we did, so they just have to tickle it to break through when it's time."
"They better, if they know what's good for 'em!"
Cirions mind was working now, his reasoning part drawing conclusions on its own while the rest of him felt a cold dread creeping up. The boom was turning now slowly, and would do so until it was lying parallel to the orcs and Gondorians' sides of the bay. Then someone further out, who must be in one of their rafts, would cut the other end and the boom consequently would drift with the broadsides first. And the wind carried it east...
"A pretty sight, ain't it?"
Cirion twitched and his cold neck muscles strained from the sudden jerk. He had been so lost in thought that Malthur had appeared behind him, his heavy footsteps and his bodyguards sounds dampened by the wet.
"And it's gonna get even finer. Watch."
"Muzul! Are you gonna light that campfire up this year or what!" Malthur bellowed to his captain but in a good-humored tone. Muzul looked around.
"I was thinking we wait 'til its straightened out?"
"Nah, it's enough as it is. Doesn' matter if one end hits them before the other, it might even cut 'em off if the outer end comes at 'em first."
"Yes, chief. You there! Light it up! And don't miss now, you filthy rats!"
Uruk archers waited around several fires. They now each ignited their arrows and took aim at the pontoons. Most of the arrows hit, and after a second volley Cirion could see fires spreading despite the lingering mist.
"The boys out there on their little raft will have a little surprise now." Muzul did not sound particularly concerned.
"Heh, that's right. Well, now they will know for sure that it's time to cut the cables..."
"Is Lugduf ready?"
"Eager as a warg. If not, he'd still have one hell of a wake up call when he sees this little torch."
"Not to mention the tarks. Ha!"
"Hehe... Ah, Cirion! Come here!"
Malthur seemed deceptively cheerful. Cirions mind was grinding. They were sending a gigantic wall of flame against the Gondorian ships, anchored near the shore and perhaps already loading up with goods and people. If it did not burn out before it had drifted across the bay, and if the mariners in their fast sloops could not catch and tow the wretched thing away, if the crews could not get their vessels out of the way...
"What do you think, whiteskin? Will this be enough to catch our hated enemy?" The tone was venomous and it was crystal clear that Malthur was aiming a kick at Cirion resentful behavior lately with this reminder that Cirion after all marched under the banner of Mordor and nothing else. Cirion felt his heart beating. The burning pontoons had not reached the far shore yet. It was not over.
"The wind is yet weak. There would be a poor mariner that could not out-navigate a drifting bridge."
Malthur nodded, with demonstrative thoughtfulness.
"My thoughts exactly! But luckily we have prepared this nice little bunch of rafts as well! It is high time to launch them, wouldn't you say? See, we learned to keep track of the wind when chasing your little ranger fellows in that cursed wood on the east side of the river. Helps to know if you can count on catching the scent of ‘em or not before they nail you into a bramble twig. And it turns out that the wind comes from the west here as well as there right after it’s lightening up.”
Cirion knew he was right. Apart from the White Mountains that acted as a northern border there were not much in the way of hills or highlands to obstruct the wind in Gondor. The sea breeze blew from the west in the morning most days, and carried the scent of water even into Minas Tirith. It was another reason why the dawn and morning was so appreciated and filled with hope and encouragement.
“Now, I ain’t no master sailor but as far as I am aware, if the wind blows one way, stuff on the water will float that way.”
The orc chieftain pointed to their right, towards the inner bay. In the mist could be seen the lights of fires disappearing as the rafts the orcs had been building during the last days were drifting across the bay. Cirion could hear his heart, and his breath. He wondered why the orcs didn't. Those rafts, could the mariners dodge them all? Could their fires last across the bay, in the fog, or would they burn out in time?
Had this cursed, damned, fiendish murderer known all along that Gondor would send a fleet to try to rescue her people in the marshes, or had he merely prepared for a likely eventuality? Which was worse? Cirion could not stop his breath from quickening despite standing still. This was intolerable, unbearable, the world did not deserve to have to breathe the same air as that monster!
"Of course, the whiteskin sailor boys may be able to handle the little torches on the lake..."
Cirion very much doubted that. The rafts were not connected to each other like the remains of the pontoon bridge but each would have to be collected and towed away individually, if that could be done at all with the burning tar. And the merchant vessels were spacious, not fast and nimble.
"...but I would hazard the guess that the good citizens of the swamp might find that quite interesting to watch. So interesting in fact, that Lugduf and his lads can sneak in, in the meantime!"
The orc was right about that as well. Some soldiers would keep watch dutifully, professionals and veterans among the militia. The greater part would be busy loading the ships and their hearts would be into that, thinking of safe shores and warm beds across the river. Then the rocs would take it all away. Their hope stolen, despair brought to them for the sake of it. His breath sounded as a smithy's bellow. He could not see his left or his right.
"In fact, we reached firing range about yesterday, but why hurry? Now, we had the time to add a few ramps for those rock lobbers. Maybe they can reach all the way to the bay, in fact! Ain't that an exciting thought!"
So he had managed that as well. Balls of fire would rain across the palisades of the Gondorian camp, spreading panic no doubt as they came out of nowhere. And a hastily erected wooden wall in swampy ground would not last long against neither catapults nor even a crude battering ram. Did it matter what you did anymore, would that hateful malicious thing always win? Cirion felt himself take a step forward. Curious. Why had he done that? Was there any reason for it that mattered? He was busy just trying to breathe properly. He took another step. His eyes saw nothing but Malthur, with his back turned on him.
He thought of the first rafts, coming in sight out of the fog. He thought of the first flaming rocks, falling eerily out of the obscured sky.
His hand was seeking his belt on the right side. His hand found the dagger he carried. The dagger that had claimed the life of Taemes. No, the dagger with which he had murdered Taemes.
Time had slowed down. Did it even flow? He could see the rust stains of Malthurs chain mail that covered the lower back, the slight bending of the rings on one side. He saw the drops of water on the iron plates that added protection to the orcs neck.
He felt his hand grasp the hilt and draw the dagger out. He felt his left hand grasp it on top of the right. It was a soldiers dagger, straight and pointed, made to penetrate armor. It was a good and artful piece of craftsmanship made by good and honest craftsmen. It was worthy of a better hand to hold it.
He could not hear anymore. He would soon be out of time when his heart broke his ribcage and when he ran out of breath.
Bent rings. On the side of the spine.
One more step.
His shoulders tensed, to give his arms solid support to work with.
His hands tensed, digging into the daggers haft.
His arms came forward and he drove them on with his legs and his back.
He felt the tips connect with the mail and come through. He felt it stop and slip on something, and it screeched like metal tearing against metal. Slowly, as when one blinks many times and sees something happening as if it was shown on many pictures, he saw his dagger as it kept gliding sideway into the mail, widening it. Under the black and filthy rust glimmered steel.
Gondorian steel.
Good and artful piece of craftsmanship made by good and honest craftsmen.
The orc chieftains reflexes reacted, and he turned his upper body so it angled away from the dagger while in the same motion slashing backward and downward with his other arm and knocking it off course.
Cirion staggered and lunged forward with his right leg to regain his balance. He heard or felt something moving behind him. All went black.
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Re: [Third Age MOS AAR] An Orcs Tale - Chapter VIII - V
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Good for Malthur that he found that armor of Gondor (+3 hit points) in chapter II.
Originally Posted by Maltacus
Next part is halfway done so hold out and endure like...something other than Gondor.
