[Third Age MOS AAR] An Orcs Tale - Completed

[Maltacus]

Chapter IV - V

The night was not dark as the black of an autumn night, more of a dark blue. The moon shone faintly over the treetops but Cirion still felt as if he was alone with his little patch of light from his torch in a world of dim forms and void. Was this how the dwarves felt, alone in their tunnels and shafts? He remembered every ghost story and frightening tavern patrons tale of the orcs night vision, eyes of cats and ears of foxes, smelling the fear of a lonely human. But he was still also far too close to his own lines. The soldiers were loyal but no simpletons. He was not were he was supposed or expected to be. That was damned true. He was not at all supposed to be out here, no good Gondorian should! It was a waste of good men's lives and when left with no way out, who could blame a capable man for forging a new path, the only path, out? Was it not truly the men who put their subordinates in such impossible circumstances who should be held accountable for the consequences? The day should have come with relief, but all had turned to despair now. The mist had cleared completely and the field, littered with burned and crushed bodies, was mercilessly visible. Cirion had dispersed his half of the force along with what remained of Aravirs, to decrease the impact of the catapults. Aravir was gone. Cirion missed him deeply. Aravir would have known what to say. He would have known how to set an example that restored the spirit of the camp. Aravir got things done and Cirion knew what things to do. That was how it should have been. If Aravir had only listened to him. Or if he had only thought about this. If that would have mattered? The orcs had catapults and ammunition and plenty of it and that was that. Which Cirion had also warned about. Although, if they had sallied out through the other gates and retreated? Could they have done that? Maybe. But they would have been caught in the open by those long-legged trolls. And been without supplies. But if Duinhir was close, they would only need a few days rations each. Cirion mentally pushed all thoughts out of his head. Or at least made an attempt. His mind was going around in circles when he should focus on the situation at hand. He had rallied those few that still showed any sign of spirit and the few horses, his own Stripes included, not injured or frightened into uselessness and organized a sortie to scout the surroundings. If there was anything Mordor lacked it was cavalry, and if they just kept their eyes open most should be able to avoid the enemy patrols. Most of them Cirion had sent south to determine where Duinhir was and bring the news of what had happened to him. The lesser part he had sent nort and west towards the enemy, with orders to scout the positions and for signs of reinforcements. He himself, along with the fewest, had fanned out east, with Cirion taking the northernmost trail. It would bring him dangerously close to the enemy positions. The road turned coming around a small hill with rocks and scattered pines. It would do, Cirion thought. The rocks would make a better cover than the trees and the ground would be easier to clear. He now had to make the first hard choice of the night; bring his horse with him, risking injuries from a misstep in the dark, or leave Stripes at the foot and run the risk of discovery from the whinnying that the loneliness and the sounds of the forest would surely provoke. Cirion decided in favor of the former. Dismounting, he squinted his eyes and attempted to make as good a guess as possible of where the path held the least of sharp rocks and treacherous holes and slopes.

[Alwyn]

Cirion's situation sounds desperate (and lonely, without Aravir). I look forward to finding out what happens next.

[Maltacus]

Chapter IV - VI

The flagpole was the easiest part. Binding two branches together with a cord was the most menial task imaginable for the lowest of camp followers and even in the dim light it was something he could do properly without thinking. The painting was the harder thing. Cursing himself, Cirion had realized that he had brought no paintbrush or anything else to serve in ones stead. After trying in vain to carve the odd tree branch into a useful tool he had settled for cutting a part of his cloak and rolling it around a short stick, serving as the crudest of pencils. Although, considering the motif in this case, crudeness was not out of place. North of the small hill were a small plain with bushes and shrubberies. But it was flat ground. On the other side, further north, were another hill without trees with dense forest to the east side. Cirion choose to follow close to the rim, but not the highest path lest he would be seen against the sky. It was almost peaceful. There would probably be trails to be found in the daylight here, and birds to be heard. Ithilien was a fair country. It was a country worth protecting... Cirion stopped. He had not yet gone anywhere else than into the wilderness. Should he turn around? He could still go back... Back to what? Certain death, no doubt. He would never see Ithilien again, or any other part of the world. No, he would not give in to that. He would live.The road was close now. It was deserted, of course. Anyone with the slightest sense would have left before those damned orcs came. There was a rustle to his left. Something whished in the air and impacted on Stripes. The horse stumbled and cried out in pain, making it a few steps more before falling. Cirion threw himself out of the saddle and nearly made it. His right leg got caught on whatever is was in the dark, and he felt something hard of the saddle bite into it. Worse, the sudden stop jerked him off balance and he landed heavily with the air knocked out of his lungs, instead of rolling to deflect the force of the impact. Shapes in the dark approached. Cirion felt something smash into the back of his head. It was not enough to knock him unconscious but the pain made his head spin and he collapsed to the ground. He felt sick and imagined his helmet ringing like a bell. Strong arm heaved him off the ground and started to drag him along the road into the dark. Cirion turned his head to the left and could see more of the dark shapes. They were orcs, carrying bows and clad in black or dark grey plate armour of some sort. His guess would be that they were uruks, the strongest and darkest of the orcs of Mordor. There were perhaps a dozen standing guard near the road. Cirion had counted to four hundred and seventy when they arrived at the orc camp. Its sides were marked by tangled fences and ditches, far from the stout palisades and moats of a proper Gondorian camp. However, it seemed as it some of the siege machinery and what seemed like timber or spare parts were stored along the perimeter too, acting as improvised walls. Cirions captors dragged him with his feet bouncing against the ground towards the middle, where some tents were set up and torches were erected. The smell of cooked meat was notable. Cirion did not want to guess what kind of meat it was. As if by an invisible sign, the two orcs dragging him let go of his arms and he fell with his nose into the ground. Cirion clenched his jaws and crawled back up. He would not face the orcs prostrated on the ground like a slave. Another uruk in black armour stood before him. He had a shield hanging on his back, and carried a sword and daggers in his belt. Otherwise his amour was similar to that of the scouts except the helmet which was slightly lighter and metallic rather than black. It had a row of spikes protruding out of it. The orc chieftain, as Cirion guessed he must be, motioned towards something on the ground and Cirion turned his head to see that there were some thick logs set up, no doubt acting as benches. He sat down, warily eyeing the orc who now began to speak in a deep voice. It was the common tongue, and understandable, although without any beauty of a human voice and melody. "You, my friend, are lucky I have wanted guests from your fine camp for a long time. I think we will have plenty to talk about, in fact I am quite sure about that you have many things you would like to share with me. Is that not so, whiteskin? "Why do you call us that? Shouldn't it be pinkskin, or brownskin, if you refer to the men of the south?" The orc chieftain let out a deep laugh. "HA! Of all the things to say! Is that what you have been yearning to ask one of the hated black chieftains if you ever met him? Look around you then, whiteskin, and remember what kind of company you're in. Believe me, when your people are close enough to see clearly, there's naught but white left in 'em. And now, I believe it's my turn to ask, and your turn to answer. We would not want our conversation to end too quickly, would we? "Wait, wait now... I did not come here as a scout, I came to treat with you. Look at my banner! Didn't your sentries see it?" The orc made a sharp gesture towards of his retainers who presented the black cloak painted with the eye of Sauron, except in white paint instead of the customary red of the dark lords servants. The orc chieftain laughed again. "Hohohoha! But pardon me, brother and kinsman, for I thought for a moment you were of our enemy! Say, what tribe is it you belong to, the blind eye? The eye whites? The dark lord must be flattered to be portrayed like that, mustn't he? The chieftain continued laughing. "In any case, it did still work since I am here and wasn't shot." The orc eyed Cirion with what seemed to be an amused look. "A word of advice, whiteskin, if you want your banner to be first someone sees you should garb yourself in something else than polished plate that shines from a mile away. Also, my scouts don't stand in the middle of the road, they watch from the sides, so holding a flag in front of you all the time won't do you much good. But as I said, they had orders to bring me a guest. And now, what can you tell me about your esteemed friends back at your camp? How many are there left inside, for example?" Cirions mind raced. Here it came, the point where he would have to tread on a slippery line between withholding and revealing too much of his knowledge. "Our side took heavy casualties, that is true. But you did spring your trap a tad bit early, I must say, and only caught the vanguard, the arrow fodder. Or catapult fodder if you like." The orc made a show of mock bafflement. "Is that so? It appears I have been outgeneraled, it does, by you fine fellows in the camp then. So tell me, what is your next master stroke? I suppose the crumbling of your little walls is just another clever ruse, to goad careless little uruks into some heinous trap?" "Actually we don't need one. Duinhir, lord of Blackroot Vale, is on his way and will be here in perhaps as little as a day. We "fine fellows" just need to stay put until he charges from the rear to squash you like an overripe plum against us." A cold and contemptuous glare revealed how much impression Cirions threat had made. "If you wanna try to bargain, you better learn how to lie without smelling like a whelp who's just stolen the biggest grease stick he could carry. As for your little lord, I know he will come. I know also that he will hurry, trying to save your sorry lot from roasting in the fireplace. So much in fact, that he might not be too careful about who or what he runs into on the road to get here. So before I spit you over the fire here and then burn down your pathetic little palisade, is there anything else you have to say, whiteskin?" "You...you are wasting your time! Why do you want to spend your shots on tearing down reinforced field fortifications when you could have the army out in the field just like the van? I can give you that. For a price. What do you say?" "I say that you bore me, whiteskin. I will broker no agreement with you, you little maggot, unless you cough up something better than those fancy tales. Go back to your camp and await the end that is in store for you. However, if the remaining army sallies out and if the captain then would keep it stacked in the centre to the point where I don't have to waste as many of my shots on that scum as I otherwise would, that captain would do well to keep his right wing weak and stay with it. The he might live long enough to surrender to me. Now get the hell out of my camp!" the orc chieftain growled and waved with his gauntleted hand as if entirely dismissing the most unimportant of matters. Cirion walked out of the camp with a knot in his stomach, between rows of orcs that eyed him maliciously and jeered, with looks promising both swift deaths for him and a tasty meal for the orcs, but he was not stopped. They will breakfast well enough on Stripes, Cirion thought bitterly as he trekked back through the woods the same way as he had come.

[Alwyn]

Great chapter! I wonder whether Cirion wanted to avoid revealing too much of his knowledge because he is bravely risking his own life to get an insight into the enemy's plans, or was he just keeping back some information in the hope that the orcs would let him live longer? I wonder what Cirion's plan will be now and whether he will be remembered by the people of Gondor as a cunning hero or as a traitor. I like the explanation of why this orc calls humans 'whiteskins', too.

[Maltacus]

Chapter IV - VII

It was easy to lie. Cirion had never lied for real since he was a child, not counting occasional half-truths to defuse a socially awkward situation. But this was an all-out deception, with his life at stake. And...he just had to tell the truth about the ambush and about the road he had taken on foot back, omitting the smaller details about where and in whose company he had been in between. His men nodded to him, showing their condolence over a comrades rotten luck and the loss of a trusted mount. Cirion burned with shame inside. It was for the better, he told himself. At least some would be able to be saved now. He straightened and called out to his officers to gather around him. Then he gave the order to break camp. The preparations went surprisingly well. Only a few ballista bolts flew into the camp and none were killed although two were severely maimed. Perhaps the orcs had spent their ammunition after all, or perhaps they were so lulled by the failed sally and , by all means, his own pitiful appearance before their chieftain that they did not deem the increased activity worthy of any greater concern. Had he fooled them, Cirion asked himself. Was his traitorous night visit what really had been needed to deliver them all? He would not have to be a traitor! He wasn't! He could hold his head high, really, among the other captains of Gondor and fathers and mothers of the realm would thank him for their sons' lives. Now the south and east gates were opened. The pikemen were the advance guard. They could form a dense spear wall to keep the enemy at bay while the rest of he army deployed. The professional cavalry followed, ready to strike at advancing elements of the enemy that would stray ahead of his formation. The came the militia regiments, his stout countrymen who had taken up arms for others when danger threatened. The sun shone and the snow glittered like glass. If there ever was weather that was the humans and not the orcs it was now. Cirion briefly conjured a vengeful image in his mind of uruks sweating under the sun and squinting their eyes, blinded by the light from the sky and the snow. The army was out now. The infirm and the most necessary supplies followed, coming out into the middle of the formation. Still no sight of the enemy. They would make it out of this! Cirion saw the vanguard lengthen their stride to scout ahead of the army and be able to give the followers more space. They were coming up on the large ridge south of the camp, a nice plateau with a fine view of the northern road. Cirion saw them halt and form up. It was a bit early for that, he thought. Then he noticed the outriders galloping back, far too fast... "Nooo..." Cirion whispered. He looked around. They were still in a column but not terribly strung out. They could perhaps make it back to the fort. And then what? No, there was no use going back. "Form a line!" Cirion shouted and spurred his horse. The right wing. The right wing, he had said. The lead element of Cirions army was a company of marine archers of Pelargir. Along with a small group of rangers they were the only missile troops he had to contend with the Orcish artillery. The enemy lead element were the armoured spearmen that had blocked Aravirs army. Cirion thought it incredulous that they would consent to take up the same risky, no, suicidal position as in the previous battle. He reined in along with his bodyguards of a dozen riders, so few were there in his force. The main cavalry push should come from the left, where the regular Gondorian cavalry had taken up position. Fireballs were crashing down into the pikemen and militia in the centre now. They left deep burned tracks in his ranks, like wagons in a muddy road or a farmers plow in the earth. Men walked over or across the sizzling corpses of their friends, sometimes even family. Militia regiments tended to be divided together based on their origin and many units took pride in representing their town or their village in the struggle for Gondors survival. They were losing too many... Now the cavalry charged. A second line of spearmen braced but without the help of a densely packed formation they were run over. At the same time, the main enemy formations let loose showers of arrows, hundreds of the black clad archers targeting the horses that were without armour. The charge faltered and lost its momentum. Scattered riders and riderless terrified horsed crashed into the catapults and orc infantry. Cirion sighed. The cavalry was the best striking arm they had. He looked out over the infantry, hearing the screams and the crashes of boulders falling into the ground. It was too far to shout and too slow to send an officer but he raised his spear and waved it forwards and backwards to his side as a sign that they must spread out. He saw some soldiers here and there look up towards him and point and shout to their comrades around them. The companies started moving... Backwards. They shuffled back faster and faster and not to the side. Then one turned around, Then the next, and the next. The companies at the front wavered, and the panic spread outwards from the points of origin. Now the first soldiers started to run. The rear ranks melted as the soldiers left, seeming as if bricks gradually transformed into grains of sand. The rout was a fact. Cirion bowed his head and shook it. The fools. Maybe they would stand a better chance making it home alone like this. But the wounded would not. This was it. Cirion turned to his bodyguard. "We are done here. Ride and take what wounded your horses can carry behind you. Ride and warn lord Duinhir of what's coming." "Captain, what about you?" "I have one last ride left here today. It might even buy you some time." Taemes, the grizzled commanding sergeant of the guard, rode forward. "With all respect, my captain, were you go so will we." "Taemes..." "Besides, a lone rider will not give them pause. A dozen may, though. It will be something of worth to give our lives for. It has been an honour, captain Cirion." There would be no other way out of this, Cirion saw. He nodded and turned his horse.

[Maltacus]

Chapter IV - VIII

100 paces. 90 paces. 80. They were raising their bows. 70. Cirion straightened in the saddle. His mount hesitated but the instinct to run with the others was stronger. 60. He pulled the reins towards him. He was dropping back, falling behind the others. 50. The horse slowed down and turned its head angrily left and right, scared and frustrated of the situation as well as not being allowed to follow the rest of the herd. 40 paces. Now the orcs let loose their volley. Cirion saw his brothers in arms fall and smash brutally against the ground as their unarmoured and terribly vulnerable mounts were shot down underneath them. He reined in completely, his own horse shuddering and eyes shifting this way and that in fear. Not knowing anything better to do, Cirion dismounted. The enemy was closing in on him, bows raised. Cirion swallowed and unbuckled his sword belt. He lifted the scabbard up in the air for all to see, then slowly lowered it to the ground. Then he continued towards the enemy, leading the horse instead of riding it and hoped it would be enough to show his peaceful intentions. "I am Cirion! I have met with your chieftain, and would speak with him ag..." Cirion had no opportunity to finish the sentence as an Uruk fist knocked the air out of his stomach. He staggered and leaned forward from the impact, only to be met by a knee in the chest that knocked him backwards down on the ground. Two uruks promptly lifted him up by his arms and started to drag him back to the rest of the orcs. A familiar voice greeted Cirion as they neared the black lines of infantry. "Well, well, aren't we about to make it a habit of dragging lost strays into our midst? Let him go, boys, I know this one. My esteemed guest graces me with another visit." Cirion, for the second time since the day before, crawled back up from the ground. The orc chieftain continued his mock welcoming. "Last time I believe we spoke regarding this little affair on the fields here today which I must admit has been concluded amiably, while admittedly not in the way I planned. So, do we have more business with each other, whiteskin?" "You...you got what you wanted. You have the field. Now let me go." The orc let out a laugh. "Who's stopping you, whiteskin? You have my most humble and express permission to leave!" he said and waved magnanimously with his arm across the field. "Truly, the glorious nation of Mordor thanks you for your assistance!" Cirion paused. Now what? Was the orc just toying with him or did he really intend to let him go like that? More importantly, did he even have anywhere to go? "Not too eager to part ways yet, huh? Intending to sign up for the army? We do have some open spots presently." Cirion felt almost as if he was watching himself from a distance as he took a breath and opened his mouth. "Yes. Yes, I'm joining you." The orc chieftain stopped, baffled by his answer, the same being true about the nearest orcs who had listened to the conversation with much amusement. Then he let out another booming laugh. "Excellent! Welcome aboard, whiteskin! However, we can not let just any one fortune seeker join our glorious company. Have to keep the standards up. So I will require a tiny bit of a test of your seriousness here. Come on!" The orc gestured for Cirion to follow. They walked just a short bit to where Cirions comrades lay dead along with their horses. Only, Cirion saw now that they were not all dead. Taemes. He had a sickening feeling of what awaited him. "So! A minor task not new to a seasoned veteran like yourself! Finish him." Cirion could not think. Taemes was barely conscious. His armour seemed to be staved in, in some way. His face was bloody. But Taemes was Taemes. He was a man to look up to, he had been duty and loyalty incarnate. He had followed Cirion to the death. He had deserved better. Cirion could not will himself to move. He felt someone come up closer to him from behind. "You're running out of time, whiteskin" the orc chieftain almost whispered. "If it helps you, do you think the man would prefer a clean cut or to end as the plaything of my boys for knowledge of your armies whereabouts? Or by roasting in his own armour for their amusement?" Cirion shuddered, as if having just woken up. He was ready to threw up. He looked again at Taemes, then he closed his eyes and took a step forward. Then another one. Taemes still had his sword and knife in his belt, having fallen before he had been able to use his lance. It was a quick act. Cirion hoped it was quick. It could never be called clean. Then he fell over and threw up all he had ever eaten in snow. He vaguely heard the orc chieftains laughter. "That's more like it! Fall in line, whiteskin recruit!" Cirion turned around and grasped a handful of snow. He took a bite of it and spat it out, hoping it would clean his mouth somewhat. The orc chieftain gestured towards the army which was preparing to move back to the camp. The majority of the orcs were busy looting the dead and stripping the human corpses of clothes and armour. "Feel free to join our grand feast to celebrate these victories. But, oh, it occurs to me that we have little need of a cavalryman for the moment. So I'm afraid that you will have to use those legs in the future." With one swift motion the orc chieftain drew his sword and sliced through the throat of Cirions horse. It whinnied in terror and collapsed to the ground, the life flowing out and seeping into the snow. "Besides, I have been told that your kind might not favor the main dish of tonight" the chieftain concluded. Cirion wished at that moment that he had just charged to his death with the others. If only not to have to hear that abominable laughter. "Who are you?" The orc chieftain turned around. "I am Malthur!" he said, suddenly without a trace of cheerfulness or taunting. "I am Cirion." And I have survived, he added to himself. "Cirion." the orc nodded. Then, as if something immensely amusing had occured to him, he added: "My own Black Numenorian!" Cirion did not know what that was supposed to mean. He had no blood ties to the houses that became the corsairs of Umbar as far as he know and he was quite sure no orc would have the slightest interest in the ancestry of Gondorian houses. He knew only that he was alive and he did not intend to give up yet. Even if it meant spending the day butchering the carcass of his horse with a belt knife looted from the corpse of his former brothers in arms.

[Alwyn]

Cirion's shame and the uncertainty about his true intentions give these updates extra power and pathos. Excellent updates - I look forward to finding out how Duinhir will react to the outcome of this battle and what Malthur and his newest follower will do next.

[Maltacus]

Cirion was an interesting character to come up with. Initially I only intended to feature a short scene with him being much more straightforward villain but one little ancillary grew to an entire chapter. He sort of serves the useful purpose of demonstrating the distress felt by gondorians after the rapid collapse of much of their armies, against simple orcs too, to add insult to injury. I hope he ends up as a complicated fellow that people form their own different interpretations of. As always, thanks for taking the time to comment.

[Maltacus]

Chapter V - I

Malthur watched the columns of orcs and trolls tramp beneath the stone he was standing on. The snow was beginning to give way to spring mud. It would slow them all down but his enemies equally so. Perhaps their cavalry could use it to their advantage if the followed the untrodden plains beside the roads but they could not do much on their own when he had trolls to counter them. Besides, his infantry had proven that they could handle cavalry, at least if they had the catapults and ballistae to take cover behind. It was three weeks since the battle against Cirions army, as he liked to call it. He had expected this Duinhir to appear by now. It was about time they acquire some new meat... In place of a good battle with the Gondorian chief, Malthur had settled for at least raiding their southern outpost in Ithilien, Tir Ethraid. The town would hold supplies that he was starting to need desperately. They might also use it as a camp when awaiting reinforcements and ammunition from Mordor. There had been some costs and while Cirions people had apparently underestimated his supplies of stones the battles had taken their toll. Tir Ethraid had wooden walls. It would not stand long against catapults. The trick would be more in the manner of taking the town before some would-be hero of the garrison thought of torching the supplies. There would always be the garrison in itself of course, but such meat did not last long, as welcome as it was. A larger part of the defending force had been crushed a couple of days earlier in the field. They had assaulted the orcs position from a disadvantageous upward slope where they did neither have the benefit of cover or a particularly good line of fire. After the grand success earlier this meager siege was unsatisfactory. Malthur would have much preferred going on chewing off chunks of Gondors finest, but he did not have the resources yet. And the goal should be Minas Tirith, not these worthless plains. If anything, they could try leveling Osgiliath completely and roll the stone into the river to cross on. Then his catapults could show those Pelargir maggots who was master of the place. On the other hand, being stuck as some kind of coastal patrol while all the others had the plunder wasn't a very attractive prospect. The town ahead was ringing bells and sounding horns. Worthless. What were they expecting, that an allied army nearby would be too lazy to spot the orcs on its own? Much help one would have from such allies! It would only be a matter of hours now. The catapults were already assembled and were being rolled in the front towards the walls. The crews had orders to focus on one section of the wall exclusively and the infantry to advance on the sides of the corridor of fire, without stopping. With a bit of luck the enemy would be excited about the chance to shoot a few arrows into his infantry and not take their time to fall back and scorch the earth, well, scorch the granary at least. That granary. There should have been wagonloads being carted to him since long now. Bread and biscuits from the lake Nurnen where countless thralls tended the fields with the ashes of Mount Doom usually falling like a gentle rain from the sky. It was said to make the earth better for planting things, stupid as it sounded. Malthur didn't really care, as long as the fruits of the labor ended up under the gaze of his quartermasters. But that was the thing not happening at present. He had sent five waves of messengers north to request supplies and reinforcements. Nothing had come back.

[Caillagh de Bodemloze]

It's been ages since I last commented - sorry about that. These are fantastic updates, though.

I really like Cirion; he's a great character and I hope we'll hear more about him. I imagine his emotions at the moment are quite complicated.

[Maltacus]

Chapter V - II

Tir Ethraid was in shambles. The town had not been leveled to the ground or burnt, but the aggressive search for food and ransacking by the orcs had damaged most buildings and the sturdier ones had been stripped for spare material for the catapults and supply train. The inhabitants that had been spared, or perhaps it would be more aptly called saved until later, huddled in the far side of the town and watched with growing relief as the orcs packed their belongings to march out. The army would march north again, and root out whatever little filth of bandits or deserters that prevented the messages and reinforcements to come through. There was a peculiar whiteskin expression for this sort of thing that Cirion had used once; getting to the bottom of something. Malthur thought it was a flaming stupid thing to say for a people who prided themselves of being such great seafarers. They would want to avoid ending up on the bottom at all costs, wouldn't they? The first part of the road would be safest, both because they had travelled it recently and because the terrain was open, with only a smaller hilly area on the northern side to hide in. Then they would pass yet again into the mixture of woods and meadows and grassland where Malthurs army itself had used the cover to surprise the enemy before. There Malthur would send out patrols of about half company strength to scour parts of the surroundings. If they brought up nothing the army would continue further north to Mordor if that would be what it took to link with the reinforcements. The first batch of scouts had ranged a days march ahead before returning. They had nothing to report. The land was empty, and quiet in an eerie way. They had found the encampments of some of the former scout patrols but all were deserted. Two of them did however look turned over even if someone had hastily tried to set thing in order again. Either brawls had broken out, or someone had wanted to make their sudden appearance and disappearance go unnoticed. Malthur pondered over the reports. He would have to be patient to find this unknown foe and not rush into something he hadn't noticed. But the same foe was most likely faster than the orcs too, and with some decent knowledge of the land. He had to keep sending out scouts even if they would walk into traps. The next group of scout parties departed with the same instructions, range ahead of the army for a day and then return. They were in the woods now, with bushes and undergrowth masking the surrounding, and trees obscuring the view in most directions. The land held some plentiful game, the orcs could see and smell, frequently coming upon tracks and trails of a deer or a hare. The deserted Ithilien had neither humans nor orcs hunting or driving the beasts of the forest away by settling and cutting it up for timber and land. Many birds were also heard. The orcs generally cared little for animals, except those they could get their hands on to slaughter or press into their service as mounts or pack animals. The northern orc tribes had riders of great wolves and wargs among them, but the beasts had never been able to thrive in Mordor, whether it was the hot and dark climate or the ashy dust of the air they could not stand. For that reason, the orc scouts paid little heed to the birds as they called to one another, coming steadily closer and closer, surrounding their inexperienced prey. Among the long lines of marching troops, the absence of a scouting party or two was not really noticed yet. But the chieftain and a group of subordinate Uruk officers conferred a bit away from the ranks, visibly dissatisfied with something. No matter, the assembly apparently concluded, there was always another scout party to send and find out what had happened. Further away, one of Malthurs patrols passed a slope lined with bare stones and the cracked cliff. The orcs had walked for long hours seeing naught of the mysterious enemy and the initial nervousness was beginning to give way to boredom and the dull efforts of a long march and watch. The patrol walked in a column, keeping watch ahead and to both sides. Opposite the cliff were low bushes and deep grass. As the patrol passed halfway past the cliff, there rolled a stone the size of a hand down the side. The lead orc immediately held up a clenched fist, the rest of the patrol stopping and turning downwards the surroundings with wary glances. The next stone was the size of a head, and was hurled down rather than rolled. A figure in a dark grey hood was momentarily visible above the line of the cliff. The patrols captain barked orders, and four of the scouts broke off to climb the slope a bit to the side, the rest nocking arrows and searching for yet more foes among the rocks. Just as the advancing four had begun their climb, more cloaked figures rose, but from the bushes and the grass instead of the cliff side. Their mantles of grey were adorned with grass, leaves and branches, forming a simple yet obviously effective camouflage. With the precision from years of practice, they raised large bows, drew back and loosed a volley. Every arrow found its mark, most of them piercing the mail and crude plate of the Orcish mail shirts and hauberks. It took half a day for the scout patrol to be missed. It took another half for the news to start a riot. Some said it started near the cookpots, others that a group had gotten their hands on some strong drink, wherever they would have got that. Still more claimed it was an argument between returning scouts sent out to look for the patrols, or between guards at a gate. What all agreed upon, however, was that by the coming dawn there were exactly four dozen orcs slain in the brawls or by Malthurs guards. The army marched on north and west in search of its tormentors, demoralized but cowed for the moment.

[Maltacus]

Chapter V - III

"Cirion! Get over here!" "Yes?" "Talk to me, whiteskin. What kind of flea-ridden pile of maggot is this out in the woods? You know them, you have to have some bloody guess about who's doing this. And how do we get our paws on those goat lovers?!" "Having trouble in the woods?" Cirion replied, having difficulty hiding his smug tone. "Nice of you to catch up, whiteskin. Out with it. Who are the and how do we nail them real good?" "It would seem Duinhir has come at last." "And that's supposed to illuminate me how exactly? What's with this Duinhir then and how do I make him come out and play with me on the field?" "Duinhir is not some common captain. He's the lord of the Blackroot Vale. It is home to the fiercest rangers of all Gondor. You've met them when forced into the confines of a conventional army, being just one bow company among the others in the lines. Now you face the beast in the wild, free of fetters and free of rules. Think your men are prepared for that?" "My men are prepared to gut any and all whiteskins they can, regardless of allegiance, if nothing happens quite soon. So why don't you drop that secret pleasure act and get to the point before that happens, now?" The words were spoken calm enough, almost quietly, in what Cirion had had by now dubbed the tone of Malthur, deceptively quiet. "Duinhirs men are irregular skirmishers. Irregular does in this case by no means equal unprofessional. They disrupt enemy communications and supply lines, seeking both to impede his - our - progress and create fear and discontent." "Like making that rat pack wet themselves at the sight of a deep forest?" "Yes. That's how the rangers work. Make the enemy reluctant, crouch behind his shield, avoid going to far from camp. That way, Duinhir can cover much more ground than he really has men for. And we will be easier targets, huddled together as we try to stay clear of the deep wilderness." The orc chieftain looked thoughtfully across the camp. "Attention, you fleas!" the chieftain barked in front of the scout parties captains in front of him. "Right, so far the enemy, whoever he is, has been having the time of his life playing with our foray parties at his whim. The pride of the dark lord, aren't you, you maggots? But this ends now! If we need a hammer to squash that irritating insect then a hammer we will bring! We will send out double scout parties this time. Four parties to range ahead in the usual way, four to follow them. Those who follow will stay within hearing and smelling distance of the leading party but no closer. If the lead party is attacked they will fight their way out and report. Failing that, which I suspect given the last days flaming pathetic feats of ours, the second party will be able to investigate and report back. To that end, the second will no, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, engage the enemy except if attacked. If so, you will put a third of your force to delay the enemy while the rest scamper back to report. If you would spot the attacker and he has destroyed the first party, the same third will track the enemy while the rest report back. Is that understood?!" "Aye, chief." "Yes, chief!" Fear of the commanders wrath kept any of the scouts from lagging behind, but those in the first line eyed the surrounding nervously, feeling more than a little that they were running to their doom that had already been determined. They were in a clearing in the woods. A younger oak to their right spread its branches over the open ground, but otherwise there was just the grass and small bushes and the wall of leaves that was the wood behind. The clearing was at the end of what was almost a trail. To one side was hills with more and higher bushes, to the other a stream that had dug deep through the ground over the years, behind which was thicker forest. The orc patrol poured out in the clearing. The closeness of the forest oppressed them, seemed to wish to come ever tighter around them and swallow them. Although they did not enjoy the sun, they welcomed the open space. All slowed down and stopped, as if having reached the unanimously agreed upon goal. Their commander looked around with suspicion. There would be some good spots here to get fires going and have warm food for a change. Then the trees started falling over the trail that was barely a trail. And the arrows started falling on the clearing that was not a place of rest or respite.

[Alwyn]

Great updates, I enjoyed the orcs' discovery of the mysterious grey figures in the woods (in the previous update) and Malthur's response (in the latest update). I wonder if what Cirion told Malthur will enable the orcs to defeat their fear-inducing tormentors.

[♔atthias♔]

nice updates have a rep for that

[Maltacus]

Chapter V - IV

While bleeding, the orc army made its way north and west, both making its way home and being lured towards the coast by its relentless enemies. The coarse laughter and Boasting that characterized all orc forces that camped died out and mistrusting orcs glanced ever around them. Once, an arrow had flown right into the camp itself. None had been hit but the archer had been seen, a cloaked ranger that was gone as quick as he had appeared. Of course, that had sparked an outrage and some dozen orcs had rushed after, frantically wishing to capture the ranger they had for once seen. And just as predictably it had been a trap. First the orcs had given chase, running themselves exhausted in the daylight that they despised. As they finally realized that none had their enemy in sight and that they were about to lose sight of each other in the woods, the impetus crumbled and one by one the pursuers turned back, becoming the pursued. It was not long before the first fell with an arrow in the back of the head, having taken his helmet off in the unbearable warmth of the sunlight. The others stood for a moment without being able to decide whether to resume the pursuit or continue back. As another one fell the latter alternative found favor and a quick march turned into an exhausted sprint, and in the end a panicked rout. None could tell the size of the enemy force pursuing them. When the state of the returning orcs became clear, their chieftain pushed the closest sentry out of the way and grabbed his bow in the same motion. Quickly nocking an arrow, he let it loose point blank against the closest spent scout. "Shoot the cowards down!" he bellowed, the grim order quickly followed, disregarding the panicked yells of the former comrades. Cirion turned around in disgust, and also slight bafflement at the uncompromising brutality. If this kept going on, the orcs would do the work for them and Gondor could really just sit back and watch. Too late he realized that his thoughts were all too plainly written over his face. "Something of particular fun today, whiteskin?" "Nothing more than usual" Cirion quickly replied, thinking frantically about a way to divert a conversation that promised to be dangerous. "Well, I have an even funnier thing for you to think of. When my boys here realize that the enemy will kill them before I do, they will sooner or later mutiny and sneak back to our holes and walls in the mountains. When that happens, someone like me can expect a knife in the back. Someone like you though...how long do you think it will take you to die if they were to string you up over a fire and roast you until your armor turned red and burned through your clothes and skin?" Cirion grudgingly had to concede the point. Without the protection of Malthur he would be left to the patience and mercy of a lot less crafty and imaginative kind of orcs, with all the increased likelihood of groundless violence and cruelty that followed. Malthur continued speaking. "Find me a way to crash the day for Duinhir. What does he want to achieve on a large scale here? He's stalling, and wearing us down by all means, but that's that for now." Cirion hesitated. He had to come up with something. "Well...in all likelihood Duinhir does not have enough men to engage directly, in a field battle. Otherwise he would risk a lot with a lengthy strategy of attrition as it makes it more likely every day that you will receive reinforcements." Malthur nodded, as if acknowledging the conclusion. Cirion continued. "As he is understrength, he must seize the advantage in other fields. That is what he is doing now, in mainly three ways. First, his rangers is keeping their eyes on us and where we go. Secondly, they prevent us from scouting and finding out where Duinhir has his camp and masses his troops. Thirdly, they maintain the moral advantage by inflicting constant casualties and denying us any opportunity for a decisive battle or even a smaller victory." Cirion worried that his short analysis might sound too pompous but was again surprised to see the orc chieftain seemingly consider what he had said, but the cold eyes where very hard to read, even without the shadow of the spiked helmet that obscured them. "When you first visited our camp you were looking for us, but you still did not spot a single one of my sentries, right?" "And I'm no ranger." "And just how superior are those at night, really? Are they elf-scum, who can see like us in the dark? I think not." "I've never met an elf." Cirion was getting the feeling that Malthur had gotten something out of their talk. He didn't really know what, but whatever it was it was likely to be a bad thing. The next day the scout parties went out at sunset instead, and the army started moving at the same time, instead of making camp for the night. Later that night, a long ranged patrol returned, with bent backs but eager eyes. "Chieftin! We found something!" "So I see, maggot. What, apart from the mud you've rolled yourselves in?" "We did as you say, chief, and kept tabs on the boys before us. And they were sure done in by those stinking cloaked whiteskin swine! But we lay low, and we sniff them out in the dark later, and follow them trails. And we come upon their camp, we do! A hidden palisaded place, it is. We can go there and whip them now!" Malthur shook his head dismissively. "No we won't. They will hear us and run away. But now we know where they are, and somehow, somewhere, this Duinhir must have patrols and messengers going in and out. We'll surround him, and when it's dark, we strike at his messengers, and his rangers, and let them try to spot us without the sun to help them.

[Maltacus]

Chapter V - V

The tense situation continued without much development for a couple of days more as far as Cirion could tell. The tensions had calmed somewhat with the rumors spreading about the enemy being revealed and the expectation that the army would soon undertake some sort of great attack, or rather hunt, that would catch them once and for all. The following morning, a scout patrol reported something back that warranted a runner sent for the chieftain, who waved Cirion over as he passed the human portion of the encampment. Cirion had initially been surprised to find fellow humans in Malthurs army. The thought that anyone would freely spend time in company with such loathsome creatures as the orcs he found to be incomprehensible, until grudgingly admitting that his current position could be said to be that of someone doing just such a thing. And furthermore, the others were even less free than him, being little more than thralls that carried supplies and repaired broken equipment, which was always plentiful. The characteristic laziness of the orc could - evidently - be tempered and beaten out by a determined commander in the heat of battle but they remained ill suited for craftsmanship that required patience and attention to detail. Orcs slaved in the massed labor industries of Mordor that focused on quantity over quality, with simple and numbingly repetitive tasks for each that left as little need and room for independent thinking as possible. The human workforce and the few more reliable orcs maintained the smithies and workshops, and humans tilled the crops around lake Nurnen in southern Mordor and carted the grain north. Malthur had a few dozen with him that kept to themselves as much as they could, going about repairing the things thrown to them with downcast eyes and hidden grudges. Cirion made camp next to them for lack of a safer place to rest. They did not welcome Cirion but would at least not spit him over a fire at the first opportunity. The orcs viewed them with contempt but accepted their presence, much like they viewed the lowliest and weakest of their kin. It was the ultimate insult among orcs, Cirion reckoned, to be considered equal to a common human. "Chief, they dug up these from that scout" the subordinate orc announced while holding forth a couriers bag and pointing towards one of the directions in which scout parties had sallied. Cirion was confused by the direction, as it was right behind the orc army. "Let's take a gander, shall we?" Malthur grunted with a surly lack of enthusiasm. The bag contained some pieces of dried meat in wrappings - sloppy, Cirion thought - but also a typical roll of papers in the common waxed cylindrical case. Malthur waved him forward. "Let's hear the poetry of your countrymen, recruit. And take your time. It would be unfortunate if we found you had forgotten any passage..." Cirion took the paper. His throat was dry, he noticed. One more step down into the abyss of treason, a voice shouted in his mind. What has to be done to ride out the storm, another voice retorted. "It's a requisition order. It specifies that the recipient, who is not named, which is a common security measure, is to provide a moderate amount of supplies at a certain date...16 days from now I think. Shall I name them explicitly?" "Sod it." Cirion was struck by how overlooked this shortcoming of the orcs was. They could read, some of them, but their reading and writing was as crude as their speech, even when they used the common tongue, or rather their perverted version of it. You would just have to keep using the most complicated and academic terms you had, and messages would become twice as hard to interpret by the enemy. Except for the black Numenorians and other high ranking humans in service of the black tower, but the orcs did most clearly not wish to bother them if they could avoid it. Cirion took up the requisition order again. He could not deny a lingering professional curiosity about what kind of force would need these supplies. He had spent enough time with quartermasters to be able to guess that with decent accuracy. Cirion took a closer look. This did not seem to make sense. Grain for three weeks for a company, dried meat or salted for one, spare weapons and parts for four months, wagon parts for a year? The list went on. It did indeed not make sense. The text did not shed any light on it either. The Cirion realised what he held in front of him. He went numb, and cold. The cipher. Duinhirs cipher.

[Maltacus]

Chapter V - VI

Gondor had used ciphers and hidden messages for long periods in the past. The practice had fallen out of favor with internal struggles and betrayals, being an unpleasant reminder of the darker and shameful sides of humans. It was also complicated to use on a broad scale without either risking that some link in the chain forgot or misinterpreted something or that code keys and translations fell into enemy hands. Besides, the simple minded, if savage, orcs that tended to plague Ithilien were until recently considered too primitive to mandate that kind of secrecy. Duinhir had revived the practice as part of the campaign against the new orc army. Cirion and the rest of the captains had rehearsed the simple mechanic of it time and time again. No written key was ever to be made, to eliminate the possibility of the enemy intercepting and understanding the messages. Seeing the cipher here, Cirion was certain the recipient was a captain with an independent command like he and Aravir had held. Also, the captain would be someone operating under Duinhir. Cirion pocketed the message, his mind heavy with the decision. Tell or not? He would be influencing events to come in a great way now, more than before. The orcs, and particularly their loathsome chieftain, would benefit. That was indeed bad. Alternatively, the army could possibly be surrounded if this was some sort of new and better scheme conceived by Duinhir. If the orcs were cut down or slowly shot and whittled down by ambushes, they would surely slay Cirion rather than let him escape back to Gondor. And if Malthur would for some reason ever find out that he had withheld the knowledge the outcome would be the same, undoubtedly. Still, was it worth the risk of altering the fortunes of the war so? On the other hand, nothing had sufficed against the enemy so far. Why would it suddenly change? It was no point clinging to false hopes - superstitions, even. It was a time of troubles and each man had to fend for himself as best he could. "Chieftain!" "Hrm? What about, whiteskin?" "There may be something more to this message." The orc chieftain walked back, somehow towering over everyone despite not being of exceptional stature. "Spit it out. What are we looking at?" "The numbers make no sense, for a mere requisition order. But they fit a cipher, a code that was taught to me and the other captains. It is simple, based on a set of basic commands and meanings communicated by numbers in a certain order." Cirion explained how the cipher worked and how the limits and simplicity also made it easy to remember without any written form. The chieftain listened with what for once seemed like interest, but also a great deal of skepticism. "And so, what news does this little requisition order really bring us, then?" "It tells the recipient that Duinhir is using stalling tactics - not seeking a decisive engagement but drawing us in, or north as it is now. Said recipient is supposed to use the opportunity to secure various locations in the south... They are a couple of roads I recognize, some fords and...a town." "Which town?" "Tir Ethraid." Malthur whirled around on the spot. "Company captains, assemble!" he bellowed, and the cry was taken up by those who heard it and spread through the camp. There were a bit over a dozen captains. Cirion recognized most of them but were, to put it mildly, not one to count them among his friends. "Alright, shut your jaws and listen. The bloody Tark high command has been kind enough to share their plans with us through a cooperative little messenger that passed by lately. It seems this flaming little trip through the woods is something of a feint while the real push is coming in the south to take back that backwater dung pile of a town that guards the fords south. So we will turn right back and damned quick too. At best, we catch the little whiteskin army before they reach the town, otherwise we trap them inside and burn the place down. We will march hard this time, along the roads and with minimum rest. I will not wait for stragglers so you lot better keep your stinking units up to it." "Eh, chief, where did you get hold of this? Not meaning to disrespect b... "Which you just did, maggot, so count yourself lucky that we're out in the field and short on company commanders for the moment. But let's hear our new soothsayers own words, shall we? Step up and enlighten my captains about your kins fancy tricks, recruit!" Cirion had a profound sense of unreality washing over him as he stepped forward. Here he was, trained and educated in Gondorian tactics, teaching intelligence warfare to a bunch of savage abominations in service of Gondors eternal enemy. He doubted that they would be a very receptive audience, though. As he had predicted, the reactions were less than appreciative. "How do we know this is right? They might be pulling us from one end to another, to stretch us thin in this damned forest and cut us up piece by piece, I say." Malthur nodded. " Always a risk. But this makes sense. We've crushed them in the field all the time, even Tarks are bound to learn some time. Killing our patrols and destroying supplies is the only way they can beat us, and if they take that town and other camp sites and holds they can more effectively bleed us dry here in the woodland." "I ain't trusting any word of a whiteskin 'less it's beaten out of 'em!" "Yeah, why don't we start roastin' him a bit and see if there's any truth to it?" Malthur looked at them with contempt. "And just how much will you find out when he starts to sputter out the name of every town in Gondor, do you think?" "Well, he'll tell the truth eventually, won't he?" "No, he'll tell us what he thinks will make us stop. So we might as well pick what we think would be the most probable target and go for it, and save time." "Have ye gone soft, chieftain?" Malthur whirled around and locked his gaze on the leery captain, who felt the others edging a bit away from him, as if wanting to stay out of the way. "No, I've gone smart. That's why I am chieftain, and you are a sniveling maggot who will do what I say. Otherwise you, like the whiteskins and those scouting cowards might find out just how soft I have gone..." The onlookers hooted and laughed while the orc captains eyes narrowed but he remained silent, well aware of the unsteady ground he was treading. "Turn the army around! Back to Tir Ethraid!"

[Maltacus]

Chapter V - VII

The first unit in the column was the Uruk archers, scouts and vanguard combined. They could more easily deploy than halberdiers and make the most of a good spot compared to the swordsmen. Half of the heavy infantry followed, being ready to reinforce the vanguard fairly quickly. The trolls occupied the middle of the column, not because they required a lot of protection but since they had little affinity for spontaneous disciplined actions when under attack, and would be quick to drop their burdens and charge if they faced an ambushing force. In a regular battle, they had a clearer task to occupy their limited span of attention, and that intellectual deficiency could actually be beneficial, as they were too focused on their task at hand of loading and aiming to spare much attention for the rest of what was happening. The same thing was true for the battle trolls to some extent, as they required careful supervision and clear and most of all loud commands, preferably not more complex than "move" "wait" and "smash". Trolls were followed by the most of the supplies, followed by the rear guard with similar composition and of course inverted disposition as the van. The march followed the flat ground close to the great river, which had turned rather steady after a few days of frost, being in what would count as winter in this southern climate. It was comparable to a road, and had less woods to pass through. Perhaps because of the open ground, or the urgency and haste with which the army marched, or due to the fact that only a few rangers had been seen the last days, neither the vanguard nor the rest of the column paid as much attention as they should, and their thoughts were turned to the inland wood and not the river. It was too late to realize the mistake when Gondorian horns sounded, signalling that the enemy was already waiting for them further ahead. Cirion had seen the orc chieftains malice, mockery, cruel cunning, intimidation and downright iron fisted tyranny, but until now he had not been aware of the orcs capacity for completely infernal fury. Malthur walked towards him with the lengthy stride of a mountain troll it seemed and swatted aside a halberdier with his shield without even noticing, sending the other flying backwards to the grounds. Cirion was searching frantically for something to say or do to keep himself from his path but before he had time to utter a word he felt his throat grasped by the black iron of Malthur gauntlet. "Care to explain this coincidence, you little ?!" he grunted and hurled Cirion down unto the ground. The air was knocked out of his lungs and Cirion gasped, trying in vain to form a retort before Malthur boot forced the air out of his lungs again. "Is this your fine plan, maneuvering us into position for your precious rangers to strike?" Cirion pushed with both hands, trying to edge the orc foot away so he could speak. "It is...not...rangers..." Malthur kept staring coldly at him, watching him struggle with most of his weight that was leaning on the foot on Cirions chest. "Come from...river! Landed...beach..." At last the orc chieftain leaned back slightly, taking some of the weight off Cirion. "Speak, you maggot! What's a flaming beach got to do with it?" "Istdor...fleet commander. His fleet must have landed the army. This is...one of the few places you can quickly land a huge force from the river. Open ground...and no sand banks in the river blocking the ships like most other places..." "Pathetic. Why then, would those sailor scum not just anchor further out and row longer to any spot on the shore?" "We...Gondor...have too small rowboats. It would take too much time to row back and forth from the middle of the river and people get lost there too. Besides, at this time of the year it's cold out there, damn it! You don't drag out a landing in enemy territory if you can avoid it!" "So, the whiteskin's showing some guts, huh?" Malthur finally stepped away from Cirion, and turned around on the spot. Cirion dropped back on the ground, panting with exhaustion and staring at the sky with unfocused eyes. He heard the orc chieftain bawl angry commands at this captain or that. "Form ranks, maggots! Line up the ballistae, infantry behind them! Gather the catapults at this hill! Trolls to the back, archers to the front! Push those Tark worms back into the river! Attack!"

[Alwyn]

Exciting updates! Cirion faces difficult choices, as he must decide whether to tell the orcs everything he has discovered. It seems that Cirion's hope that Gondor can win is fading, after Malthur's victories. In the battle which is about to begin, it looks like Malthur's force is stronger, but he faces a substantial army of Gondor, so presumably victory is not certain.

[Beckitz]

I aint gonna mince words wit ya mate, ahve ad a lot ta do wit words in mah day and not just'n tearin' up all rite but som'sens riten em too, an I bloody tell ya brotha' ef' tis aint ta damndest ting i evah red in mah bloody life you can rip mah right arm off an piss down ta socket. Good work.

~Bobsy