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.
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.
"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.
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.
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.
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!"
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!"
For the fortunate orc selected to load and operate the ballistae, life was often a tiny bit safer than the rest. When another was sent to skirmish enemy formation at close range or storm forward into waiting lines of armored infantry, the ballistae was meant to exchange their fire from a relatively secure distance. The sight of burning palisades and foes also inspired enough cheer that they would enjoy some measure of respect despite their less than heroic role. But when they found themselves in the front and the enemy did not wait patiently to be cut to shreds where they stood, the position of artillery crew suddenly seemed like the poorer choice and more than one eyed the thick armour and long pole arms of the heavy infantry with longing. When the line of shouting humans with shields raised and swords brandishing grew clearer at close distance, more than most decided that they would spend this particular battle among the infantry instead.
Malthur was furious. The battle had turned into a mess and a protracted slugging match where infantry lines had connected all along the width of the field and his catapults stood near useless, having only the scattered enemy archers to fire at. To add to the stinking day the halberdiers were too far behind the ballistae as well and the light Gondorian infantry surged in between them and then spread out in a full line, instead of being halted and funneled through the space between the pieces.
The Gondorian levies wore round wooden shields, steel helmets and leather armor, wielding swords. The infantry from Pelargir was much the same, except for the elongated and narrower shields and the light mail shirts that reinforced their armor. At the Gondorian center was as usual a couple of companies of regular infantry, with pikes and heavy mail, and behind them all the hated Blackroot rangers. The orcs infantry held but the casualties were mounting compared to the more favorable battles when the enemy had stood still and allowed himself to be crushed by bolts and stones. Malthur looked again. Where were those catapult crews? He would flay them all when he found out!
A great howling interrupted him. The mountain trolls, the close fighting unit of those creatures, had smashed into the enemy right flank. While the militia was being tossed and kicked apart like dolls, the trolls were shot by the rangers behind, and occasionally one lucky militiaman would manage an effective blow. Some of the trolls had already fallen. Was that the general idea? Without the trolls, Malthurs army would be easy to ride down if the enemy could get around the siege engines, and there would be little heavy infantry left to deal with cavalry after this battle. Damn it, it was the orcs who were supposed to wear the enemy down in that manner!
There! The stunted orcs crewing the catapults were running towards a hail of arrows, coming from some group behind Malthurs lines. How had they gotten there? Had his scouts kept such a bad watch that they could go around the entire army at will? Flaying would be to good for them! No, those must be the rangers that had trailed the army for days. So, this was their game. Bleeding him of the most important parts to leave the army being little more than the common orc rabbles that had raided Ithilien. Well then, in that case it would not do to leave out the best parts of the bite this ranger scum thought they could take out of him.
"Catapults! Cease firing!"
The order was only heard by the nearest of the loaders but they signed to the rest that there was something more important to focus on near them.
"Drop the slingers for a while and go out and smash those Tark bowmen on the hill behind us! Hunt them down!"
"CHIEFTAIN CALLS! WE SMASH!"
With a deafening roar, over forty mountain trolls rushed forth with clubs, rocks and bare fists. The rangers of the Blackroot Vale fought to the last man, but face to face not even they were a match for a troll. They wielded their greatswords masterfully, dodging the swings of clubs as best they could, but sooner or later everyone would make a mistake and after the first blow, there was no second chance.
Duinhir was with his men. He was older than most, but he was still an imposing figure, broad, swarthy and grim after long months of deaths and losses. He fought with desperation and bitterness this day, holding his rangers together under the overwhelming onslaught. Always back to back and shoulder to shoulder, the finest of Gondor ended that day, giving their lives to delay Mordors armies so that others, perhaps, could reap ultimate victory from the bloody seed of their sacrifice.
To the victor go the spoils. The ancient truth of soldiers and crooks alike, Cirion thought. In this instance the difference between the two kinds was also indistinguishable. Orcs spread all over the battlefield and looted corpses as well as hacked off chunks of meat, bringing it to spontaneous fires to cook or grill over the open flames. The hunger had made them frantic, and undisciplined. Even the human contingent took part in these grisly deeds but they restricted themselves to the dead horses and the food supplies that had been salvaged. It was not much, for the army of Duinhir had not had time to unload the majority of its provisions. Malthurs army was hungering, and discipline was breaking down when every member considered the enemy at long last beaten and themselves deserving a good long meal well earned.
Malthur knew all too well that was not the case. The Gondorian other army, possibly the last one of Duinhirs forces, was marching steadily towards Tir Ethraid while his lazy slugs were sitting down feasting and sleeping. He needed to get the army moving again. Once it was on the move, it was always so much easier to direct it where you wished. Far more complicated was that he needed the army to move fast and soon, which meant with the lightest of packs and only the barest of supplies. And here was a field of meat waiting to be gathered and cooked and feasted upon. He needed to get the army packing, and the slothful damn sods would only move to eat. There was always the chance that lopping the heads of a part would make the rest fall in line but that could take time and a lot of fighting and beating and such methods did at one point become risky. That point was reached by now, Malthur determined. Besides, he was after all short on men.
His train of thought was interrupted by the hurried approach of one of his captains, Muzul, that commanded a company of the heavy infantry.
"Chieftain! The boys are just scattering to eat and sleep like some lazy swine! I mean, you can see that, so...what are we gonna do about...uh, what are your orders?"
Malthur was about to offer a sharp retort but held up. The captain had after all shown some initiative. Perhaps he could prove useful now?
"And what about you Muzul? Haven't you thought of carving yourself a nice steak for tomorrow too?"
"Grabbing the meat someone else has just carved is faster. They can take the time to slice another bite."
Malthur chuckled quietly.
"Right then, let's get this lice-ridden slug nest up and kicking, shall we? Gather a couple of dozen of your unit and have them bring those flaming deserters here. Tell them that we're going to gather up all this fine meat properly before it starts to spoil. That should get them listening."
"Aye chief! You lot, come with me!"
Malthur was quick to the task. The grumbling and red-eyed uruks and other smaller orcs that Muzul kicked up and sent to him were immediately dispatched to bring up a large part of the mostly empty supply wagons. They were all moved next to the field, where a few wagons with spare stones and pitch and oil for the catapults had been left. Others were assembled in their respective units, which in most case were of only partial strength. Malthur directed them to start gathering and chopping up meat to fill this wagon or that, all systematic and without any hesitation and seemingly following a clear plan. The mood brightened somewhat, as everyone could see the wagons slowly but steadily filling with fresh meat for the coming days. Along with sending newly roused units to gather more meat Malthur would on occasion call up a unit and send it off along the road with orders to start constructing one or another part of a new fortified camp.
"Keep in mind, we don't want those Tark armies that are left down south to come up and be able to just walk in while we have dinner. I want a good ditch and palisade on each side, and towers at the corners and gates. And you will keep patrolling the area, if there are any of those rangers left in the woods."
During the evening, more and more of the companies were sent away to the camp site. Muzul was organizing the moving of the wounded and most of the camp followers when Malthur summoned him.
"Seems like we have got the slugs moving for now."
"Aye, chief. I'll have them throwing up the camp walls in no time!"
Malthur shook his head.
"I have no need for that camp. We are not going to stay and get fat here."
Muzul looked at the chieftain with confusion and wariness. Malthur continued.
"We won't be able to bring that load of meat with us either if we intend to catch up with that Tark force, which I damn well do. So here's what you're going to do. Bring a few of your best boys here, some who can do as they told and keep their jaws shut about it. See to it that someone that we can manage without accidentally trips with a torch next to that wagon with ammunition, and that the meat wagons are left close enough to catch fire. And I don't need to add that I want our little troublemakers silenced the moment they are done. Do that quickly, but make sure everyone still around here sees or hears it. Everyone in the camp must know what has happened and there must be no doubts about it. Understood?"
Muzul recoiled a bit, but seemingly in surprise rather than repulsion. He saluted and waved to his closest subordinates.
Less than a count of four hundreds later, Malthur heard angry shouting and arguing from the wagons. Suddenly the darkness was lit up by a sharp light, as wood and oil burst into a mighty flame. More shouts and sounds of fighting could be heard, and shouting that shifted into yells of pain and fear.
"Not bad, Muzul...not bad at all..."
Rumor spreads quickly, even compared to a hurried march by a determined uruk company. A mob was forming near the entrance to what was going to be the fortified camp. Tired and dismayed, the common orc soldiers demanded answers while their officers bawled commands to get back to work while at the next moment harshly question the closest newcomer about what was going on. If one had superior night eyes, which orcs did, one could spot a faint glow in the dark far away, about the place where the battlefield was. The orc chieftain walked quickly through the crowd and up to a small mound where he was somewhat visible and able to address most of the crowd.
"Listen up! Some stupid rats tripped over at the wagons and managed to set a wagon with oil and pitch on fire! The flames spread and nearly the whole damn supply is bloody ashes!
There was a storm of cries of outrage and roars along with angry murmur and banging of weapons against shields. It took a long time for Malthurs bodyguards to make the worst shouters shut up.
"We have a simple choice! We move or we starve! Gather all of the remaining meat you can, and pack it with you. We will force march with only the most essential gear, no wagons, only the artillery. We will catch that Tark army before Tir Ethraid, and then we will have a bloody good feast!"
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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[MOS AAR] An orcs tale
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