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Thread: [Fiction] Istion: Soldier, Ranger and Lord of Gondor

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    Default [Fiction] Istion: Soldier, Ranger and Lord of Gondor



    Author: Inarus
    Original Thread: Istion: Soldier, Ranger and Lord of Gondor

    Istion: Soldier, Ranger and Lord of Gondor
    Here follows the first half of the completed tale of a Soldier of Gondor: Istion, this part stretching from his origins as a soldier of Gondor to becoming a ranger of Ithilien then Captain of Gondor who fought under King Elessar in Rhûn and Harad.

    It is my duty to point out that the following contains strong violence, one scene of torture and Book VI contains a "Satanic" Cult. Enjoy!


    Book I: Soldier
    “One does not simply walk into Mordor. It's black gates are guarded by more than just orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep. The great eye is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland, riddled with fire, ash, and dust. The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume. Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly.”
    - Boromir
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    Chapter I: The Gates of Minas Tirith
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    The Gates of Minas Tirith

    The golden rays of glorious sunlight illuminated the silver walls of the fairest citadel in Middle-earth.

    And with the rising sun’s rays burning his back, Boromir, first and finest son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, stood upon the plinth of the statue in the courtyard at the foot of the jut of rock. In one hand he held the silver banner of the White Tree that flourished in the wind whilst his other hand held high his shining sword. He lowered it, beckoning for silence, and when we obeyed, he spoke:

    ‘Gondorians, Friends, Brothers. With this glorious sunrise our armies shall march towards victories so great that Sauron himself shall feel an icy chill run up his spine – though how can such an accursed being have a backbone when he dare not face us himself!’ He paused, savouring the roars from the crowd but when he resumed his tone was darker, a rare thing to be heard from our hero. ‘Friends our fates quiver on a fickle edge; our courage is threatened at every moment, but run and dishonour will be yours and the legions of darkness will storm across our fair grassy plains, and never again will the word freedom be spoken in this world for fear will banish it from your thoughts.

    ‘But let me not dishearten you, I have fought with you all for many years and know your hearts as true, and what does a true and weary heart get at sundown?’

    ‘A drink!’ we all shouted in reply and with that thought in mind we turned towards Osgiliath.


    Chapter II: The Silent Hill
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    The Silent Hill

    It was dawn when a small force of two hundred men, led by Boromir, detached from the main force.

    The rays of sunlight melted the snows of Mt Mind and scorched our backs as we marched north, away from the fair Fields of Pelennor. Sweat drenched my back, plastering my thick tunic to my skin; heavy armour clad my body, the weight making every step an effort. My vision was narrowed by my helmet, giving me only a view of the hill rising from the sea of trees ahead, it was the beacon of Amon Dîn and last night the beacon was lit. By the time we would reach it, the defenders would undoubtedly be dead but their murderers would still prey on their flesh.

    It was almost midday when our force of two hundred soldiers reached the foot of the hill. The sun was concealed behind a thick dark mass of clouds and any advantage of a boiling, blinding sun to diminish the enemy’s strength was lost. We bore our shields before us, shielding ourselves from arrow fire that may come at any moment; about halfway up the bombardment began with the clang of metal tips upon our shields, one man cried out as an arrow scraped past his shield and pierced his chest, he fell back, and another hurried to take his place. There was a sudden loud clang and I staggered back as something struck my shield, I looked down. And two dim eyes looked back.

    The head bore a bite mark on the right cheek whilst the other cheek was partially devoured, the wiry black hair was plastered by congealed blood to the forehead which bore a deep gash where a light axe had slammed into his skull. The blood drained from my face as the rotting stench and sight of dry blood and crimson brain reached me, I keeled over and vomited, stepping unsteadily back even more.

    A hand grasped my shoulder and I looked at its owner, Boromir nodded reassuringly and said after a moment of hesitation, ‘Istion is it?’ I nodded and he added, ‘Good, keep strong, we’ll give those bastards a beating that’ll make ’em long for the whips of Sauron! C’mon.’ He ran to catch up with the rest of the men; I watched him for a moment and shook my head. ‘Manipulative bugger,’ I murmured with a grin and ran after him.

    We pushed up the hill, and not until we reached the brow did we see the great number of foes. I would estimate there were about a hundred and fifty gathered there, the archers holding bows to the sky as they bombarded us with shafts whilst the others faced us with a wall of shields and numerous different weapons. Boromir called us to a halt and our ring of men surrounded the group of foes around the burnt and broken beacon.

    ‘Men, steady. We outnumber them, outclass them, and once we return every woman in Gondor will be all over us!’ We raised a cheer and surged forwards as our noble lord roared, ‘Charge!’

    We slammed into the wall of orcs, bringing down our blades in arcs of blood, the putrid odour was overpowering, but I stood firm, felling an orc as moved to strike down my companion. I blocked a sword swing and lunged forwards, severing a pulmonary artery sending a heavy jet of crimson fluid spattering across the white tree adorning my breastplate. To my right Boromir was pushing forwards, his broadsword slamming into an orc helm, he wrenched it free and struck the legs of another beast with sufficient strength to knock it from its feet. He brought down his blade, ending the creature’s miserable existence, and then he smashed it through the ribs of another beast and struck his shield so hard into a rusty breastplate that the orc fell to the ground, coughing up blood before it was trampled by a stampede of charging Gondorians.

    The orcs were diminishing at an increasingly faster rate and soon there were only four left in front of the battered beacon. Boromir stepped forwards, thrusting his sword into the black heart of one orc before slicing the rim of his shield across the throat of another. A soldier felled one remaining orc before Boromir came face to face with the last, cowardly, trembling figure. It hissed and feinted but Boromir brought round his shield into the ribs of the beast and pushed aside its scimitar to allow him to swipe his sword through the gullet of the beast. As the head fell he gasped for two breaths then raised his sword.

    The battle was over, my first battle was over, and I was still alive.


    Chapter III: Of Perfume and Toil
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    Of Perfume and Toil

    The sound of axes upon wood and the hammering of crude nails was deafening amidst the silence of nature.

    As the soldiers toiled over reconstructing the beacon, I sat aside, taking a prolonged lunch break. Nearby Boromir stood, conversing with the replacement Beacon Guards who had accompanied them to the beacon, after a while Boromir nodded and the crowd of Beacon Guards separated and began preparing for the requirements of their job.

    I looked eastwards for there I believed my destiny lay, though little did I know on that cool spring day that my true fate lay westwards over the seas. So I sat and pondered life, and how in this bitter climate of total war it was so easy to pass into the netherworld of beyond. Who around me would survive when all of Mordor was to be unleashed? Boromir at least would survive the onslaught; I had no doubt about that. I feared I would not, how could I when I could not bear the sight of the violence of war?

    ‘Istion?’

    I glanced up and hastily rose to stand to attention however Boromir halted me and ordered me to remain seated. He then sat beside me. ‘First battle I presume?’ I nodded. ‘You’ll get used to it, shows that you are human.’

    ‘It makes me little use in a battle, sir.’

    ‘Endure; the stench of death isn’t a pleasant one but after a few battles it’ll be as familiar to you as your wife’s perfume.’

    I laughed weakly and said, ‘I am unmarried, sir.’

    ‘Keep it that way, life is best free.’ He laughed and returned to the workers though stopped and turned before he was out of my range of hearing, ‘Oh and don’t think you’re excused from work duty.’


    Chapter IV: Drúadan Forest
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    Drúadan Forest

    Part I: The Edge of the Forest
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    The Edge of the Forest

    Our army advanced with a north-westerly breeze on our backs.

    To our left flank dark trees sprouted from the long grass, their many branches reached out towards us, their tips curled so that they beckoned them in. There was an atmosphere of dread here, I feared some evil dwelt in the trees.

    ‘Halt!’ Boromir’s cry was obeyed and I turned my eyes to the front of the column, a dark mass was moving ahead, orcs, perhaps a hundred strong but no more. ‘Form up!’ We hurried into a square formation, five ranks deep, only one man stood before me and the marching orcs. Ahead the foes halted and gathered into a similar arrangement, at the head a beast stepped forwards, raising a horn to its grey lips and blowing a single note. Elsewhere a twig snapped. The orcs broke into a charge, shields forwards, curved blades overhead. Our front rank formed an impassable shield wall and we braced ourselves for the impact.

    It came with an overpowering violence, where the front rank held – only just – I fell back and only the shield of the person behind me caught me from causing an unforgivable disarray in our ranks. I steadied myself and prepared for the moment when the man before me fell.

    It was a swing to the helm that knocked him unconscious and when he staggered back I had to support his limp form on my shield and use my blade to parry the succeeding attack from the orc that had knocked him out of consciousness. The man behind me helped me with the fallen soldier and I evaded the body and lashed out at the orc with my leg. I caught it in the abdomen and as it recoiled I stepped forwards and brought my shield around to fill the gap in the shield wall.

    As usual Boromir was keeping a wide space about him, empty save for the occasional orc corpse that fell at his feet. The beasts seemed afraid to draw near to him. I felled another creature and gasped for breath. ‘Istion! Istion! Pull back, you’re exhausted!’ I parried another blade and lashed out with my shield, using the resultant stun to retreat and let the man behind take my place.

    ‘Soldier, help this man to the back, he’s just coming round.’ It was the man that I had earlier saved from being slaughtered as he fell unconscious. I hoisted him weakly into my arms then slowly advanced to the rear of the army where I lowered him to the ground and faced the west. The orcs were dwindling in number and as I watched I heard the enemy’s horn blow again, three blows that had some meaning and it soon became clear.

    ‘Stay here,’ I said to the awakening soldier before I ran in search of Boromir, I squeezed between some disgruntled soldiers and cried out our commander’s name twice until he disengaged and turned to me. ‘Boromir, there’s more of them, sir. Look to the hillside.’

    The Steward’s son turned and his eyes narrowed as he saw the growing number of foes on the horizon. A moment later they began surging towards us and as the last of their companions died their killers raised their swords and cried with joy – then they saw the reinforcements and silence fell.

    ‘The buggers outnumber us!’ Boromir said quietly, clearly surprised.


    Part II: From the Trees
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    From the Trees

    The enemy was drawing increasingly close and the shields of Gondor would not be enough to halt them.

    Boromir was hastily considering options, time was running out, and he would undoubtedly be discounting retreat. A cold shiver of fear ran down my spine and I cursed myself for not being able to control my nerves. The orcs were a few feet from the front ranks when it happened.

    It began a few moments before with the crack of twigs and the shuffling of leaves, then the orcs fell and over the noise of their stampede the blowpipes were inaudible. But I saw a dart as it swished across and struck an orc, it fell sideways and jerked as the poison took hold. I returned my attention to the trees and saw a cloud of the projectiles as they slammed into the masses of orcs, there were cries of fear and agony, some fled from the terror of the unknown foe but most pressed on. We were inspired and fought with renewed vigour; the orcs saw this and wavered but still did not retreat completely.

    Then there were the unanimous roars of the Woses as they emerged from their hiding places amongst the trees and charged at the foes bearing wooden spears and clad only in grass around their waist, they had long beards like moss and moved slowly, as if they had not moved in ages, they certainly appeared to be like ancient statues. But they fought well, and slew many and the orcs fled over the hill, where either they fell to the Woses or escaped to rejoin the main army.

    ‘Lord of Stone-city.’

    Boromir turned to the leading man of the forest of Drúadan for he was addressing him.

    ‘Great Headman speak with you he must. You follow, bring only few men.’


    Part III: The Woses in the Wood
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    The Woses in the Wood

    The crack of twigs was the only noise; I only wished it was our feet breaking the twigs.

    With the thick cover of leaves there was no sunlight and I shivered in the bitter climate, our escort seemed content with the temperature and I pondered over whom they were and what their attitude towards us and the war was. Were they even human? Would they aid us in the battles to come?

    As I and nine other soldiers followed Boromir as he was led to some unknown location, we found ourselves ducking under low branches and evading roots and rocks that emerged from the soil more and more frequently. However soon the trees thinned and came to a small clearing, sheltered by a roof of thick branches that only opened in the centre where the rays of sun fell down and illuminated a large tree stump, out of which had been carved a throne. There was a figure not unlike the wood of the seat upon which he sat, old with a beard of moss and skinny features – though not due to malnutrition – his veins stood out like vines encasing his flesh. He wore a tunic of grass from waist to shoulders and had piercing green eyes that flashed crimson when angry.

    ‘Hail to Stone-city’s Children.’

    ‘Well met Chieftain Ghân-buri-Ghân. Gondor thanks you and is indebted to you for aiding us this day. I have heard tales of your race, but only now do I understand you. Your people are great warriors; they would be great assets against the East.’

    ‘We kill gorgûn, yes, but only when they threaten Drúadan.’

    Boromir stepped forwards and I noticed how the Woses close to the Chieftain tightened their grip on their weapons, but Boromir wished only to speak, ‘It is every free man’s duty to fight. To fight or to die, for the Legions of Mordor will not stop, they will burn every tree, devour every life, and destroy every settlement. Can you watch my people die?’

    There was a moment of silence during which I saw the desperation in Boromir’s eyes, an urge to do anything to defend his people. Meanwhile Ghân-buri-Ghân’s eyes sparkled like rubies before calming to a fair sky blue.

    ‘You speak well, Tall Man, but Ghân-buri-Ghân does not think you understand the Drúedain as you think you do. We will desert not this land, the forest is our life; without it we are nothing.

    ‘Heard great tales of you Ghân-buri-Ghân has, wanted to meet you he has. Now leave you must; and Ghân-buri-Ghân prays you to cease your victimising of the Drúedain, we wish only for peace.’

    Boromir nodded, clearly unsatisfied, he was undoubtedly considering whether or not to continue the argument. When the escorts beckoned to him however he followed and soon we were evading branch, root, and rock as we traversed the complicated terrain of the depths of Drúadan Forest. After a while sunlight reached us and we emerged on the field of battle, the decimated cohort of Gondorians waiting agitatedly for their commander.

    Boromir glanced back at the forest then returned his gaze to the men, ‘Form up, we march to Cair Andros.’


    Chapter V: Cair Andros
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    Cair Andros

    Part I: The Bell Tolls for Doom
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    The Bell Tolls for Doom

    It was to a golden sunrise that I awoke after the quietest night since I had left Minas Tirith.

    A bell clanged in the distance, eight times, signalling the hour. I cursed for I needed to be in one of the many courtyards before the end of the first quarter. I prepared myself, dressing in the thick silver armour and taking my sword from the foot of my bed, then I descended and emerged from the soldiers’ quarters, hurried as fast as my heavy burden would allow across two courtyards and then stopped, angry for I was now lost. I scanned every exit then settled on a narrow passageway that led towards the rising sun. I relaxed as I saw my comrades all lined up, waiting for their commander to arrive and as I took my place the bell tolled.

    DONG!

    DONG!

    CRASH!

    All our heads whipped around as the deafening sound of an impact reached our ears. The peak of the great bell tower was crumbling, rocks fell like rain from the summit and the bell was plummeting towards the ground, it struck a roof and vanished in a cloud of splinters and dust, the result clang guaranteed to wake every weary soul in the castle. My eyes followed this ruin then rose to examine the sky, a torrent of boulders were arching over the outer battlements before crashing down into wall, tower and pavement. Our acting commander raised his blade and cried, ‘To the walls!’ and, heart pounding like an Olog Battle Drum, I followed him. We reached the foot of the battlements after a few, terribly short, minutes, and as we did the closest section of wall exploded at the top, showering us with shards of stone. Coughing I emerged from the cloud of dust and stared up, the fortification had a great delve at its peak where it had been struck by catapult fire, corpses had been flung from the wall and crushed under rubble whilst those who the projectiles had missed stood disorientated on the battlement. Our acting commander ordered us into the tower where we ascended to the walls and an awaiting army.

    The enemy was laid out below like a forest of darkness; the sounds of the thousands of orcs could be heard clearly where I stood and I could also hear the creaks of the catapults as the arms were slowly drawn back. And as I watched all this evil I felt a tremor of fear, stronger than I had ever felt before. Thousands of the beasts awaited their foe’s flesh, longed for the blood that surged through our veins. It was a sickening thought.

    One orc cried, ‘Get down from ya walls Gondor rats!’ – Or at least it ended with an “ats” sound. My comrades retorted with similar, unprintable taunts. Harsh cackles rose from the enemy ranks but were drowned out as a boulder was hurled into a segment of wall to the east. Screams rang out and as I bowed my head an icy shiver crept up my spine.

    ‘Steady men,’ said Boromir after he exited the tower between wall segments, all our heads turned towards him and followed him as he walked along the wall. ‘They’re outnumbered, their armour is thin, they wish only to weaken us, they cannot hope to destroy us, we shall obliterate them.’

    Fair words, I mused; then my thoughts were distracted as there was a crumbling sound followed by a cry of, ‘The wall is breached!’

    The orcs surged forwards, funnelling into the breach, whilst others readied ladders and marched towards the remaining battlements. From the towers our longbowmen rained down flurries of arrows but as the orcs began hoisting the ladders up against the walls their own archers provided covering fire.

    With the slam of wood upon stone Boromir cried, ‘Ladders!’ I drew my blade and pulled myself into the curve of my shield, breathing heavily. The man before me suddenly collapsed, blood jetting from the nape of his neck. His murderer knocked him aside and sneered at me, but, still leaning into my shield I charged forwards, ramming the orc against the parapet, from behind my shield I heard a snarl but a thrust from my blade turned it into a pig-like squeal, I stepped back then slammed the hilt of my blade into the creature’s gullet and with a harsh splutter it teetered and fell over the edge. I moved to the ladder and with all my strength I pushed it from the wall, it leaned back then fell back towards me.

    Boromir, standing by the entrance to the closest tower, shouted, ‘Men, burn the ladders, it’s the only way,’ and then he hurled a clay container at me and I caught it and smashed it against the ladder. A liquid flowed out and trickled down the rungs and, as I watched the tool of siege, a foul face rose from below, before I could knock it off balance it pounced upon me and I fell to the ground, foul breath that almost made me retch. I thwacked my knee into the orc’s groin but it did not react, I suddenly wondered if these creatures had what I had targeted. The orc gave what appeared to be smirk then raised its crude dagger.

    And the knife came down.


    Part II: The Day Drags On
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    The Day Drags On

    The blade missed me by an inch for some sudden force had slammed into the beast.

    A bloody sword was wrenched free and the soldier bearing it gave a curt nod then advanced, swinging his blade at another foe. Unsteadily I rose from the floor, bolts of pain surging through my body, I glanced around and heard Boromir cry my name and a moment later I was struggling to catch a flaming torch. Gasping as the flames licked my fingers I lowered my grip further from the tongues of fire then pressed it to the ladder which was instantly consumed by crackling flames, the orcs on the rungs screeched and fell.

    I looked down upon the battlefield to see the hundreds of orcs fleeing from the battlements, Gondorians were pushing the foe from the breach, and ahead the engines of siege were being trundled away.

    I relaxed but Boromir called for attention, ‘Men, you have all fought well and are weary, but we must hunt them down else they return with far greater numbers. The day is not yet over.’


    Chapter VI: Around the Campfire
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    Around the Campfire

    A scouting force was despatched to follow the fleeing army, a few hours later the main force pursued.

    In the midst of the trees of Ithilien a campfire roared. Around it gathered numerous orcs, roasting the flesh of the peasants they had slain as they worked innocently in the fields. The rowdy and crude banter was clear to anyone nearby; currently they were (putting it in the most polite terms) discussing the nutritious value of man-flesh over that of a horse.

    I peered around the tree trunk behind which I stood, ‘Don’t look,’ I warned with such calmness that I was actually surprised.

    ‘What is it?’

    ‘I think it’s enough to say, guard your manhood with your life.’

    One man ignored my advice and glanced towards the campfire and a moment later he was emptying the contents of his stomach to the floor. A few metres away, Boromir watched with a grim expression of disgust spread across his features.

    The sound of retching must have drifted over to the orc camp for one turned and cocked its head, almost like a dog. It rose from its feet, amber eyes scanning the trees behind which we hid, it moved away from the firelight, heading towards me.

    ‘Ugruk! Git o’er ’ere and finish this meat else we’ll eat it for ya!’

    The Uruk approaching me halted and glanced back, ‘You eat it and I’ll stick this ’ere blade so far up ya-’ a bird squawked nearby ‘-you’ll be choking on the steel!’ That said, the creature continued its advance and I gripped my sword even harder; I cursed silently.

    Boromir too was preparing to strike, ‘Ready,’ he ordered quietly and the word was passed along. The Uruk was almost at my tree, its blade was raised; it knew we were here.

    ‘NOW!’ came our commander’s cry and we emerged with deafening roars.

    I ran towards the Uruk and so surprised was the creature that it had no time to move its blade to a more defensive position thus allowing me to fell its head from its repulsive shoulders. As the beast collapsed, I charged towards the campfire, my shield before me as I slammed into the first thing to oppose me. The impact sent the beast into the flames and its shrieks woke the sleeping camp. I wheeled around and blocked the incoming blow from another startled creature then slammed my shield into its side causing it to buckle. It grunted and staggered back, falling to the ground though it still wielded the strength to deflect my next strike for its head, my sword was knocked from my hand and so I swiftly brought up my knee into the hideous face of the orc as it knelt on the hard ground. Its head jerked back, black blood pouring from its nose. It snarled then slammed a cold fist into my stomach and, winded, I stepped back.

    Around the campfire my comrades were engaged in their own mêlées, each soldier oblivious to all around them. I returned my eyes to the creature and punched it hard in its throat; it made a crude gurgling sound and collapsed. I picked up my sword and swung it around so that the point faced the floor. I stabbed it down and blood spilled onto the cold earth.

    Unopposed, I seized a flaming branch from the fire and ran towards the closest tent, casting the fire to the ragged material. Roaring flames leapt up and a moment later its neighbour was ablaze. As I watched the flickering flames spread and smoke billowed into the night’s sky casting confusion to the reinforcing ranks of orcs. The army of Gondor lined up before the campfire, shields forwards, bracing for the incoming charge. I angled back my blade, the tip barely protruding from the space between my shield’s and the man to my right’s. The sudden impact had the strength to send any man flying and I would have had I not dug my heels into the ground and crouched slightly. I placed my right foot backwards, paused in anticipation for the order. ‘Push!’ came the command and I placed pressure on my right foot, straining to force back the waves of orcs. I relaxed, catching the creature off guard, and the orc on the other side of my shield stumbled forwards, onto my ready blade.

    The creature behind it got rid of the corpse before striking my shield with its own, I staggered back and braced against the successive strikes, it became frustrated, attacking more and more frequently, I angled my shield upwards slightly and crouched carefully, sword poised for a swift stab. Another blow rained down and I blocked it as I sent my sword forwards, into the creature’s gut. Its face contorted into a snarl and I twisted the blade prior to wrenching it from its abdomen.

    ‘They’re fleeing!’ shouted a Gondorian elsewhere and the orcs looked over their shoulders in fear. These beasts were not wavering as the man had cried but now that they thought their fellow slaughterers had lost heart they too lost courage. Another cry of, ‘The buggers are running!’ and the orcs broke, fleeing in all directions, searching for a way out of the circle of Gondorian warriors. We steadily advanced, swords pointed at the backs of the foe who were now huddled together in a terrified circle as we closed in around them.

    And when we were in range the carnage began, swords raining down on those too afraid to fight back. The orcs parried weakly, every attempt to fight back was blocked, their weapons knocked aside and then our blades sank in. Cold screams rose up in the night air but slowly subsided as the voices were silenced; then our loud cheer rose up, deafening in the silence of the darkness.


    Chapter VII: Harsh Words and a Message
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    Harsh Words and a Message

    It was sunrise in Ithilien when the messenger arrived in the camp, breathless and shaken.

    He reported the fall of the eastern half of Osgiliath and that the west was weak, Faramir could not hold the city with so few soldiers. Our commander was tired and angry, angry that his father trusted his brother with too few soldiers, almost as if he wished him to fail. Boromir worried for his father, he had never recovered from the death of his wife, the mother of Boromir and Faramir, Finduilas. An hour later he formed us up and informed our half-asleep brains that they would have to scour our shaken souls for some energy to carry us south to Osgiliath. Harsh words were spoken amongst the men as we drew into a line of silver soldiers and marched south. I said nothing; I was too exhausted to speak a word.

    As the sun set we reached the brink of a hill and there the view of the river and its ruined city rolled out before us, Minas Tirith not far behind. A horde of the Eye’s servants could be seen amongst the ruins, most resting for another assault on the western bank, feasting on the dead. Our mighty commander allowed us too to rest and as our heads struck the blankets that formed a thin mattress, we were asleep.


    Chapter VIII: Remember Today... Today, Life is good
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    Remember Today... Today, Life is good

    We were roused after too little time had elapsed, formed into our groups, and led towards the river.

    We reached Osgiliath and the companies of soldiers were distributed across the city, each with a particular target. Boromir accompanied the First Company, my Company; across the northern part of the city and after little time we reached the rear of the orc force.

    ‘First Company, Charge!’ came the command and we surged forward, a wave of deadly steel that fell upon the unsuspecting foe. At the head of the charge Boromir was unopposed, his foes stumbled back upon collision, and then he finished them off. Those who survived examined him thoughtfully, searching for a weakness but then his heavy blade swung up and they attempted wild parries, only to be knocked aside or felled by a strong slash across their chests. He brought up his blade, catching a creature beneath its jaw and hurling it into the air it hovered for a moment then spun down into the dust and its companions trampled over it.

    We managed to push them backwards, the pavement slick with the awful red. Each beast felled was replaced, the endless hordes were terrifying, blood ran in rivers, it was their endless fury, their merciless nature; you look into their eyes and see only a black pit in a sea of ochre, nothing stares back save for cold heartless hunger.

    Deeper into the ruins we went and I, now suffering from fatigue, shrank back in the midst of our company. Ahead my companions spread out to fill a wide street and I stood behind the first row, breathless, my blade shaking in my sweaty palms. The creatures opposing us squirmed and squealed like pigs as they eagerly waited for the command to advance. I stared into their faces, the sense of fear overwhelming when they were not blurred by the motion of a mêlée. My hand began to shudder and I pressed it to my chest to stem the vibrations. Finally the orcs received their signal and I braced against the inevitable meeting of orc and Gondorian. It came and the first row shook, the soldier in front of me staggering back from the impact and I caught him from falling with my shield. Too late though for a moment later the orc that had pushed him back thrust its polearm into the man’s chest and, coughing and spluttering, he slid down my shield, the emblem of the White Tree now stained with a crimson trunk. I stepped forwards, taking the fallen man’s place and immediately felled his slayer’s head from its misshapen shoulders.

    The next creature sported features that in comparison would make a dwarf look as fair as an elf, but it bore the strength and technique that a dwarf would have to appreciate. The meeting of its warhammer and my shield felt as if it had shattered every bone in my left forearm, the pain stabbed up my nerves and I cried out in shock, my face twisting in agony. However it was so satisfied at the result of its attack that it raised its weapon overhead and brought it down such that it was vulnerable to attack, I swiftly took advantage, thrusting my blade forwards into its abdomen. Despite being a weak attack, the succeeding twist of the blade then the dragging of the weapon sideways through its gut managed to do the work. I staggered back, evading the descending weapon which was now dropping from its bearer’s grip, the beast fell forwards into a pool of its intestines, the smell ascended, and I retched.

    Ahead Boromir battled with numerous foes, and none of them gained the upper hand in the mêlée, I stepped back, almost tripping over the string of a longbow that a fallen ranger had dropped. I retrieved it and the quiver, for my skill with a bow was far greater than with a sword. I retreated from the front rank and examined the weapon, it seemed to be in satisfactory condition, and so I placed an arrow to the string and drew back the cord. It was harder than I remembered, and I had not drawn a longbow since I last rested in Minas Tirith. I had trained to be a ranger but became a soldier after failing the entrance test (Of a few things, I only struck the target eight times out of ten), the failure only led me to practice more whenever I could, and my bones still ached from the years of drawing back the string of a longbow. After longer than was expected the cord reached my ear and I strained to keep hold of the taut string, I picked out a target, just behind Boromir, and released. a loud twang! sounded in my ear followed by a clean whoosh! as the shaft sliced gracefully through the air, then the ultimate cry of agony as it stabs through flesh, and not even armour can oppose it.

    I readied another arrow and drew it back uneasily, I was focusing into the street ahead, at a group of orcs that were hanging back from the mêlée, cowards, I stared down the shaft and raised the bow slightly, then lowered it – at this close range the arrow would not drop at all. I let go and my body relaxed, it was the best moment of wielding a bow – in my opinion – your body, tense as it stretches the cord, is washed over with relief and your limbs feel loose and refreshed and (should your aim be true) you are rewarded with the satisfaction of another orc lying dead like some repulsive pincushion.

    My third arrow flew straight into the skull of an orc, pinning it to the wall it was standing by. The orcs were now exchanging fearful glances, not only were they outnumbered but they were being shot down by an unseen, skilled* foe.

    When we reached the river those still opposing us became food for the fishes and we crossed the bridge unopposed, most of the creatures guarding the crossing point chose to dive into the water, fearful of death. On the other side we faced more warriors, the too few soldiers that accompanied Faramir had successfully driven out the enemy when the orcs realised it was flee or be killed. The battle was over, but today would be the last of our true victories.

    *

    He was our hero, the mightiest man to have lived, ‘Boromir, Boromir, Boromir, Boromir!’ we cheered.

    Our cries were deafening in our ears, we could hear nothing but as he drew his blade and raised it to the glorious heavens we fell silent. His voice now rang out, This city was once the jewel of our kingdom. A place of light, and beauty, and music, and so it shall be once more!

    And we cheered his mighty name once more, he continued: ‘Let the armies of Mordor know this: Never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands! The city of Osgiliath has been reclaimed... For Gondor!’

    ‘For Gondor!’

    ‘For Gondor!’

    ‘For Gondor!’

    ‘For Gondor!’

    ‘For Gondor!’

    *

    ‘Break out the ale! These men are thirsty!’ Hearing this we cheered again and so with a heavy pint we celebrated.
    ‘Remember today, little brother,’ Boromir said to Faramir, ‘Today, life is good.’ I would drink to that – but then I saw how it all changed. As Faramir’s face darkened, Boromir asked, ‘What?’ and I turned my eyes with theirs to see to Denethor.

    The relationship between the father and the two sons was not the best, certainly Denethor loved his sons, but never did he trust Faramir who was always in his brother’s shadow and so if something went wrong, it was blamed on Faramir, and sometimes I wondered if Denethor wanted this.

    I turned away, burying my attention in my pint; I did not need to hear another one of these conversations again. ‘Callion!’ I cried, sighting one of the Rangers of Ithilien and a friend from my youth.

    ‘Istion, what have you been doing with yourself?’

    ‘Nothing pleasant, my friend,’ I replied, ‘I can’t survive another battle like this, I picked up a longbow today, and I could barely fire it!’

    ‘Ask for another trial, we lost five more men today, and there are very few to replace the ranks. Parents aren’t breeding their children for archery – don’t blame them but still...’

    I nodded, ‘The recruitment officer hates me though, ever since his father caught me his sister’s bedroom!’

    Callion laughed, ‘You still-’ he made several unprintable gestures, ‘-her?’

    ‘Hey it’s not like that, but yes, me and Lithiel are still... together.’ I searched around for something to change the subject to and I spied Boromir and Denethor talking in secret, beckoning to Callion I moved as silently as possible towards them.

    ‘-they are few.’ Denethor’s voice grew hushed now and he continued: ‘We have more urgent things to speak of. Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He will not say why, but I have guessed its purpose. It is rumoured that the weapon of the enemy has been found.’

    I exchanged a curious glance with Callion and he looked back with something that looked like fear.

    ‘The One Ring, ‘Isildur's Bane,’ Boromir said, clearly surprised, and then I realised something, for the first time ever, I was seeing Boromir afraid.

    ‘And it has fallen into the hands of the Elves! Everyone will try to claim it: Men, Dwarves, wizards. We cannot let that happen. This thing must come to Gondor.’

    ‘Gondor?’ Boromir echoed.
    ‘It's dangerous, I know,’ Denethor continued, ‘Ever the Ring will seek to corrupt the hearts of lesser men. But you, you are strong and our need is great. It is our blood which is being spilled, our people who are dying. Sauron is biding his time. He's massing fresh armies. He will return. And when he does, we will be powerless to stop him. You must go. Bring me back this mighty gift.’

    ‘No. My place is here with my people. Not in Rivendell!’ Boromir said, and he was pleading! He was afraid not only of this “Gift” but also of his father’s desperation to get hold of it.

    ‘Would you deny your own father?’

    ‘If there is need to go to Rivendell, send me in his stead,’ Faramir said, now stepping forwards and I hoped that Denethor would approve though I knew he would not.

    ‘You?’ the Steward said mockingly, ‘Oh, I see. A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality. I think not. I trust this mission only to your brother. The one who will not fail me.’

    And for once I hoped he would fail his father, but I never hoped for what did actually happen, never thought it possible. That was the day it all changed, the fate of the armies of Gondor, everything. Boromir was gone.

    _______________________________________________________________

    * Pardon what may appear to be a boast; I merely want to voice what I believe the orcs to be thinking – if such a process of the brain is possible for those beasts.


    Book II: Ranger

    “A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality.”
    - Faramir
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Chapter I: Clear Pass

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Clear Pass

    I drew back the cord and prayed the sweat on my fingers would not permit the arrow slip free prematurely.

    The strain was bearable – just. The arm that clasped the cord was tense and not even the strong northerly wind could disturb it. The feathers of the arrow tickled my ear, as should any arrow of a longbow, my eyes, unable to stare down the shaft, instead focused on the projectile’s intended destination. I willed the shaft to strike the orc’s heart, and it could not miss that organ, not by a hair’s breadth. I took a deep breath, waiting impatiently for the command to release, yet it failed to come, I exhaled, the strain was still bearable. I resumed counting, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five; almost there. My arms screamed to be relieved of the agony that was washing over them relentlessly, tree, two, one! My timing was fast though, no orders came; desperation always speeds a countdown.

    ‘Release!’

    I breathed out once more, letting the cool calm wash over, that same cool calm that is required to kill. I let go and for a moment my heart stopped.

    I stood seventy feet from the target: a crude drawing of an orc with a clear crimson splash of paint depicting its heart. However before I could release the shaft, I had to hold it in place, poised to be released, for a full minute of silence in which you can almost hear the sand trickling away. The sand had all passed, the time was up, the order was given, and the arrow had flown. It had flown true! Straight to its target! I had passed!

    Now I felt a new feeling, welling up inside my body, cleansing the sweat from my skin and the stress from my arms, exhilaration beyond anything I had ever felt (clear exaggeration of course but one knows how, on the spot, the feeling feels stronger than anything ever felt before).

    ‘Congratulations Istion,’ the recruitment officer of the Rangers said with obvious loathing, this man being the same officer whose father happened across my little romance with Lithiel, this officer being her elder brother, Coruven. Reluctantly he announced, ‘clear pass.’

    Faramir stepped forwards, and without his presence, I doubted I would have passed, ‘Perhaps work on holding the arrow in place, you were struggling,’ he said, ‘but yes, you’ve passed, you will need to be introduced formally, Monday. Now, go home, celebrate; are you married?’

    ‘Thinking about it, sir,’ I replied and the recruitment officer gritted his teeth, I stifled a laugh.

    ‘Life is short; enjoy it to the full,’ Faramir said, ‘you can go.’

    Faramir left the practice range and I made to do the same, gathering up my belongings and making towards the archway to the street beyond. It was a cool afternoon in Minas Tirith, somewhere a bird sang, all else was quiet.

    ‘Istion,’ said Coruven and I turned to see the officer wielding a blade, ‘I believe I owe you this you son of a whore!’
    Before I could react he lashed out with his fist, catching my lip and whipping my head aside. I cursed and lashed back but his hand sought his blade and suddenly I was an unarmed man against an uncouth brute. I withdrew a few steps, wiping my mouth with my hand and examining the result, a smear of red showed and I spat forwards, red and white saliva. As intended he took it as an insult and darted forwards, his blade coming at me in an overhead swing. I evaded it and seized his wrist but before I could wrestle the blade from his hands he slammed his foot into my crotch. I cried out in agony and staggered back and immediately Coruven pursued, his blade stabbing forwards and I saw now that he wanted me dead. I felt the cold steel of his blade pierce my chest but I retreated back sufficiently enough to receive only a flesh wound.

    I dropped to the ground, feigning agony and Coruven stood over me, his blade at my throat. ‘You sullied my sister’s reputation!’ he roared and I lashed out with my hand, taking a firm hold of his groin and squeezing so hard that he would henceforth be a bachelor.

    I rose and kicked him hard in his stomach, ‘I have not sullied her reputation as no one but you and I know what occurred!’

    I turned away, breathless, then spun around and punched him to the ground for he was making to strike again.

    I left, hurriedly, before he regained the strength to strike again.

    *

    I walked the streets of Minas Tirith with my mind mulling over Coruven’s actions.

    They could be described as honourable but this was not the Second Age when a woman had as much freedom as a slave, when women were property of their parents, sold off for political or financial gain, and bugger to the girl’s wishes. Now laws are different, women do as they choose though they are not entirely free. Some families are old fashioned, others are lenient, that never changes; alas Lithiel’s family was one of the former. I think the current situation has great influence on the changing approaches; women would do anything to enjoy as much time as they can with those they love – for tomorrow the men march to do battle and die.
    I reached the door to my house and turned the key in the lock. It clicked and swung open, the corridor within was flooded with sunlight and I passed through into the kitchen.

    My mother sat alone at the table there, her husband had died on the battlefield ten years previously leaving only myself and her behind. She was now in her seventies and looking little older than when she was forty, it was by her blood that I was a Dúnedain. ‘Did it all go well?’ she asked after greeting me with the offer of some of her home-baked cakes.

    I nodded for my mouth was full of the latter then, when all was finished, I said, ‘Clear Pass and Coruven had to announce it personally!’

    ‘Speaking of him, Lithiel’s in the next room, she- well she will tell you.’

    I nodded, overwhelmed with curiosity, and passed into the lounge. Lithiel stood upon the balcony, staring out across the Pelennor Fields far below. As I entered the room she turned her head, her eyes revealed to be red, she had been crying.

    ‘Istion! Oh- Erm-’ there were a few more tearful stammers then, ‘they threw me out, they- they-’

    ‘It’s okay, s’okay, you can stay here, guess this explains why your brother...’ I fell silent, she most likely would not appreciate what I had had done.

    ‘What about him?’

    ‘Nothing important, nothing at all,’ I replied.


    Chapter II: A Brief Expedition
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    A Brief Expedition

    I scurried away, closely pursued by twenty rangers, as Faramir and the remainder ran across the road.

    We pulled to a halt upon a jut of stone on the side of the hill overlooking the road. We were in the midst of the Brown Lands, the rugged terrain of rising and falling hills between the Anduin and the Sea of Rhûn. And not a mile away a scouting party of Easterlings, some heavily armed in golden skins, others lightly equipped to chase down an elusive foe.

    The wait tested my patience to its limit, I tested my bowstring, examined where it joined the lower and upper limb of the bow, then untwined the strap of padding for the grip that I had wrapped around the handle then twisted it back around. I inched forwards, peering over the edge of the rock at where the ground dissolved into the distance. A few trees surrounded our location but it was mainly open to the elements, and open to enemy eyes.

    Impatience terrorised my soul, when one waits to fight they expect good things, even if they know the reality of war. I readied an arrow, stared down its length and followed a target, I pulled the bowstring further back, to my ear and now I could only judge the distance and angle and hope it fell where intended. The first arrow, Faramir’s arrow, was released and I took a deep breath, then let it fly.

    A series of twangs pursued by light swishes, dark wood disappeared into the distance then men fell and I knew not if I had struck anyone but then again I did not care for I already had another shaft strung. My fingers gripped it tight and drew it back, and my arm ached as I kept it in my grasp. Another breath, my fingers twitched, my arm relaxed then twisted to retrieve another arrow. Attach, draw back, release, the same routine repeatedly but my arm barely tired and I was satisfied that I could sustain the effort for so long – at times I doubted my capability.

    But arrows ran out and our swords sang as they emerged from their scabbards. I descended down the hill, roaring a warcry and my blade came down, scarlet shot up, horrific to behold. I dropped to a crouch as an Easterling brought its scimitar overhead, I withdrew a pace, parried then advanced, feinting to the right then curving my blade around and between his shield and breast. He cried out, consumed with pain as I dragged back my blade to let free a spurt of vermillion.

    A scream rent the air, and I halted in my steps, swallowed, then stepped forwards, engaging another Easterling. He fought like the Dark Lord himself, baring a crude mace that seemed to be a gift for his unique talent with the weapon. He swung it in vicious uppercuts, once almost striking my jaw, instead it missed but one of the many spikes delved a line up my chin, finalising at my lip, I jumped back as if startled by a terrible ghost in a cupboard, but recuperated in time to parry awkwardly another swipe. My wound inspired him and he brought his mace down towards my cranium but I dropped to my knees and ploughed my blade forwards, into his groin. He let a startled cry and fell back and mercilessly I slit his throat to end it.

    A horseman charged into my path and I retreated a step then thrust forwards, my blade slicing into the flank of the beast. The horse reared and it appeared I had not stabbed deep for it rode off, not as swiftly as it could but fast enough to consume the fallen rider in a cloud of dust. I swiftly approached and my sword fell into his heart.

    Around me, the Rangers were caught up in the heat of battle, oblivious to all about them, meanwhile panic was striking our foes and I followed their retreating backs until my eyes spied a cloud of- Suddenly I was assailed by another maceman but I dodged his swing, bringing my blade around into his open waist and he fell aside. I scanned my surrounding for oncoming foes and, safe, I turned to the east, towards the cloud.

    However it was more than a storm of dust and sand, horses rode in its midst, ‘Cavalry!’ came my cry and we all finished out kills and routed up the hill to the south. At our head, Faramir whistled and a distant neighing reached us. The pounding of hooves was behind us and drawing ever closer as we reached the brink of the hill where our steeds awaited us. We mounted quickly, an arrow striking down an enemy horseman who dared come too close. I hoisted myself into the saddle and my horse sprang into life.

    The cavalry were on our tails though and I twisted, blade in hand, to receive one of them. He lunged but I pressed my steed to accelerate and his blade fell on air, I retaliated and my sword struck him from the saddle. Cries reached my ears, allies and enemies falling alike. Free from combat I replaced my sword with my bow, pulling my horse to a halt and quickly felling a horseman in combat with Faramir. Another arrow and another dead Easterling, more Gondorians reigned in at my side, following suit and the Easterlings were losing. I notched one last arrow to the string however, I lowered my longbow too far and the lower tip struck my steed, sending the arrow wild.

    The Easterlings routed and we too fled the battlefield, victorious.

    *

    A few weeks later we rested by the side of the Anduin, exhausted from a long ride.

    A couple of days before intercepting that scouting party, we had examined the great army of Easterlings marching towards Gondor but it had been too great to fight before it would reach the Black Gate.

    I only note this scene for a small and mysterious event: it was dark, grey skies with enough light to permit clear vision. I had left the campfire to relieve myself against a tree and when I turned I spied a solitary figure staring out across the Anduin, before him I believed I saw a boat. However when I reached his side, Faramir was alone and the water peaceful and to the south the river was clouded by a thick mist.

    ‘It was him,’ he had said and I was unsure of what to say for he appeared distressed, then he added a name and I stepped back in shock.

    The day before we reached Osgiliath, a week before I married the beautiful Lithiel, I stumbled across his horn, cloven in two, on the beach of the Anduin, the same horn that had sounded a fortnight ago from the north.


    Book III: Gondor
    “The board is set, the pieces are moving.”
    - Gandalf the White
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Chapter I: Ambush in Ithilien

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    A warm breeze drifted across the land of Ithilien, tainted by the stench of Mûmakil.

    I rose to my feet and ran my fingers through my hair. The army of Haradrim was moving slowly North to the Black gate to join with Sauron’s forces. It was our task to stop them.

    Suddenly the peace was broken by the screams of the enemy as our arrows rained down upon them. The Men of the South ran for cover where they prepared their own bows. I took one man down who was ready to return fire before focusing on the larger problem. A Mûmak was coming into sight, towering above the trees which the beast squashed like flies underfoot. Four large tusks protruded from around its mouth and a long trunk waved side to side as it marched. I felt a lump in my throat and slowly notched an arrow to my bowstring an aimed at the creature’s weak spot: its eye.

    An arrow flew through the air and embedded itself in my shoulder. I cried out in shock and pain and my own arrow was released from my sweating fingers, only to miss its intended target.

    The Mûmak was now enraged by the shafts sticking out of its thick skin and it approached our small band of Rangers swinging its long trunk around wildly. Some men ran back to get out of reach, others were too slow and were thrown for miles by the creature’s flailing snout.

    Blood poured from my shoulder and my arms shook as I tried to notch another arrow to my bow. When my fingers released the bowstring, it pushed the arrow through the sky and miraculously pierced the mighty Mûmak’s eye. My mouth twitched to form a smile but pain contorted it into a grimace. Then I blacked out.

    *

    The noise of a waterfall sounded in my ears and I carefully sat up.

    There was a throbbing pain in my left shoulder but the arrow had long since been removed. Beside me sat Callion and around us were more dreary Rangers, sleeping peacefully.

    ‘You’re awake then?’ Callion smiled, ‘A few days rest and you’ll be using your bow again but until then I recommend sleep. We almost left you for dead.’

    ‘Thanks,’ I murmured weakly.

    Faramir rushed up to us and said loudly to wake those that weren’t already awake, ‘Osgiliath is under attack, we move to aid her.’ Then he moved to a doorway guarded by two men and I noticed him talk with two young boys each with curly hair...


    Chapter II: The Fall of Osgiliath
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Chapter II: The Fall of Osgiliath

    Darkness had fallen quickly upon Osgiliath, perhaps too quickly.

    Beside me Callion sharpened his sword, the scraping sound being the only noise in the ruins of that once beautiful city. I do not remember its old splendour, only its fall from our realm. But now it was ours, Gondor’s, once again.

    The son of the Steward passed me with a shadow in his eyes that had dwelt there since the rumours of his brother’s death had started. Callion ceased sharpening the long, bloody blade and whispered to me, ‘Do you think he’s all right?’

    I glanced at Faramir, and replied, ‘He’ll recover but-.’ Mid sentence I stopped as the clatter of armour falling upon stone broke the silence and a corpse fell from above, a single Orcish arrow pierced his breastplate. I swore loudly and pulled an arrow from my quiver. Faramir appeared, his eyes revealing both shock and realisation, ‘They’re not coming from the north... To the river!’ Everyone followed him except me. I climbed the steps to the dead guard’s post, brushing my readied arrow through the flames of the camp-fire as I passed it. From a higher vantage point I watched the countless boats drift peacefully across the river Anduin, each one swarming with Orcs. I swallowed and notched the flaming arrow to my bow, and waited.

    Below me my fellow Gondorians were waiting to attack, so I followed suit. The Orc vessels were gaining speed, as was the beating of my heart. Beads of sweat were dampening my forehead but my eyes remained fixed on the boats below. The boats docked and the foul creatures spilled out onto the streets of Osgiliath. I released my arrow and immediately placed another to the bowstring.

    After firing several more arrows, the screams of the soldiers fighting below were becoming too loud to ignore and I drew my sword, rushing to their aid. But what could I do against so many?

    Steel sliced through Orcish flesh and another creature lay dead, but only to be replaced with another. I parried a fierce swing of a mace and stabbed my attacker with all the strength I had. I pulled out my sword and Orc blood came with it, a spurt of black liquid to stain my clothes. A small, repulsive creature rushed to fill its predecessor’s place and I cleaved it in two. More foul bodily fluids squirted from the hewn body as the pieces fell to the ground.

    I retreated along with my fellow Gondorians to safer ground. But safe only for a few seconds. Soon Orcs flooded further into Osgiliath, bringing steel and a foul stench. I took refuge behind some fellow Rangers to notch an arrow to my bowstring; then I released it and observed with satisfaction as it sliced through the air and embedded itself in the skull of a menacing Uruk.

    The shooting of missiles continued for a few minutes, but even Orcs aren’t so stupid as to willingly walk in front of a ready archer. Swiftly they were flanking us and we pulled even further back. As I ran I became aware of a pursuing Orc waving a club wildly above its head. I crouched down, whipped around and thrust an arrow into its torso.

    The screeches of the Nazgûl sounded in the skies and Faramir was calling for a retreat, but then a shout stopped me in my tracks, ‘Istion!’

    I turned around to search for the man who called my name; I recognised the voice to belong to a Ranger, a year or two younger than myself. Finally I noticed an Uruk wielding a mace bearing down on the wounded Ithilien Ranger. A single stroke of my sword saved the overpowered man. I tried to help him up from the ground but his wound was without doubt, fatal.

    ‘Istion, I need you to- to get a message back... to Minas Tirith- to my family, I- I am too weak...’

    I listened carefully as he spoke his message and a single tear fell from my eye.

    *

    I don’t know how we were ignored by every Orc that passed us as I was listening to the words of the Ranger, nor how I remembered the words of that dying man even as the hordes of Mordor chased us from the ruins, even as we evaded the Nazgûl as we crossed the Fields of Pelennor.

    I had never been any good at breaking the news, especially when the news was of such a sensitive nature – a death. The Ranger’s wife ran from the room in tears, the children were too young to understand and his elderly father was devastated... heartbroken.

    A father should not have to bury his son, but that is what war can so easily result in.


    Chapter III: The Battle for Minas Tirith
    Part I:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: Fear

    Minas Tirith was in shadow and surrounded by Orcs.
    Beside me on the walls Callion shivered. Out of fear? Or the Cold? Each was as likely. It did not seem long since I was fleeing Osgiliath, the last words of a dying man ringing in my ears. I had dropped into the sewers, the only part of the ruined City that was not overrun by the minions of Sauron; then I had found a route through those pitch black tunnels to the Western edge of the City. Night was setting in by the time I had found a steed in a fit enough state to bear me across the fields of Pelennor. I even was fortunate enough to evade the Fell Beast that was patrolling the edge of Osgiliath.
    I stared out across the Fields and now I truly was scared. Fear, it was The Enemy’s main weapon and it worked. Large Catapults were being prepared to fire and behind them were massive Siege Towers. The Orc ranks stretched from Minas Tirith to Osgiliath and still more reinforcements were coming. Several days had passed since the beacons had been lit and everyone wondered that not only would Rohan come, but would they come in time. But even then would they be enough?
    The enemy catapults were fired and we braced ourselves for incoming missiles, screams already rang out on the walls and in the streets below. A large round object flew past my ear and I turned to see what it was. Instantly, I wished I hadn’t.
    The hurling of heads did not continue for long, however now that the heads had ran out they began using stone. Screams echoed in the Citadel, children were crying and now the Siege Towers were approaching. A voice sounded from the upper level, the demented outcry of our Steward, Denethor, ‘Abandon your Posts! Flee, Flee for your Lives!’
    Everyone obeyed, even I. What could I do? Against so many what could anyone do? Panic terrorized the citizens. The sounds of the Drums beat as fast as our pounding hearts. Everywhere you looked someone was dead: a young girl who had fallen from above, an elderly man crushed under stone, a beautiful woman with blood in her hair. Fire ravaged the houses and above, the Nazgûl hunted for prey.
    Minas Tirith was lost.


    Part II:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part II: Courage ’till the End

    ‘Prepare for Battle!’

    Mithrandir’s words were obeyed as if they were the long lost King’s. Maybe it was the wizard’s power that returned us to our stations or maybe it was just that we had regained our discipline and sanity (or insanity if you consider that we were vastly outnumbered). Those skilled with a bow used it to lessen the enemy’s number but for each Orc they killed, another stepped forward to replace it. I myself could no longer use the bow, the healers said it would not be permanent but judging by the enemy’s forces I would never live to see my shoulder fully healed.

    Callion was back at my side and now it was obvious – and understandable – that Fear made him shake. ‘Ready for this, brother?’

    ‘Callion glanced at me and replied, ‘Ready for Death? I guess we all must die someday. Courage ’till the end.’ And at that moment the first of the siege towers reached the walls.

    Orcs flooded onto the walls but were instantly met with fierce opposition, however the slaves of Sauron were equally fierce and we were pushed back by the superior numbers. Mithrandir was with us though and he charged forward with the strength and fury of a man centuries younger than he actually was. Inspired by the old wizard’s courage I followed him into the mêlée, wielding my sword with a skill I did realise I had in me.

    And yet it all seemed to be in vain as more and more creatures of evil spilled out of the mouths of the Siege Towers. Fatigue was getting the better of me and I retreated for a seconds rest but quickly I was back in the fray. As a Ranger I had no shield so I pulled the spare knife from its sheath and wielded it in my spare hand. I cut down two Orcs and an Easterling with my sword then back-stabbed an Orc with my knife.

    Black blood and bodies covered the ground beneath my feet and the stench of death almost made me retch. More Siege Towers had reached the walls and down below I could see a far greater problem...

    *

    Hope had first filled my heart when I saw the battering ram repeatedly fail to open the gates for the armies of Mordor. But the enemy was ready for any possibility. Grond, Grond, Grond, they chanted, over and over again as a giant Wolf’s Head, suspended on chains was brought forward to the Great Gates of our City. Mithrandir looked from the walls at the great war machine in silence, and it was that muteness that created unease amongst us soldiers.

    Mithrandir ran down to the Gateway and the few of us that manned the walls did so with greater anxiety. I cut down a tall, well armoured Easterling with difficulty and then decapitated a small Orc, nearby another Man of Rhûn killed a Gondorian and so I ran at him for revenge. When that servant of Sauron was dead I turned to face the new threat: five Uruks emerged from the mouth of a Siege Tower and rushed towards me. I panicked, alone and outnumbered and so retreated, like the other soldiers who had deserted the Walls, to the streets. Hungry for a kill the beasts pursued, chasing me into a narrow alley where numbers were useless. I stabbed at the closest monster and it fell with a loud howl that echoed in the confined space. The next creature advanced more cautiously but its counterparts behind it, who had not seen the loss of their comrade, pushed forth. With ease, the next two Uruks were slain and the other pair withdrew to a wider battleground, I followed carefully, expecting a trap.

    There was none and so I began to fight my foes. I kneed the closest creature in the groin and was surprised that it did not react – although it was hardly human. The offended monster retaliated harshly, beating me once with its club and then kicking me to the ground. I could feel blood oozing from my wounds and I could have sworn that at least one rib was broken. The Uruk was bearing down on me with what appeared to be a grin; it grabbed me by the throat and raised me so my eyes were level with its own: two round spheres with black slits of pupils, identical to the eye of its master. The creature’s grip tightened and I felt the life draining away from me...

    This was to be my End.


    Part III:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part III: The End of Men

    A horn echoed across the Fields of Pelennor, a horn of the Rohirrim.

    The Uruk’s grip around my neck slackened as it turned in the direction of the source of the new noise, but then he returned his attention to me. Its hand clasped my neck tighter than ever before and I could feel a Darkness taking hold of me. The thought of Death suddenly sent me strength, I pulled my knife from its sheath and in a single, surprisingly steady, swipe, I dismembered the creatures arm from its torso.

    It roared, falling back into its companion. I also collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. The unwounded Uruk fled, most likely due to the Orcish horn sounding in the distance. The other creature was left to suffer a blow from my blade and it died there, black blood leaking into the cobbles.

    I had hardly regained my strength but throughout the City men were calling for us to retreat. Orcs were pouring through the Great Gate, clubbing to death those who were too slow to escape. Blood ran like rivers through the streets, glistening in the light of the flames. Mithrandir was gone, our Steward had lost his mind, our Greatest Captain had died and his younger brother had fallen also, all was lost. This was the End of Men.

    A badly burnt body crashed to the ground in front of me and, despite the marks left by the flames, I recognised him. The Steward of Gondor’s head was at an odd angle, his neck had been broken by the fall from the highest level of the dying Citadel but the fire had killed him first.

    Now Denethor was dead, gone to join his forefathers in the World after this one.

    *

    The Gates of the second level shut behind me and I aided in barring them against the enemy. With the only passage to the peak blocked I rested on a piece of rubble from which I had a perfect view of all the devastation below. Our mighty allies, Rohan, were carving a path through the ever decreasing numbers of Orcs. Fear was now striking at the creatures of the Enemy; some now fled the field whilst others were now massing at the harbour, something which drew my curiosity. Then something to the east of the Battlefield grabbed my attention, equally as much as the loud bang of steel on the Gate of the Second level. Our time was running out but so was Rohan’s: the Mûmakil of Harad were approaching.

    Little fighting was done as the second and third levels fell to the enemy, once each gate opened an Olog-Hai was waiting for a kill, its hammer smashed into flesh and those that had survived the first swipe fled to the refuge of the next gate and so I found myself behind the forth feeble barrier, aiming a spear at the gate, waiting... waiting for our doom.

    Mithrandir sat nearby, talking with the third “Little Person” I had encountered so far. I had learnt that these “Little People” were called Halflings and that this particular one was named Pippin. Rumour said that he had been present at Boromir’s death – although rumour also had it that the Ring of Power was in the possession of the Halflings I saw in Ithilien.

    As I waited nervously I listened to Mithrandir’s words, ‘...No, the journey doesn’t end here, Death is just another path... one that we all must take. The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it.’

    And I was so entranced by the old man’s words that in my mind I echoed the same word that Pippin spoke: ‘What, Gandalf? See what?’

    ‘White shores... and beyond. A far green country under a swift sunrise.’

    ‘Well... that isn’t so bad,’ Pippin said.

    ‘No. No it isn’t.’

    I gripped my spear tighter, with the last of my courage.

    The gate shook under a hammer blow.


    Part IV:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part IV: Reinforcements

    From the South the Sea carried them, a long fleet of Corsair ships, black sails under a black sky.

    As I fled from the fourth gate I saw them, reinforcements for Sauron. All was lost.

    But then something happened, something that I could not see from such a long distance. But the green glow of the dead was obvious. It swept like a tsunami across the Fields of Pelennor, eradicating all of Sauron’s servants that got in its way. It was approaching the City and soon we would be safe... but not now.

    The Olog-Hai was behind me; roaring loudly, it brought its hammer down. I ducked and ran between its legs, I heard the sound of its weapon hitting the ground and I darted away, up the street. But the mighty creature was behind me, I heard the swoosh of the hammer slicing through the air, wind tickled the hairs on my head and I knew that the creature had missed again.

    Suddenly I heard the Olog-Hai roar, not triumphantly but due to pain. I turned around to see countless Dead blades stab at the creature’s throat. And so it was dead.

    And the Battle for Minas Tirith was over.

    And I had survived!


    Chapter IV: The End of All Things
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    The End of All Things

    But it was not the End yet.

    We marched east across the bloodstained fields of Pelennor, through the ruins of Osgiliath then North amongst the trees of Ithilien. Then we arrived.

    The tall, jet Black Gate loomed above us, a great doorway into the unknown, into Mordor. From my position in the front line I could see Barad-dûr towering above all and from there it seemed as if a great Eye watched us. I shivered and it was due to fear.

    Our soon-to-be-King, along with his companions, rode up towards the immense defences and then demanded, loudly and clearly, ‘Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Let justice be done upon him!’

    Then there was silence, which was eventually broken by the creak of the gates parting. I stared into the gap that was forming and saw, mounted upon a black armoured steed, a large “man”. He wore a long cloak with a steel helmet that resembled a crown and covered all but his mouth.

    ‘My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome.’ I strained to hear the words of the enemy. ‘Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me?’ it questioned with a snarl.

    Mithrandir replied, ‘We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed, tell your master this: the armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands never to return.’

    But the Mouth of Sauron merely laughed, ‘Old Greybeard,’ and as he pulled up a pale, ringed shirt that would fit a child, he announced, ‘I have a token I was bidden to show thee.’

    The Halflings cried out in recognition and I feared this shirt was a bad sign. The Mouth of Sauron was attempting a smile as he said, ‘The Halfling was dear to thee, I see. Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host. Who would have thought one so small could endure so much pain? And he did, Gandalf. He did.’ Meanwhile Aragorn was approaching the Speaker for the Enemy. ‘And who is this? Isildur’s Heir? It takes more to make a King than a broken elvish blade.’

    And suddenly Aragorn was filled with anger and he pulled his sword from his scabbard and in a clean blow cut head from shoulders. The torso of the Mouth of Sauron fell to the ground beside its head, blood seeping into the dust.

    ‘I guess that concludes negotiations,’ the Dwarf said and in happier circumstances I would have laughed.

    ‘I do not believe it. I will not!’ Aragorn said and whilst he spoke, the gates were opening further. ‘Pull back, pull back!’ He rode to rejoin us, his last soldiers. The army of the Enemy was readying and we were too few.

    ‘I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me.

    ‘A day may come when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake all bonds of fellowship.

    ‘But it is not this day!

    ‘An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the age of Men comes crashing down.

    ‘But it is not this day!

    ‘This day we fight!

    ‘By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!’


    And he raised his sword to the heavens and turned to face the treat.

    *

    And as the Elf and Dwarf spoke of their friendship, as every man shook in fear, the creatures of Mordor surrounded us. Aragorn walked forwards from the ranks slowly as if drawn but then he turned. ‘For Frodo.’ And he charged forwards and the two Halflings suddenly pursued screaming in fury. And then the madness or courage infected us all and we rushed forwards towards the Orc spears.

    And thus began a battle that could not be won. Everywhere steel clashed against steel, each Orc that fell was replaced by another one. There was a screech in the sky as the Fell Beasts of the last of the Nine flew towards us, descending to let their claws rip through our ranks. I cut my sword along the belly of an Orc and felled another that was attacking Callion. He murmured thanks then turned to face an Orc with a crude spear. The creature lashed out with its weapon and the bloodstained tip caught Callion’s flesh and ripped through his torso. He screamed in agony and fell back, the weapon still clasped in his body. I charged the Orc that had stabbed my fried and with an angry, fury-guided stroke severed arm from shoulder, then head from body. The creature collapsed and I watched a moth drift pass.

    Then I heard a shout of “Eagles. The Eagles are coming!’ I saw bird clash with beast and far away the eye had turned to the Mountain of Fire. The Nine were trying to flee from their fight and a loud troll was cutting its way towards our soon-to-be-sovereign. Its sword clashed with the Kings but parry after parry failed to tire the monster. It hurled Aragorn across the battlefield and then kicked him to the ground.

    And then everything happened at once.

    The troll looked up and gave a cry of fear, the Orcs fled in fear, the Great Eye withered, the foundations of Barad-dûr crumbled, we cheered and a strong wave swept across Mordor. And Mount Doom erupted and then there was silence.

    Far away balls of fire wiped out the Ringwraiths, the ground fell beneath the servants of Sauron and the Walls of Mordor fell.

    The Battle for Middle Earth was over.

    *

    It was a beautiful day when we welcomed back the Heirs of Isildur. I stood with my arm around my wife but nearby the widow of Callion bowed her head in misery. The realms of the Free would finally have peace. The White Tree has blossomed again and splendour would return to the cities either side of the Anduin.

    Last edited by Maximus IV; October 24, 2011 at 06:23 PM. Reason: Adding rest of the tale

  2. #2

    Default Re: [Fiction] Istion - Soldier of Minas Tirith

    Istion: Soldier, Ranger and Lord of Gondor
    Here follows the second half of the Tale of a Soldier of Gondor: Istion, this part covering his military expeditions in Rhûn and distant Harad.

    Book IV: Rhûn
    Men grow tired of sleep, love, singing and dancing sooner than war
    - Homer
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Chapter I: Mistrand
    Part I:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: March to the Unknown

    Istion,
    It is by request of King Elessar that you, as a Soldier of Gondor, prepare for the upcoming war against the Corrupted Men of the East.
    Since their realms exist beyond the temperate environment that we are used to inhabiting, be ready for the extreme heat and maybe even the unknown, few have ventured further than the borders of Middle Earth.
    ...


    That was how the letter had begun and from there it droned on about the reasons for the war and the dates of departure and arrival. The destination was a City on the edge of the Sea of Rhûn named Mistrand. The aim would be to “cleanse” the lands of Rhûn – and eventually, Harad – and when I say “cleanse” I quote our “mighty” sovereign Aragorn. Do not get me wrong when I use such sarcasm to describe him, the King is fair, just but – well – he should realise that we have seen enough war. Myself in particular. I, Istion, am one of thirteen Gondorian survivors of the battle of the Black Gate (and I wish it had not been me there).

    But now, almost a year into the Fourth Age of Middle Earth, the armies of Gondor were marching through the many plains and forests north of Mordor. Each day we traversed these lands in the burning sun or unrelenting rain, each night we endured a cold sleep in our small tents. But we survived, exhausted from the endless advance into the lands of Rhûn.

    After travelling east for many leagues, we reached the innominate river that fell from Ered Lithui and ran across the fields to join the Sea of Rhûn at Mistrand. There the army turned north and followed the waters to the Great Lake and our destination.

    The City of Mistrand was a strong contributor to the armies of the Easterlings. Smoke continuously belched from the many armouries, the colossal barracks housed more men than the residential housing in the northern, lakeside sector and the walls that encircled the alien buildings of the East were stronger than those the Hornburg.

    And King Elessar wanted it to fall to the Men of the West before the cold seasons came.


    Part II:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    [CENTER]Part II: The Outer City

    We arrived at the City at midday.

    As we set up camp, the citizens retreated to the “safety” of the city but by sunset our trebuchets surrounded the walls, waiting for the King’s orders to begin the bombardment.

    The latter began at night. Fiery terror rained down on the unsuspecting populace, soon screams shattered the silence that had resided since sunset. The soldiers who had not been present at the siege of Minas Tirith watched and cheered as each flaming rock fell into the city and another fire leapt up.

    It several days to construct the five siege towers and two rams using the wood from the nearby forests and then at sunrise, five days since we arrived at the City, the fighting truly began.

    There was little known about the City: it had two rings of walls and a palace to the north on a grand hill with more defences. The north of the City backed onto the Sea of Rhûn and held a shipyard of both military and merchant vessels. We had to take the City before more reinforcing ships arrived. To the East the Sea welcomed the nameless river from Ered Lithui which could be crossed by a large bridge near the river mouth and it was from there that enemy reinforcements were most likely to come. West of Mistrand hills rose up that were carpeted in lush vineyards.

    The plan was thus: the battering rams would open the West and south gates and siege towers would assail the walls. Three towers to the Western walls, one to the south and the last to the East. The problems were that the stretches of wall between each defensive tower weren’t even and so it was hard to get an equal proportion of soldiers to assault each side. Once the outer walls had fallen, the rams would move in to siege the inner settlement.

    And so the towers reached the battlements and the bloody work of the day began.

    *

    From the peak of the siege tower the pounding of the nearby rams was like the beating of my heart, a few feet away, the Easterlings chanted in their foreign tongue and then the tower door fell down and crashed onto the stone and we poured onto the outer defences, using our shield to defend against the deadly spears and to push our foes back – and if we were lucky – off the walls. Then the noise of steel upon steel began and each soldier became oblivious to everything but himself and his enemy.

    I stabbed and slashed, decapitated and disembowelled, bled and butchered my way towards the nearest stairwell. Moments came when I almost slipped in the blood of friends and foes that carpeted the stone, a moment when I mercilessly hacked at a dying Easterling until he lay in severed pieces – justified only by the memory of the Dead of Minas Tirith.

    Finally the Easterlings ceased to come and reluctantly I followed them to street level where already the silver of Gondor fought the gold of Rhûn. In total only three of the five siege towers reached the walls, one fell under a barrage from the defensive catapults and the other caught fire from the burning shafts that were released from the arrow tower, the soldiers accompanying the engines of war had been decimated by more arrows as they fled to the safety of the camp.

    But the Outer Wall was taken.

    I emerged from the stairwell close to the main street that led to the next gateway barring our route. A phalanx of Easterlings also blocked passage and a group of Gondorians ran passed me, ‘We’re gonna flank the buggers!’ the youngest of the men explained cheerily. I followed them down an alleyway that emerged onto the main street just behind the Easterlings. A man, who was most likely meant to be looking out for flanking enemies but had found more entertainment watching his enemies die, stood not far behind the phalanx, he was the first to fall under my blade.

    Caught between two determined foes, the phalanx crumbled and then we victorious as no more men lived to oppose our hold on the outer city and more importantly, I shouted,

    ‘Hey lads, it’s a Pub!’


    Part III:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    The Inner City

    Drinks, it seemed, were on the house because the barman wasn’t there to say otherwise.

    Unfortunately, it only took the time to drink two flagons of Khand’s finest and to empty our bladders for the battering ram to pass through the streets and arrive at the next gateway barring our route. So we left the tavern to the sound of the ram raining heavy blows on the gate. Finally with a crash the doors parted and we flooded through the gap, sheltering under our shields from the barbed projectiles that pelted down from the last line of defences.

    On the other side of the wall, a deep canal separated the inner and outer cities, finely crafted boats rested along the banks and across the water a bridge led from the gateway to a large marketplace, filled with Easterlings. But I was order onto the walls along with fifty other soldiers to eliminate the defenders.

    The battle that ensued was over quickly. The resistors on the battlements were mainly archers who were badly equipped for hand-to-hand combat. Our own casualties were few: one man was felled by an arrow as he rushed out of the stairwell, another two were pushed into the canal, the water, however, saved their lives.

    Suddenly a loud foreign horn was blown and I looked towards the source of it. A great host of cataphracts, chariots and infantry had arrived to the east of the City to aid the besieged. But then a horn of Gondor sounded eight times and, from further south, another horn replied.

    The previous night they had secretly crossed the river to the eastern bank to counter any reinforcements for Rhûn and now they appeared, charging at a speed only capable of the mightiest of steeds, each fresh for battle.

    Ten thousand Riders of Rohan.

    From my high position I could see the minute Eastern spear-men lower their weapons, the dark shafts fly from the bows of the allied horse-archers and fall into the ranks of spear-men. Chaos followed and not all the spears were ready when the Riders reached them. At the last moment the horses leapt over the spears, bearing their riders safely past the front line. The Easterling infantry fled in shock and fear, the cataphracts galloped to meet the new enemy and the Rohirrim met them with spears and axes.

    I descended to join our own conflict in the marketplace with high spirits. I charged into the mêlée, using my shield to brush aside the enemy’s spear I cut the defenceless foe down with my sword. Already the second battering ram had felled the second and last gate into the marketplace and more Gondorians were charging through this entrance. Caught between two forces, the enemy retreated over another bridge that crossed another canal to the City barracks. We pursued, lusting for blood like a ravenous warg.

    With such small numbers, the Easterlings finally surrendered but with such a thirst for revenge the pleas were ignored and we avenged the Dead of Minas Tirith.

    Only one more bridge remained to be crossed: the one that lead to the hill-top palace.


    Part IV:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part IV: The Lord of Mistrand

    Corpses covered the cobbles, blood ran in rivers and the flies had come to feast.

    I picked my way through the bodies, across the last bridge to the foot of the Palace hill. Assembled there were the Kings of Gondor and Rohan along with many of their personal guards. Elessar stepped forward and announced, ‘Lord of Mistrand! Your City has fallen, your people have surrendered; will you now do the same?’ There was silence for a moment then a man appeared at the top of the hill.

    He was dressed in finely woven clothes and adorned with a beautiful, bejewelled crown. The sword at his waist was wrought of the finest metals and encrusted with a single ruby.

    ‘Will you yield?’ Aragorn repeated.

    The Lord only laughed then said, ‘What? To be paraded around the Cities of Gondor as a trophy? Never!’ And then he handed his sword to nearby slave, knelt, and, as a last gesture of defiance, allowed the servant to drive the point through the side of his neck.

    There was a spurt of blood and then the Leader of the City was dead.

    Mistrand was Ours.


    Chapter II: Kelepar
    Part I:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: Ambush

    It was midnight in Mistrand but the darkness was pierced by the glorious moonlight.

    I sat down on the uneven ground beside my fellow soldiers and pulled a leg off the chicken that was roasting over a roaring fire. The succulent flavour satisfied my appetite and I turned my attention to an ill-tempered new recruit.

    ‘Why the hell aren’t we resting in some luxurious eastern brothel?’ he was moaning.

    ‘Because you’re married?’ I replied between mouthfuls and my well-tempered comrades laughed.

    ‘If you mean why aren’t we allowed in the city,’ another soldier, Berethas, said, ‘then it’s because we’ll treat the inhabitants like scum.’

    ‘-Which they are,’ I put in.

    ‘Which they are,’ Berethas agreed.

    At that moment our stern Captain approached our camp-fire. Carathor was a forty year veteran and his age was showing but his skill in battle was unmatched amongst the common soldiers. Indeed his skill with a blade was great enough to earn him a promotion but his drunken, late-night antics got in the way. ‘Our orders are thus: we march to a city named Kelepar in the morning. Anyone got a drink?’

    No-one said that they had, knowing all too well of the consequences of saying otherwise and Carathor walked away to the next group of Gondorians.

    ‘Kelepar.’ I repeated the name absent-mindedly.

    ‘Slave capital of the West I hear,’ Berethas said.

    ‘The West?’ I questioned.

    ‘There are lands farther East than here. Let’s just hope we never see them.’

    I strongly hoped that Berethas was right and we would never would.

    Morning came with a blood red sun that burned the camp with a heat I had never felt so intense before.

    I armed myself for the day’s march lightly with leather for armour and a wooden buckler for defence. I strapped my sword to my waist and then relaxed by the ash of the previous night’s fire.

    An hour later we assembled to begin the march. At the rear of the army I coughed and spluttered as every breath I took was infected by all the dust churned up by the many soldiers ahead of me. Two hours into the advance to Kelepar a small but moderately dense forest grew up on either side of the road, I stared into the shade of the trees and for an unknown reason I was growing nervous. A flock of birds suddenly fled from the forest, disturbed by something and then I saw it. A horseman mailed heavily and wielding a longsword. He made a gesture that could easily be recognised as a “Forward” command. I jumped to a conclusion and screamed,

    ‘AMBUSH!’

    Everyone came to a sudden halt, pulling their swords from their sheaths and preparing to meet a foe who may even fail to exist. But a second later he put in an appearance, ten thousand warriors pouring into our flanks. Quickly I was greeted by a snarling Easterling in the traditional golden armour and bearing a sharp scimitar. The clash of steel rang in my ears as I parried and thrust my blade into each enemy I met. But I wish it was as easy as that. While many of them were rookies to war the majority had more experience than me.

    Their numbers were thin though and swiftly we drove them back into the shady trees. Finally, after a shout from one of their leaders, the enemy routed but their work was done. Over two thousand Gondorians were slain and one other had been captured.

    The captured man was worth a ransom large enough to buy a whole army to combat our own. For the Captured man was Elboron, son of the Steward, Faramir.


    Part II:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part II: Orders

    We camped on the first clear plot of land we reached after leaving the forest that day.

    Every soldier was disheartened; many got drunk and started cursing the “cowards” who in reality were as lily-livered as a starved Troll.

    ‘It’s times like this that I wish I had stayed in the Rangers,’ I grumbled and Berethas glanced at me.

    ‘You were a Ranger of Ithilien? Why didn’t you stay?’

    ‘Because there is no money to be made defending a land that is no longer under threat,’ I replied and turned my attention to a young man who was dressed in fine armour that was meant to be paraded in. He approached our camp-fire and asked, ‘Who here was at the Battle of the Black Gate?’ Only one voice said “Me” and that was my own. ‘Come with me,’ the younger soldier ordered.

    I followed him to the tent where all the military advisers and the King himself met. Apart from the latter, a small number of soldiers stood waiting and I moved to stand beside them. We were the last seven Gondorians who had survived the countless Orcs at the Black Gate of Mordor at the end of the Third Age.

    King Elessar walked into the Tent. When I first saw him he had the outlook of a plain man who had naught in the world but heirlooms and memories, but there was also a grace about him that had not been seen since Isildur himself reigned over our lands. At times he appeared to grow in stature, so that he truly resembled a King of old, however, often, despite his lordly position, one could see the Ranger of the North in him. A past that could not be forgotten. Some said he should not be our King, others said he did not want to be a King.

    ‘Sit,’ he commanded after we acknowledged him with a bow. Then, once sat around the large, round table the King explained the situation.

    ‘In the ambush today the son of the Steward, who currently reigns over Minas Tirith, was captured by enemy forces. They will undoubtedly ask for a ransom that we cannot afford and once we turn it down he will be enslaved or more likely, killed.

    ‘Therefore we need to rescue him else this campaign will fail. Two men are all we can risk sending on such a dangerous mission. Any volunteers? There will of course be rewards of money and promotions.’

    For a moment there was silence: all of us liked the idea of such rewards but the risk was far greater than the pay-off. Finally two hands rose reluctantly.

    One of them was mine.


    Part III:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part III: Settlement of Slaves

    That night a horse-drawn cart left the Gondorian camp, carrying two men and countless merchant goods.

    I was accompanied by a soldier named Cirion, a man who was a year or two younger than me with a noble appearance and short blond hair. We got on well enough which was a good thing judging by what was to come.

    Morning on the third day brought us a view of Kelepar which rested on the Sea of Rhûn and was encircled by a high wall. But unlike Mistrand, Kelepar was not built for war. Its wall and unknown quantity of soldiers were its only defence. Kelepar was the source of Rhûn’s wealth, merchants from all corners of the Empire convened in the Grand Bazaar, the largest marketplace in Middle-Earth that climbed to a seemingly impossible three floors. In the heart of Kelepar was a great pond with a narrow stream joining it to the Sea; around its edge exotic trees sprang up shading the benches that offered a pleasant spot for relaxation.

    We approached the city nervously but when we reached the southern gateway the guards ignored us, we were only merchants from distant lands come to barter goods for gold. On the other side of the battlements we followed the widest street into the bosom of the City where stalls covered the cobbles. Despite the immensity of the Bazaar it failed to provide sufficient space for all the traders that flocked to Kelepar.

    But as we trundled through the streets we saw the true source of Kelepar’s wealth, the dark side to the beauty of the foreign architecture: Stalls of Slaves were more common than stands of jewellery of food, everywhere we went we were offered “cheap labour” or “a pretty girl”. Most speech was in the common tongue thankfully, else this mission would truly be destined for our demise.

    We set up our stall when we eventually procured an empty plot of land and half an hour later Cirion (who had a louder voice than I) began to barter our commodities which were mainly lavish jewels stolen from the palace Mistrand.

    Meanwhile I began to explore the City, searching for the dungeon in which Elboron was being held captive. It did not take long. Beside the gold façade of the Bazaar stood a smaller but much more noticeable structure, from it could be heard shrill screams. “City Guard” was engraved in the foreign language and lettering on the front of the building.

    I had found Elboron’s place of imprisonment and the King had given us a week to get him out.

    More impossible than cleansing Rhûn before the arrival of the cold seasons.

    [CENTER]*[/CENTER

    I returned to Cirion quickly with the news to find the stall in ruins and no sign of the Gondorian. Fear rooted me momentarily to the spot and once I had regained my senses I noticed another thing. Tents.

    The street on the other side of the great pond was covered in the shelters of numerous soldiers which meant the large barracks was full. Kelepar must be garrisoned by a force larger than our own. We were outnumbered and not even a surprise attack from the Rohirrim could even the odds.

    Then a gauntlet seized my shoulder and I turned around to greet four members of the City Guard.

    ‘Oh shi-’


    Part IV:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part IV: Painful Pleasure

    ‘-t,’ I reacted clumsily but successfully: I kneed the foremost Guard in the crotch and ran.

    I forced my way through the crowd, my heart beating in my chest louder than a battle drum. I jumped over a low stall and rammed into a Guard with so much strength that he fell over and I lunged for his sword. It came free and I was quick enough to pass it along the Guards throat before he could recover from the shock. I began to flee further but several hands grasped me once again and it was all over. I was hit by a heavy fist and lost consciousness.

    We had failed.

    *

    I cannot say whether the light drifting into the dungeon was that of the moon or of the sun when I awoke. I sat in a cell with two others of my race: Cirion and Elboron. The son of the steward was a man in his early twenties perhaps younger, his hair was long and brown like his father but he had little experience and it showed. He was the most nervous of us all.

    It seemed that hours had passed when our captor finally put in an appearance. He wore a cruel smile and was holding a long metal rod with a glowing fiery tip. I swallowed.

    ‘Good morning Gondorians, I am your torturer; I hope your accommodation is to your liking?’ He laughed. ‘It is a good job that we watched your camp else we might not have known of the two spies sent to rescue Elboron here. Guards! Bring them.’

    Three men entered the cell and dragged us to an adjoining room, in the centre of which sat a curious contraption that looked like a long table.

    ‘They call it the “Rack”, it pulls ones limbs until they break from ones sockets,’ the torturer said as my eyes examined the tool. ‘Unfortunately one of you is not to be harmed so it shall be one of you two that shall be... tormented.’ And now sweat drenched my body, my heart thumped so heavily that it hurt and I closed my eyes for I knew who he would choose:

    Me.

    But the hands seized not me but Cirion however there was no relief in me. I kept my eyes closed as they bound him to the table and as they tied me and Elboron to two pillars at the rear of the room. Then the screams began, loud and piercing and they did not end but instead echoed on the stone walls. They failed to cease until the man was hoarse and breathless. The torturer spoke at last, ‘Bring water.’ There were hurried footsteps mixed with the pants of the suffering man which were finally stifled by the sound of water. But still my eyes remained shut. And our captor had noticed. ‘Open your eyes,’ he ordered, calmly at first but then louder when I refused. ‘Open your eyes or I will cut your eyelids right off your face.’

    And I looked because I believed he would.

    I will never say more of the events in that room than of what I tell here: When the screams recommenced my eyes were firmly shut once again but this time it was so that I could stay focused. Then a new scream met the screeches of Cirion: my scream but it was not because of the torture, it hid the crack that meant my thumb was finally dislocated allowing my hand to slide uncomfortably through the bindings. Free at last I hid my achievement and did my best to return the disjointed bone to its rightful place.

    Then I waited for the most opportune moment.

    It was not over yet.


    Part V:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Death in the Dungeons

    The screams had stopped, Cirion now moaned feebly.

    The Torturer was in a good mood and oblivious to everything except his victim. I looked hastily around the room, my eyes searching for a weapon. And there, not far away, stood the Torturer’s metal rod with the burning tip, resting in heated coals.

    My arms free, I now moved towards the firebrand as quietly and quickly as I could. I seized the tool of pain, ignoring the agonising burn mark it created across my palm; then I turned to face my captors.

    The torturer was so occupied in his “work” that he failed to notice me, until it was too late; I thrust the burning poker deep into his chest and rejoiced in his scream. The three guards reacted slowly and I pressed the red-hot rod to closest man’s throat. The man fell back and I turned to the remaining men who now wielded their scimitars. My weapon met one of theirs with a sprinkle of sparks. Doing my best to handle the heated poker like a sword, I parried the incoming blows. Eventually I managed to hold down my first opponent’s sword whilst I kicked at his exposed chest. He fell back, winded, and I finished him off with a heavy blow to the skull. As the second guard fell the third and last attacked my unguarded side. I felt his steel cut through my skin and pulled away. Despair filled me as I fell to my knees, blood warmed my waist and I suddenly felt nauseous. I clasped my free hand over the wound, applying as much pressure as I could with the little strength I had left, then I climbed to my feet to oppose my last captor.

    The Guard was strong and looked like he thought this combat was sport. He swung his scimitar wildly at my neck and I ducked, stabbing my sword deep into stomach. The man groaned and pulled the poker out, tossing it across the room. Disbelief almost stopped me from defending myself but at the last moment I managed to evade the seemingly immortal guard’s sword swing. I retreated from my opponent, tripping over the Torturer’s corpse on the ground. A small hatchet hung from the dead man’s belt and I armed myself with it.

    This time the guard thrust his scimitar but that also missed and at that moment I hacked my axe into his wrist until the bone and flesh were cut in two. The guard screamed and I smashed the hatchet into his skull.

    I freed Elboron and tended my wound but there was no hope for Cirion. The Rack had dislocated both his legs and torn each of his arms from their sockets. Blood red was the machine of torture to which he was bound. We were about to leave his body when he spluttered weakly and we realised he was still alive. I swallowed, a tear in my eye, and then I drew my stolen scimitar across his throat and he breathed his last breath. I passed my hand over his eyelids and then he appeared to be asleep.

    We left the dungeon by a stairwell that climbed to the ground floor of the City Guard’s headquarters. Nobody was at the desk at the entrance so we safely sneaked out into the blinding sunlight. It seemed that the desk-Guard and many civilians were all watching a fight between two slaves. Nobody noticed the two Gondorians as they climbed into the rear of a moving, covered wagon and, unknown to the driver, were smuggled out of the City.


    Part VI:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part VI: Kelepar Besieged

    My wound was healed when I, Istion, a Captain of Gondor, returned, with all of the army, to Kelepar, City of Slavery.

    But this time we did not ready siege engines, we would wait until starvation struck the settlement. That way the defenders would be forced to attack us, away from the defence of their city.

    The latter happened on the third night of the siege. I was awoken by the shouts of the sentries and I armed myself for the battle, attaching the new dagger that signified my rank to my belt.

    The soldiers were assembled upon the flattened fields of flora. I ordered the soldiers into formation: a sturdy shield wall to rival the Easterling’s Phalanx. Not far away, the enemy assembled, forming into a steady rectangle of infantry. Their captain roared an order and the spears fell into position and then the drums began, each dreaded beat synchronised with the footfalls of the enemy’s spearmen. And as the opposition’s drums echoed across the plain of battle the archers of Gondor released a barrage of arrows. The deadly cloud of shafts caused havoc as they plummeted into the flesh of the advancing troops; many hit shields or were deflected by spears but those that did piece skin killed with remarkable effect. Those hit by Gondorian shafts fell back causing disarray as uninjured soldiers fell beneath their collapsing comrade’s corpses. And now it was my turn. ‘Charge!’

    Shining steel swords rose to the skies as we rushed forwards. We met the shaken phalanx with speed and agility and the Easterling’s formation shattered. We cut our way through the spearmen swiftly until we were greeted with the rearmost rows of spears. These corrupted men were ready with their weapons and they put up a fierce resistance but spurred on by a frenzied blood-lust, we, making effective use of our shields, cut down the defenders of Kelepar.

    As the last spearman fell to the ground, his blood fertilizing the ground, a new noise greeted us: the twang of bowstrings. ‘Cover!’ I roared as I, followed by every other allied infantryman, ducked under my shield and a moment later the continuous clatter of arrows embedding themselves in our shields rang across the fields.

    But we retaliated, letting loose another storm of shafts in the direction of the enemy bowmen and those that weren’t pinned dead to the ground retreated behind the next line of infantry. The fresh Easterlings marched forth, clashing their scimitars against their heavy gold shields in an efficient attempt to weaken morale. But the few Gondorians that counted themselves veterans moved to the front line, myself included as I felt to prove myself worthy of my new post and also I knew a Captain’s presence encouraged the nearby men – or so some people say. I wiped my sword on an exposed part of my tunic and raised it so that it shone silver in the sunlight. ‘Steady!’ I said loudly and then repeated but the second time quieter, to myself. The enemy was advancing amidst the rain of our arrows but still they pounded their weapons against their armour and, as they grew nearer, they began a steady chant, broken only by the death of another Easterling.

    ‘For Gondor!’ a soldier replied running forth courageously (or insanely) and the rest of the army took up the cry, charging towards the golden army. I reached the soldiers of Rhûn with my heart beating like one of their drums, heavy sword blows smashed into my shield and refused to stop – until the man beside me embedded his sword in my opponent’s throat. With the fearsome, eastern warrior dead I rushed to the man behind the deceased before he had time to prepare his defence; my blade sliced through his oesophagus which spurted a fountain of blood. As that man fell I reached yet another golden-clad warrior whose shield-bash I was forced to evade; but as the soldier attacked with his shield, he left his waist vulnerable and I thrust my steel into the unguarded flesh. More blood stained my armour and I advanced towards the next opponent, felling an enemy to my flank as I moved.

    The battle was progressing well for Gondor, despite greater numbers the early fall of the phalanx had strongly decreased the enemy’s chances of victory. The eastern archers had not yet routed and we were constantly under fire from their missiles, however these were few in number and there was no effective, unified bombardment. Reinforcements suddenly charged out of the city: heavy cataphracts thundered towards our eastern flank, our men there had little time to prepare and carnage ensued. Those infantry that were on the front lines facing the city moved round to attack the cataphracts’ flank.

    They were well equipped the horsemen of Rhûn and to kill them we had to fell the horse then execute the dismounted rider whilst he was stunned by the fall from his steed. Slowly and with great casualties the cataphracts fell and the last troops routed. The battle for Kelepar was over and later that day the city surrendered.

    Kelepar was Ours.


    Chapter III: Rhomen
    Part I:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: Preparations to March

    A bitter breeze drifted into my tent sending a shiver down my spine.

    I commanded five hundred men, each one strong and experienced and each one envied me – especially the ensign. The ambush on the march to Kelepar had killed many Gondorians, one of whom, Tirus son of Tirion, had been the captain of the same soldiers I now led. Ordinarily his ensign (the standard bearer) would have been promoted to the rank on the condition that he was respected and educated sufficiently but the man for promotion could not read or write. My reward for rescuing Elboron was advancement to a higher position and I, being the son of a prosperous – but regrettably not lavishly rich – merchant, had an advantage over any other suitable candidate: I could read and write with great skill (despite saying so myself).

    And so, as I totalled the previous day’s casualties, I wondered whether the increase in paperwork and the many other responsibilities that accompanied my rank were worth the increase to my wages. It was almost midday and an icy current of air was blowing across the camp from the inland sea, by dawn the next day I was to finish a pile of paperwork concerning my new company of men and also I had to “inspect” them.

    The latter commenced after lunch, I greeted the soldiers on a plateau of land reserved for the training of troops. They assembled like children in a playground: grouped together talking enthusiastically. Silence fell when I entered their midst, their eyes followed me as I walked to the front and their expressions betrayed indifference... respect... but mostly loathing... I raised my voice to mute the remaining loud men, ‘Soldiers!’ I cursed myself for letting my voice shake.

    Whilst I walked amongst the Gondorians a fellow Captain followed instructing me in the ways of captaining. Either paranoia was affecting me or people were talking behind my back with deep contempt.

    I was glad when it was over and it told me I had to do something about my lack of respect, no soldier admired a man that leapt straight to a high position. When I returned to my tent I found my ensign waiting for me, ‘General wants our company’s casualty report before sundown, including the casualties of the ambush, sir.’

    He walked away in a cheerful mood and I cursed loudly.

    *

    The following week was tireless education from Captain Bregion, a man who respected how I rose to a rank equal to his own. The second week involved me doing everything myself but under the critical gaze of Bregion. But a month since Kelepar fell, the army mobilised and Gondor was marching to the last City of opposition in the foreign land of Rhûn: the capital of the Easterlings, Rhomen.

    And all its soldiers had died reinforcing Kelepar.

    It would be an easy victory – if we could get past the walls.


    Part II:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part II: Secret Orders

    It was a chilling day in Rhomen, Capital of Rhûn.

    It was not the acknowledged capital, that was Mistrand, but because the King (or Emperor or whatever title the man chose) lived there permanently along with the majority of the population of the nation; Rhomen was labelled the principal city.

    And the principal city was beautiful: upon a high plateau that rose high above where we set up camp lay elegant dwellings encircled with high walls of fine snowy marble. The plateau was separated by a long river that halved the river down a narrow gorge, and rising high above the city, resting atop a towering mountain, lay the Golden Palace of the King, a magnificent structure of great prowess and architecture. So great that the citizens far below looked up with pride... or envy, for whilst they endured the slums, their Lord enjoyed the luxury of more gold than the price of Minas Tirith’s Mithril Gates.

    We could not starve the City into surrendering because the palace kitchens would be well stocked and the King would care about his peasants. But the walls were incredibly strong and, despite being under-guarded (many of the soldiers had been sent to reinforce Kelepar), they would still prove difficult to cross. No siege tower would be able to climb the hill at the foot of the battlements, the single gateway was well armed and only a madman would attempt an attack there. But meanwhile the Kings of Gondor and Rohan and their advisers were coming up with a plan of attack and it turned out that I was going to be the Captain in charge.

    *

    ‘How is the new post?’ the King asked me.

    It was two days since Gondor had arrived at Rhomen and Elessar had invited me to his tent, I knew that my promotion wasn’t his true interest. ‘Fine, m’lord,’ was my reply.

    ‘A battalion of soldiers is to march to the west side of the city, out of sight of the guards. They will cross the river and make camp at the foot of the hill they are to begin work on a tunnel which will pass under the walls and then be destroyed resulting in the walls collapsing. I am placing you in charge of the operation because there are no soldiers in the army with such experience and you need to prove yourself more than any other Captain.’

    ‘Err... Thank you... m’lord.’ I said unsure of how to respond.

    ‘You will be accompanied by one of my advisers, you may go.’

    *

    It was warm beneath the ground, the air was tight and I felt claustrophobic.

    Two days digging had sent the tunnel many feet east but many more lay ahead and, despite the frequent rests, fatigue was plaguing the soldiers. As a result I regularly became frustrated, fearing the consequences of being behind schedule. But slowly the tunnel progressed, and a week later half of the half-mile stretch had been dug.

    It took longer than I expected to reach the end of the tunnel, the roof was supported by thick, strong pillars of wood and candles illuminated the passageway to aid the worker’s toil. However at the shaft’s end the miners had stopped working and weren’t speaking and there was silence but for the miner’s picks hacking at the earth.


    Part III:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part III: Under the Walls

    We were only digging one tunnel and the miners had ceased but still there was the tap, tap, tap of picks.

    ‘They’re digging against us!’ I announced loudly and immediately hoped the Eastern miners had not heard.

    ‘But how could we have been seen, sir? And how can they find us underground?’ asked a soldier.

    ‘A thick forest cannot hide a camp of five hundred men, how much noise did we make, I wonder? Even the King expected us to be attacked; an entire battalion isn’t needed to dig a tunnel because only a few men can dig at a time. They found us underground by following the sound of the picks,’ I replied, ‘Cease digging, get fresh soldiers in here, armed. The battle won’t be on the walls, it will be under them.’

    *

    A day passed and then the sound of the enemy’s picks stopped as well. I ordered some soldiers to raise the discarded picks to the wall and soon the tapping echoed in our tunnel.

    Night came but underground it was no different. It was then that the foremost point of the passageway began to crumble as the enemy’s miners began hacking at it from the other side. And the two tunnels were joined.

    But our soldiers were prepared and defended the new opening with deadly skill. Cries of agony echoed in the tunnel, mixed with curses of the enemy, blood seeped into the soil and the stench of death hung in the stuffy air. It was only a skirmish but in the confined space the clash of steel upon steel and sobs of dying men over-exaggerated the atmosphere. I hung back though, waiting for a message from the King. It came as our warriors were forcing themselves forwards. The messenger sprinted towards me, ‘What does he say?’ I asked.

    ‘Go for it, a single battalion of reinforcements are following to aid and the rest of the army will be prepared.’

    I nodded and turned to face the battle, as the last Easterling fell as a corpse I shouted, ‘Hurry men of Gondor! We have a City to take!’ Cheerily the men rushed through the enemy’s diggings, cutting down the routing miners as they went; I pushed my way to the front and, as we neared the mouth of the tunnel, warned the soldiers to be quiet. Our old task of sapping the wall was overwritten with a newer and far more risky one: opening the gates of Rhomen.


    Part IV:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part IV: Night in Rhomen

    Only when our reinforcements had come did we pour out of the darkness into the light of the moon.

    Almost fifty men were guarding the exit, armed with scimitars and light armour. Shock was in their eyes as we charged into their ranks. Seven men were lost from our ranks whilst the enemy had no survivors. The reinforcing battalion hid the bodies in the tunnel and filled the passage’s entrance with the soil that was discarded by the enemy miners whilst I led my soldiers to the closest inner gateway.

    Two strong but tired men guarded the barrier between the two halves of the city and so I ordered some men to send them to a much desired rest. With their throats slit, we opened the gates and I grimaced as they creaked open.

    Beyond the gateway, the road crossed a great bridge across a deep gorge at the foot of which lay the river that divided Rhomen into two. At the other end of the gorge, the road met the civilian section of the city. Dilapidated slums were inhabited by the poorest of the citizens whilst in the taller thatched structures the wealthiest dwelt. Stalls for the selling of goods were empty, waiting for the merchants to fill them when the sun rose. As I led the soldiers through the streets, I took in the aged stonework that made up the run-down ruins that the Easterlings called houses; a rat ran in front of me and I watched as it scurried through a hole in the wall of someone’s house, a moment later a shriek sounded and the rat fled back though the hole.

    I ordered fifty men to go west and to cause a diversion whilst I took the remainder to the Great Gate of Rhomen. As expected, it was well garrisoned and so, out of sight of the vigilant guards, we waited.

    A horn of Gondor sounded from the west, accompanied by the smell of smoke. Soldiers upon the battlements cried out that the enemy had got into the city and were burning the houses and many of them ran off to destroy the invaders. Plenty remained however.

    The defenders had little time to call for aid but one succeeded before I ran him through with my sword. As his blood stained the cobbles, the Great Gates opened to let the army of Gondor in.


    Part V:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part V: The King of Rhûn

    The sun rose to shine upon the bloodied paving stones of Rhomen.

    Many feet above sea level the Kings of Gondor and Rohan waited for the Lord of Rhûn to appear. I and my battalion of soldiers stood with the Kings’ guards. Finally the Palace door opened to reveal a tall but plump man in his mid fifties with little hair and dressed in lavish garments. To me he did not appear to be a King, he had not the stature of a Leader but when he spoke, he had the same voice of authority.

    ‘Your cities are fallen, King. You have no army. I, King Elessar, hereby demand your surrender.’

    ‘We Kings never give up arms willingly; did not the deaths of my Lords of Mistrand and Kelepar prove such a thing?’ The man pulled his sword from his sheath and, like the Lords of his fallen cities, killed himself: he thrust his blade through his heart before any Gondorian could prevent him.

    I frowned and murmured to the soldier beside me, ‘They like suicide these Easterlings, don’t they?’ Another Lord lay dead and the bloodshed was over for Gondor.

    Rhomen was Ours.

    Rhûn had fallen.

    We could return home.


    Epilogue:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Epilogue

    A warm westerly wind tickled the hairs upon the back of my neck, Gondor was marching home.

    Two months of marching took us to the fair land of Ithilien. There the trees were blossoming; a golden sun blessed the land. As we walked through the trees, strange sights we saw: Elves from afar in high dwellings. At the head of the army the King of Gondor came to a sudden halt and then led his majestic steed off the road. A tall Elf greeted him with a smile and a courteous bow and then embraced Aragorn after he dismounted. A conversation in the mysterious language of the Elves ensued and we looked on in curiosity. Finally the King mounted his steed and said ‘Namárië.’ Then we continued south towards Osgiliath.

    At the crossroads we passed the great statue of the King which towered tall above us, its head carved into a new likeness: that of Aragorn. We turned right and the trees parted to reveal the Great River, Anduin, snaking south towards the Sea. And on either edge of the River lay the houses of Osgiliath, all reconstructed. It was once a place of light and beauty and music and now, after so many years of ruin, it was so again, Boromir would have been proud.

    And there, gleaming silvery white against the dark rock of Mount Mindolluin, lay the Capital of all, Minas Tirith.

    I was Home.



    Book V: Harad
    “What lies or threats led him on this long march from home, and would he not rather have stayed there... in peace?
    War will make corpses of us all.”
    - Faramir, Captain of Gondor
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Chapter I: The Harad Road
    Part I:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: Farewell to Gondor

    Harad, the Great Desert, a large barren expanse home to rare beasts and exquisite luxuries and we were to destroy it all.

    I was now in my hundreds but as a Dúnedain, I thankfully appeared and felt half the number. Many years had passed since I returned from Rhûn; I now had a son and a daughter. Also it was many years since the Prince Eldarion was born, the young man rode beside his father as we marched from Minas Tirith.

    At the crossroads I halted and looked back. Far away, across the Anduin, in the shade of the White Mountains was my home, my wife, my children. South led to war, death and blood.

    With great reluctance, I took back my place at the head of my group of soldiers and followed the Harad Road.

    The route carved a way through the fair trees Ithilien, crossing the dark stream that still bore the name of Morgulduin, as I crossed the water I glanced down at the normally murky depths and was surprised to see it was clean and as transparent as pure water. Rising up to the right of the road was a series of high hills, Emyn Arnen, the tallest of which was crowned with the fair city of the Stewards. But our path led us past the last outpost of friendly civilisation and into the land of Southern Ithilien.

    A wide river came into view that sourced from the Ephel Dúrath and divided Ithilien from Southern Gondor. It was the Poros which could be traversed by a long but narrow bridge of Númenórean craftsmanship. A tower on the northern bank kept a vigilant watch over the lands south of the river.

    We began the march across the bridge which was only wide enough for ten men, the King now took up the rear with his personal guard and my battalion was left at the front. On the southern bank dense trees flanked the road and we eyed them with unease. I rested my hand upon the hilt of my sword and did not take my eyes off the approaching trees.

    Halfway across, a dark cloud rose from the woods, my eyes widened in surprise as they recognised the-

    ‘ARROWS!’

    At my cry every man took shelter under their shield and slowly, carefully we moved into a new formation and all the time sharp shafts rained down upon us. But, like a silver armoured tortoise, we advanced, immune from the arrows. Then the arrow-fire ceased and from the trees charged men in scarlet. The Last War with Harad had begun.


    Part II:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part II: The Crossings of Poros

    An icy breeze drifted east from the sea and chilled us as we fought.

    They slammed into us and we hid behind our shields, I stabbed my sword through the narrow gap between my shield and the man’s to my right and heard a man cry out so I continued to do this. The initial charge cost us lives quickest and then the enemy’s numbers dwindled as superior armour triumphed over the red linen and wooden shields of the Haradrim.

    But as we pushed them back, the archers in the trees grew nervous of our approach and loosed another barrage that cost them equally as many lives as us. An arrow was embedded in the armour upon my shoulder and had not stabbed into my flesh but every time I swung my sword it scratched a deep wound into my flesh. I could not remove it and bore the pain as I pushed the enemies of Gondor back.

    As they reached the southern bank, our soldiers spilled from the bridge to surround them and once the latter was achieved they dropped their arms and surrendered. I had to prevent two younger and bloodthirsty men from continuing the bloodshed, ‘They’re scum, sir, bloody murdering scum!’ one of them protested.

    ‘And what are we to them, soldier?’ I asked.

    He fell silent.


    Part III:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part III: The March South

    Night passed and we were marching once again, despite the weariness of the previous day’s battle.

    South of the Poros, the lands were fertile and green under the burning sun, ugly, bald headed birds circled above flocks of sheep that grazed peacefully upon the lush grass. Hills rose up on either side of the road, high and menacing for we feared what they may hide. It was too quiet, every second we expected a group of archers to appear on the peak of a hill and pepper us with arrows but instead there was silence save for the pounding of our feet upon the ground.

    Days passed and the hills merged into dunes of sand and now we were in an endless field of sand – Harad, the Great Desert. There the sun scorched our necks unbearably and every footstep was an effort. Finally the lands became increasingly fertile as we neared the River Harnen. But before we rushed like madmen to drink from the cool, refreshing water we saw the great army of Harad, camped a mile from the city of Gobel Ancalimon.

    And now we knew that Harad would fall, not city by city, but by one battle, the “last battle” destined to be the greatest of the Fourth Age...


    Chapter II: The Great Battle of the Fourth Age
    Part I:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: Eve of Death

    The clamour of thousands of Free Peoples approaching awoke me and I left my tent; darkness covered the two camps.

    It was long since midnight, the moon was descending from the sky and it was in this light that they followed the road. Two days before had come the men of Rohan, led by the King, Elfwine the Fair*, and now came a far more unusual host:

    Clad in the finest Mithril and bearing the strongest weapons seen in Middle-Earth since the times of Gondolin, they marched at a tireless pace. From behind masks of metal, bearing faces that would terrify their foes, came their harsh chant of an aged song. Long were their beards, sharp were their axes, Dwarves they were, a proud race of the finest smiths, come from fair Khazad-dûm and tall Erebor and joined by men of Dale. The leader of the Khazad, Durin VII, marched at the front of his force carrying upon his back a great, round shield, almost as tall as the bearer with a large, spiked boss. He gave the command to halt and then walked towards our camp where our King Elessar waited patiently.

    Their greetings were joyful for such a meeting of so many people had not happened for many years. But the King was overjoyed for another reason for within the ranks of Durin’s folk stood Gimli, son of Gloin and their coming together was a long awaited reunion. Then the King of Gondor met with the King of the Regions of Dale and the four Kings waited for the last of the Free Peoples.

    They came together, both companies clad in green: the last Elves in Middle-Earth, those who were less reluctant to depart than their Noldor kin; composed only of archers of Ithilien or from the Wood of Greenleaves and led by King Legolas**. With them came a force from Arnor including rough Bree-men, outlaws and bandits who longed for rewards and glory or to escape imprisonment. But there also came Dúnedain in fine armour, an almost lost group of around five hundred men.

    And now the mighty host of the Free Peoples were gathered together for the “last battle”, the battle to end all battles, upon the lands of Harad under the burning sun.

    One million men, dwarves and elves united under the banner of the Reunited Kingdom.


    Part II:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part II: “And So the Hour Approaches”

    It is said in songs and tales that each camp stretched for miles, a minor exaggeration,

    Harad brought many Mûmakil to the field and many soldiers and horsemen, their elite and their slaves, all brought to sacrifice themselves for their nation. They had no artillery but we were armed with many trebuchets of Gondor and Dwarven catapults.

    I woke before dawn and dressed myself carefully. My armour was freshly cleaned the night before and shone in the sunlight. I received my final orders and relayed them to the men of my company. Then we waited.

    As the sun rose, each army deployed upon the field: a flat plateau that was fertile grassland brushed with sand from the desert and empty of bushes and trees.

    In the front ranks stood our infantry: in the middle stood the men and guarding our flanks were the dwarves, the stoutest soldiers. Behind were our archers, mainly elves and men of Dale but also included some Gondorians. At the rear was a line of artillery with cavalry guarding the flanks.

    By contrast the Haradrim army was a confused jumble of infantry guarded by cavalry at the flanks. But in the foremost line of corrupted men towered a thousand Mûmakil, each heavily burdened by archers and fear rooted me in place for these beasts were now charging towards us, chewing up the dust so that the entire enemy army was cloaked and their coming was like a cloud of death.

    But onto the plain rode King Elessar, clothed and sounding like the Aragorn of old who led me to the Black Gate for what was the Last Battle of the War of the Ring. I was now the last of those fearful soldiers who followed him, all others lie buried in the earth, forgotten save by their descendants. The King halted a few feet in front of me and rose his voice so everyone heard no matter how far away:

    ‘It is almost a century since our fathers, grandfathers, friends gave their lives in the stone streets of fair Minas Tirith. Now here we stand, upon a plateau of battle, facing the same foes at whose hands they died.

    ‘Hear me now, Sons of Elves, sons of Khazad, sons of Men! For millennia now the corrupted foes of farthest south have tarnished our lands with fire and death! Peace I have demanded and foul words I have received in return.

    ‘And so the hour approaches, peoples of Freedom, to stand fast and fear no evil! Death you have evaded, blood you have shed, lives you have taken and now this is the end! On this flat field two great armies shall meet and here shall be fought the last battle! The battle for peace, for freedom, for Middle-Earth!

    ‘Now is the hour, the true hour of wolves and shattered shields and the age of men will come crashing down if we do not stand and fight and die. It is this day, this day we fight once more. Stand again, Elves, Dwarves and Men!

    ‘Stand for Peace!

    ‘Stand for Justice!

    ‘Stand... for Freedom!’


    And he rose silver Anduril to the heavens and it shone like it was aflame and courage was born in our hearts.


    Part III:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part III: The Mûmakil of Harad

    The earth trembled as the sun ascended.

    The unified footfalls of a thousand Mûmakil shook the ground like the strongest earthquake. The trumpeting of the beasts made us shiver in fear. Then they lowered their heads so the barbed chains that linked their sharp tusks skimmed at neck-height above the ground. I shivered in fear.

    It is said in ancient tales that there were “higher powers”, “Gods”, the Ainur and Illúvatar. Until now I had discounted such notions as nonsense but now, facing innumerable foes, we all needed some aid and so, abandoning my atheism I fell to my knees and offered a prayer to whoever would listen.

    Then I raised my sword above me and called for my company’s attention, ‘Fellow Gondorians, spears!’ There was a shuffle of armoured feet as everyone formed into a wall of thirteen foot pikes. From behind I heard the noise of over a hundred thousand arrows meeting a hundred thousand bowstrings. Then there was the whoosh as the dark shafts arched into the sky, so many that they cast great shadows on the ground; a few seconds later there was a series of deafening roars.

    The shafts were embedded in their faces, some blinding their target. Terrified of this flying threat some Mûmakil turned and fled and in doing so disrupted their braver companions’ charges. Others, unsighted by the arrows, rampaged madly through the ranks of friend and foe alike. But the rest were merely angered and driven to fight by a lust for revenge. They made to plough through our lines of spears using their chained tusks as a weapon but before they impacted a second volley of arrows struck them and their heads rose high in anguish.

    The impact came and spears splintered, swords were then unsheathed and we bravely hacked and stabbed at the mighty beasts’ ankles until they fled to their execution or died by our hands and their burdens thrown from their backs.

    However it was not yet over for as soon as one wave passed another came to engulf us and spear-less we fought. And it was these, the five hundred, which did the least damage for they were unhindered in their stampede.

    But prior to their collision I and every other captain gave the order to make gaps in our tight formation so that the Mûmakil did not cut through our ranks. And so when the beasts reached us we parted and the Mûmakil hit no man but every man’s sword retaliated against the towering beasts and they fell to the earth in a cloud of choking dust.

    Suddenly I heard the trumpeting of another Mûmak and I turned to see one rampaging through our ranks, throwing men aside as it carved its bloody path, its trunk was flailing about and struck me an unexpected but glancing blow that knocked me to the ground. My fall was cushioned by the corpse of a Gondorian Ranger whose longbow lay beside him. I picked up this weapon weakly and pulled a barbed Haradrim shaft from his body and notched it to the bow. With ease I pulled back the string and remembering a warm day in Ithilien I stared down the shaft. Thankfully my wound was not as bad as the one I had then but it made no difference to the shot.

    When my fingers released the bowstring, it pushed the arrow through the sky and miraculously pierced the mighty Mûmak’s eye. My mouth twitched to form a smile and it stayed there for the great beasts of farthest south lay dead or dying upon the plateau of the Dagor Vedui.


    Part IV:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part IV: Death in No-Man’s Land

    And as the flies swarmed around the enormous corpses the Infantry of Harad advanced.

    We too marched forwards so the bodies of the slain did not hinder us; some of our archers climbed the Mûmakil’s backs for a higher vantage point. Meanwhile our cavalry, who were mostly unharmed, were galloping into no-man’s land, towards the soldiers of the south. From a distance I saw the sun on their armour, the glint of their spear-tips and then I heard the clash of the horse into infantry and there was chaos in the ranks of Haradrim.

    Then, before the enemy recovered, the horsemen of the Reunited Kingdoms withdrew. They returned to our lines and then gave a salute, like a man saying farewell and for a moment I was confused, then they turned their steeds to the south and rode into the clouds of dust. In memory of King Théoden of old they cried ‘Death!’

    Few returned, a mere hundred thousand, half of their starting number. They returned to the flanks and I heard the command to ready missiles.

    I readied my single javelin; we all carried one and all wielded them unconfidently for they were a weapon of the Pelargirs and this was the first time they had been employed in battle by the traditional Gondorian infantry. Meanwhile boulders of fire hurtled through the sky, crashing into the dust cloud that surrounded the approaching Haradrim. Then the arrows of the Eldar joined the fire of the trebuchets and the catapults but the ranks of corrupted men did not thin. The Southrons retaliated, sending barbed shafts of death into our lines of men and we hid in the shade of our shields. But then the missile fire ceased on both sides and we knew the enemy was drawing close; once again we readied our javelins and this time those long wooden murderous projectiles were loosed. They arced through the sky and descended upon the charging slaves of the southern Kings and screams recommenced on that plateau of death.

    Demoralised, their furious charge ceased and as fear gripped them in his iron fist we took up our swords and spears and rushed towards them yelling as if we were possessed.

    And so the bloody work of the sword began.


    Part V:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part V: “An Hour of Wolves and Shattered Shields...”

    The sun was high and scorching our necks as the men of the Reunited Kingdom clashed with the Haradrim.

    The plain was already strewn with corpses and literally red for the blood had soaked into the sand, staining it. There was nothing pretty about the way we slew them and they slew us. Blood was everywhere. Blood was on the bodies, on my clothes, on my skin. Blood... Blood... It was affecting me like it would affect a haemophobic.

    I crashed into the front rank of Haradrim, screaming the battle cry of Gondor. Upon impact my opponent was winded and fell back and I stabbed my sword into his heart. Another foe thrust his blade at me immediately after his companion fell and I blocked this attack with my shield; as his blade slipped aside I swung mine at his neck and the resulting spurt of blood made me regret my choice of target. A Haradrim bearing a heavy two-handed blade took his comrade’s place and rained down blow after blow upon my shield. But such was his fury that he swiftly fell victim to fatigue and I smote him as he tired. He collapsed, his red liquid of life seeping into the soil and sand.

    A young Haradrim (though at my age I count many people as young), desperate to prove himself, rushed at me and his wild speed was his bane for I let him fall on the edge of my sword and his head separated, spewing out more fluid than I wished for. And finally it caught up with me, the blood of the thousands that I had killed and I collapsed to my knees retching as if there was some foul poison I had to cough up else die.

    It felt like hours passed with the battle raging around me but when I rose once more from my feet I knew not even a minute had elapsed. The screams of the three warring races sounded in my ears but not even the stench of blood would break my courage. And then a series of howls echoed across the field of battle and all heads, even those of the Southrons, turned to the east. An Orc horn sounded once.

    Not all the servants of Sauron had fallen on the day that all things were said to end. Surviving Orcs routed to the black caves of the Ephel Dúrath whilst the great trolls burnt in the light of the flames of Orodruin. But now, at the final hour of the corrupted men, the last Orcs of Mordor rode to their ancient ally’s aid on the backs of the last wargs of Sauron’s dungeons. I wondered what made them appear on that day for they had neither respect nor loyalty for men, even those they once fought beside.

    And now, at this hour of death, they descended on our eastern flank, behind the Dwarven infantry where the archers of Mirkwood and Ithilien stood. But the elves stood firm, unsheathing their fine blades and thus they shed their blood and took their foes’.

    Their charge took them through the ranks of archers and into the rear of the infantry. I turned to find myself under attack from both sides; I was greeted by a spear and braced against it with my shield. Then the impact came and my shield was torn from my arm, shattering as it fell; I collapsed to the ground and the warg ran by, its sharp claws missing me by an inch.

    My arm felt strange, that was the only way to describe it. It was numb to pain and, whether it was due to shock or to something far worse, the fingers did not respond to my wishes. My arm just hung limply beside my torso, useless and broken.

    A lone wolf, its rider thrown from the saddle, placed its front paws on my chest and I almost screamed at the pain the piecing claws inflicted. With my only useful arm I reclaimed my fallen sword and swung it at the incoming beast’s head. The skull dropped from the torso and a spurt of blood drenched my face. Spluttering, I rose from the ground and surveyed the field of death around me.

    Bodies lay on the field like Symbelmynë lay on the graves of the Kings of Rohan and men, elves and dwarves struggled in single combat with wargs, Orcs and Haradrim. Men were wavering on both sides and there was no longer any unified fighting: the formations had shattered like my shield.

    A warg charged towards me and foolishly I thrust my sword in its path Fortune aided me because the beast fell on the point and the sword plunged so far in I could not retrieve it. I retreated, watching the rider struggle to separate itself from its fatally wounded steed. I noticed a crude Orcish blade resting at my feet and crouched to reach it. Suddenly my opponent’s foot smashed into my chin and I was thrown backwards. With a hungry look the creature bent over me, thirsting for my blood. It spoke some words which I’d rather I did not repeat then raised its sword above itself whilst with its left foot it held my body to the ground.

    Immobile I watched the sharp steel come down and I felt warm sticky blood on my skin.


    Part VI:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part VI: “...The Age of Men Comes Crashing Down”

    But it was not my blood.

    A shining spear-tip had stabbed through my opponent’s heart and now it squealed like a pig. Relief washed over me as the foul beast fell aside to reveal my saviour: a Gondorian, daubed in blood from toe to scalp, bearing the expression of a child who has lost his parents in a crowd. I rose to my feet murmuring thanks and reassurance: ‘we’ll win, we’ll beat these buggers, we’ll survive.’ I believed in those words as much as I believed in the words of a Haradrim King.

    The wolves were scattering, their riders flung from the saddle. Meanwhile the sun was setting and a dark cloud was arising in the west, a cloud of sand and dust coughed up by the sandals of another enemy. I collapsed to my knees and cursed the Arda and everything in it.

    They were swathed in shades of scarlet, bearing shimmering scimitars and chanting foul curses in their foul tongue. Seamen, pirates, Númenóreans... traitors. It is with reluctance that I acknowledge the fact that they and I are of similar kin, that they and I share the same gene that grants longer life, but with a plateau of copes separating us, I felt no bond of blood, only the hatred that had accumulated over countless centuries of endless war.

    But now it would end.

    Every Gondorian shared the hatred of these traitors, every Gondorian no longer felt weary; we just faced our foe with a lust for blood greater than an Orc’s. This would be the end of them, of all the Corsairs of that dreaded port. They were now under a hundred feet away; we charged.

    I cannot tell any more tales of the bloodshed between us that day. The Corsairs of Umbar were fierce warrior but tired by a forced march from their homes to this plain. I saw my saviour fall under a rain of swords, I saw the courage of the men of Bree fail and I saw their retreating backs. I swore I would fight; I would stand, true to our King’s word. But Aragorn was not my symbol; I fought for my beloved, and my children resting peacefully at home. And I remembered something that the heat of battle had wiped from my mind: my son’s birthday would be tomorrow. A troll-man stood before me, a human form of those evil creatures that I had battled in the days of the War of the Ring, his skin was as black as night, his eyes were pale orbs of moonlight and his silver flail reflected the dying light of the sun. A sudden urge to abandon reason struck me and I stuck him, swiftly stabbing steel into skin. The blood poured out like wine from a barrel.
    ‘Look friends, they run!’ someone shouted and laughter met the Dwarf’s voice. I fell to my knees once more, clasping my hand to a wound on my shoulder – it was nothing notable, ‘Just a scratch’ I told the man beside me when he asked.

    The battle was over and the age of the Men of the South had come crashing down like their temples to Melkor soon would. There would be no more of that cult.


    Epilogue:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Epilogue

    On the day that followed Dagor Vedui, a small party of Haradrim nobles rode from Gobel Ancalimon.

    They came to treat with our King who met them on the field of battle where the dead still lay. All that day those who surrendered cleared the plateau of corpses, bringing us our gallant dead and to their Kings their own. The Lords of Men talked long that day for it was not so simple as to demand peace and sign a pact. We needed their submission, their loyalty and their gold to repair the devastated cities that, even a century since they were pillaged, still lay in smoke-blackened ruins.

    But the men of farthest south could not deny the treaty for one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers waited wearily for Elessar’s order to continue the campaign south to death and, without any doubt, victory. Surrender was Harad’s only option if they wished to live.

    A week later my company of soldiers left Harad. Gondor had arrived in Harad with a million men, we would return home with many less. I was relieved to be the first captain allowed to leave – though after Dagor Vedui there were very few remaining. A small group of elves travelled with me, led by the only living child of Thranduil.

    It was on a cloudy day that we returned to Ithilien and bade farewell to our Elven companions. The clouds burst as we approached the city of Minas Tirith. But despite the heavy downpour those who watched were still vigilant and spied our diminished party through the mist and so the tower guard took up the call, that the lords of Gondor had returned.

    And as I passed through the Mithril gates I was met by a crowd of citizens, my wife and the wives and widows of many other companions. It was hardly a happy day for the women of Minas Tirith.

    Another woman greeted me, the Queen Arwen, who asked me with much urgency of the welfare of her husband. She was deeply distraught at Aragorn’s failure to appear. ‘He is well, as is the Prince, he swears that he will be home in a month,’ I told her.

    Aragorn, much to Arwen’s anger and distress, returned a week later than his promise. But all was well.

    My son was now twenty, my daughter a year younger and my wife pregnant once again.

    Everything would now be as life should be: peaceful – or at least until she gave birth.


  3. #3

    Default Re: [Fiction] Istion - Soldier of Minas Tirith

    Istion: Soldier, Ranger and Lord of Gondor
    Here follows the final parts of the Tale of a Soldier of Gondor: Istion, these parts stretching from his career as Chief Councillor to the tale that tells of his last journey over the Great Sea of Belegaer in search of a long lost mountain.

    Book VI: The New Shadow


    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Prologue
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Prologue

    Aragorn lay upon his deathbed, wrapped in silk sheets.
    It was a fortnight since he grew too weak to stand. Old age had caught up with him at last. 210 he was, his hair silver, his face pale and weary. Much I wondered why I, a mere soldier, was summoned to his bedside but now King Elessar was ready to speak after many minutes of silence.

    ‘Istion,’ he said my name weakly and I leaned closer to hear, ‘We are the last... Dúnedain, few remain... in this world... Long I have lived and long will you. Brave you have fought and now... I beg of you to watch over my children... especially Eldarion, it is not a light burden what he now takes up... Something rises in the suburbs... listen to the rumours... there is truth in them!’ His voice grew louder then stopped.

    ‘Y-yes, sire.’

    Arwen moved closer to her husband; she bore no tears, she had none left to shed. She bade me leave and I obeyed. But I waited outside, resting against the wall pondering the King’s words. Minutes passed then I heard my queen wail loudly. Silently I opened the door and moved in. Aragorn’s eyes were close but his chest rose and fell slowly. He was surrounded by his family and I knew I should leave.

    But before I could the King’s eyelids parted and he tried to shout but he had no such power left in him: ‘Something evil is rising, Istion! The New Shadow!’ His head fell to one side, facing his beautiful wife, ‘Namárië, nîn meleth,’ were his final words: “Farewell my love.”

    I left the room silently so as not to disturb the mourning family; tears were in my eyes and a question in my head: What did he mean? The New Shadow?


    Chapter I: The Tears of Lady Arwen

    Part I:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: Eternal Sleep

    A red sun rose over the mourning Tower of Guard.

    Robed in black I accompanied my wife and three children from my modest house on the fifth level. There were no birds in the sky and the streets were busy with mourners making their way upwards.
    We made our way to the sixth level and through Fen Hollen, the Closed Door, that was held open but guarded that day. Rath Dínen was as silent as its name save for the sobs of the people going to and from the House of the Kings. On the eastern side of Mount Mindolluin lay the Hallows where stood the Houses of the Stewards and the Kings, which had been expanded by King Elessar after his coronation so that it could house the new line of rulers.

    Aragorn Elessar lay peacefully on a bed of marble, his silver hair arranged neatly and a shining crown upon his head, his hands rested in his breast clasping a ceremonial sword, a replica of Anduril which had passed to Eldarion along with the Kingship. Before the body knelt the Queen, shrouded in black with pearly tears blemishing her beautiful face.

    We halted behind the Lady Arwen, my wife sobbing quietly at my side. My face was dry of tears despite knowing him better than many other civilians, particularly in his later years when I became a councillor of the city. I believe his true reason was his realisation that he and I were the last men in Middle Earth that remembered the days of Sauron and he knew that if those days were forgotten another power could rise that would rival our civilisation. Was that what he meant by the words “the New Shadow”?

    Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf had remained here for many years but both knew their time here was ending. I knew that now, after the death of their last companion, they would wish to finalise their plans. Aragorn had seen the deaths of so many, Boromir, Faramir, Éomer, Théoden, Éowyn, the list went on.

    I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I almost failed to notice when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to see the fellow Councillor, Melion. We moved away until we were out of earshot where I asked in an irritated tone, ‘What?’

    ‘Sorry, Councillor, it’s just- well- er well-’

    ‘What?’ I asked again but this time I was worried.

    ‘There’s something you need to see.’


    Part II:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part II: More than Vandalism

    A bitterly cold breeze plagued the streets and I shivered uncontrollably as I followed Melion.

    He led me to the seventh level to where, in the shadow of the Tower of Ecthelion, a horrible sight lay:

    It had been divided by a sharp axe into many pieces which all lay in the fountain, twigs were scattered on the stone around the broken trunk which had been severed neatly at a foot high. I stopped dead, unsure how to react at this unbelievable act of vandalism. The idea that someone could destroy this symbol of our country and on this day!

    ‘The White Tree,’ I murmured in confusion, ‘Who, when, why?’ I stuttered the words in shock and then repeated them in slowly and calmly.

    ‘We don’t know exactly but this isn’t the only tree. About fifty have been felled like this across the city and-’

    ‘That’ll just be kids, this-’

    ‘No, sir: each tree has had this-’ he pointed to something blackish-red on the bark ‘-carved into the trunk.’

    Couching, I examined the carving and fear struck me as I realised what it was and what was making it red: ‘It’s an eye, a red eye, his Eye.’ I ran a forefinger through the carving and it came back up sticky and crimson, ‘Blood,’ I stated.


    Part III:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part III: A Stiff Drink

    The body was propped up against a tree, if it wasn’t for his missing heart, he could have been sunbathing.

    We pushed through the crowd that had gathered around the corpse and I crouched down to look closer. His face was contorted into one of agony; he was naked from the waist upwards and a crude crimson cut revealed an empty hole where his heart should have been.

    ‘It looks like he’s been... sacrificed,’ I spoke the word in fear, fear of an evil that could inspire terror just by being unknown.

    ‘Who could do this and to what purpose?’ Melion asked, his face showing alarm at the idea.

    ‘One sacrifices to appease a god and only one god I know would accept such an offering,’ I looked up at my fellow councillor, ‘Morgoth.’

    There was a scream from the crowd and a woman rushed towards the corpse, ‘Arahir! Arahir! Nooo!’ I blocked her path and embraced the widow before she could contaminate her husband’s body; she would need questioning, but not yet.

    I said to Melion, ‘King Aragorn said to me that “Something rises in the suburbs, listen to the rumours, there is truth in them.” He said that “The New Shadow” is rising. Do you think he meant this, have you heard of it?’

    ‘Yes he must have meant this, there hasn’t been a murder since that drunken brawl two years ago.’

    I nodded at the recollection and heard the clatter of armour approach, a group of the Guards of the Citadel had come to move the body.

    ‘I’m going for a drink, coming?’

    Melion nodded and so together we ascended from the second level to a tavern three floors up. The Wolf’s Head as it was named was an expensive place compared to the other pubs in Minas Tirith but the absence of drunken riffraff made up for it. Above the bar was the wolf’s head from which its name came, it was not from a real animal but from the battering ram the orcs used to open the gate at the end of the last Age. I ordered two pints of Black Sheep and then sat down beside the fire.

    For a few minutes we sat in silence then Melion said, ‘How long do you think the Queen Arwen will last?’

    I was shocked at the question and the choice of words, ‘Erm... not long I guess, she was highly devoted to him, the despair in her eyes when Aragorn was dying...’ I trailed off, not daring to say more. ‘Have you heard? Some people are requesting to live in Mordor!’

    ‘Istion, you need to adjust to changing times, it’s Seindor now. And yes I have heard and there’s nothing wrong with it, its land just like anywhere else.’

    ‘Well to me it will always be Mordor and I don’t see why anyone would want to live there after all that has happened there.’

    ‘Do you not realise Istion? You are the only man in Middle-Earth who lived in the Third-Age, you are the last – and dare I say it, if you weren’t the last you probably wouldn’t be Chief Councillor of Minas Tirith.’

    I laughed, ‘Jealous, Councillor?’

    ‘I’m not, but there are many who are, how many times have I said-’

    ‘“Watch your back”, yes I know, but people just don’t assassinate people in power here, you’ve spent too much time up north.’

    ‘There are other ways to remove you.’

    Silence resumed and I finished my glass, ‘Another?’ Melion nodded and so went to the bar, ‘Two more Black Sheep please,’ I waited as he filled up the glasses and decided to ask if the barman had heard of any rumours, ‘This may sound a bit weird but have you heard of “The New Shadow”?’

    The barman looked at me and dropped the half full glass he was filling, ‘N-n-no s-sir, s-sorry s-sir.’ He paused for a few minutes and then added, ‘Let me write you a bill, sir,’ he took up a quill, and scribbled something on a square of parchment, ‘There you go sir.’

    I took the offered “receipt” and handed him two gold coins which was far more than the price of four beers. I sat down, took a sip of Black Sheep and examined the note,

    Meet me around the back at sunset and I’ll tell you what I know.

    ‘Strange...’ I murmured.

    ‘What’s that?’

    ‘The barman, I think he knows something.’

    ‘Good, what?’ Melion asked curiously.

    ‘I’ll find out later it seems. Come on, we’ve got all got a meeting with the new King soon.’

    We finished our drinks and left.


    Chapter II: King Eldarion I

    Part I:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: Initial Acts

    In the Hall of the Kings a table stood and around it sat the Councillors of the City. The King was absent.

    As I walked in with Melion close behind me all heads turned, some men nodded and said my name in acknowledgement whilst others regarded me with expressions that it would not be hasty to describe as loathing. I took my seat at the end of the table closest to the door; I alone faced the King’s throne. When I sat down I noted that a chair was at the other end of the table, one was only there when the King decided not to sit on his throne and I feared Eldarion’s state of mourning was leaving him reluctant to take up his father’s place, it would not be wise to show weakness, not even on such a terrible day.

    There was a clang as the door to the hall opened and closed. Eldarion, now King, entered flanked by two Guards in the livery of the tower. Did he feel insecure? Aragorn had rarely gone with an escort on the seventh level. We all stood up respectfully and sat down as he did. He took the chair at the table’s head and his eyes met mine, ‘Chief Councillor Istion, am I correct?’

    ‘Yes, sire.’

    ‘I remember seeing you fight at Dagor Vedui, you were very good.’

    ‘Thank you sire,’ I did not appreciate compliments on how well I kill, that was behind me.

    ‘Erm... I must admit – though I have been present at several of these meetings – I don’t know how to proceed.’

    ‘Should I lead this meeting today then, sire?’ I asked. The King accepted so I began, ‘Military first, no threats, no problems, nothing of concern,’ leading the council had been relaxing since Dagor Vedui, with no more enemies on the borders the military brief was as quick as that. We skipped through the matters of economy in seconds, save for a problem with grain shortages which was quickly acted upon, then we came to the pressing matter of the murder and the fallen tree.

    Murders were rare in Minas Tirith but even then the felling of the White Tree was seen as far serious. It was a national – international – symbol and only a true enemy would commit such a deed. ‘The most serious matter, sire: the White Tree and a corpse on the second level. I believe these are connected. The fallen tree was marked with an Eye, the Eye of Sauron as were about fifty others across the levels. The corpse was sacrificed, undoubtedly to Morgoth,’ I said.

    Eldarion nodded grimly, ‘It isn’t a coincidence that this is all happening now, is it? Who is responsible, not one man.’

    ‘Most likely a cult, the youth will be most susceptible to it I fear.’

    We continued to discuss the matter but when I finally left the seventh level I realised I had not mentioned the barman. I decided it was for the best, his information may be useless. I was now going to meet the informant, but I took with me a drawn knife, as Melion said, I should watch my back.


    Part II:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part II: The Informant

    Behind the Wolf’s Head it was dark so I took a torch from the holder beside the front door.

    The barman had closed early in order to give me some information; I hoped he turned up but after seeing the state he was in I was doubtful. I finally reached the pub’s rear.

    Well on the bright side he had turned up, except his heart.

    Naked from the waist up with a hole in his chest, propped up against a leaking barrel of the Old Rat.

    Was it just me or were they laughing at me?


    Part III:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part III: Late Report

    ‘I’m sorry to disturb you sire but there has been a development.’

    His eyes half closed, King Eldarion sighed, ‘What kind of development?’

    ‘Another murder, sire, same style: he was sacrificed.’

    ‘Who found the body?’

    ‘I did sire, he was going to give me information but the Cult must have found out first.’

    A servant came to where we sat and handed the King a mug of something steaming, ‘Are you sure you would not like some?’ Eldarion asked.

    Shaking my head, I turned him down, ‘It’s late, I should get home, my wife will be worried.’

    ‘Of course,’ was his reply, ‘Istion, do you want to lead this investigation?’

    I hesitated, such work was more suitable to someone below my position but I had been present at every scene of crime, one of which I was partly responsible for, next time I would ask for information where there was little chance of being overheard. Next time? I guess, that was the answer. ‘Yes sire, if you permit.’

    ‘My father spoke of you with high regard, yes you may lead this.’

    ‘I am but a soldier, sire.’

    ‘And a Dúnedain! Don’t you realise that you alone in Gondor saw the worst that the world came to; you alone understand what we are avoiding; you alone understand the meaning of war whilst all the other councillors have led lazy lives, the wars of Rhûn and Harad where twenty years ago! Politics has not corrupted you but I think the main reason why my father favoured you was that he felt responsible for that... situation he sent you into in Kelepar.’ He fell silent, realising it was not something to bring to the surface. I and Elboron, son of Faramir, had witnessed the torture of fellow Gondorian, Cirion; it was torture just observing. Elboron had been reduced to a nervous wreck but recovered eventually, save for a fear of the dark among other phobias. I was many years older and had seen many horrors in battle, which had saved my sanity. But I still shivered violently, the King noticed and said, ‘I’m sorry, you may go.’


    Chapter III: The Investigation Begins

    Part I:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: Widows

    I knocked on the door of the Wolf’s Head, it was closed again but the door opened.

    A woman answered, she was a few years younger than her deceased husband, perhaps forty, with long curly black hair and dark eyes rimmed with red. Reluctantly she invited us in (myself and a guard for protection) and led us to a table in front of the bar.

    She did not offer us a drink so began the interrogation, ‘We suspect your husband was murdered by a Cult-’

    ‘He wasn’t involved in any cult!’ she exclaimed, ‘sir, I would’ve noticed if my husband was walking out o’ bar in middle o’ night.’

    I nodded and grimaced, my next statement would not improve the chances of getting any help from the misfortunate widow, ‘Your husband said he had information for me.’

    ‘Information?’ She paled and tears welled up as she guessed the reason why her beloved was dead, ‘Then he’s dead ’cause they found out he was gonna speak! He’s dead ’cause o’ you!’

    ‘Listen, how did he know this information if he wasn’t in the cult?’ I asked.

    She hesitated and for several seconds there was silence until, ‘There was a group o’ lads in the pub ’bout a week ago. They were all hushed up but when m’ husband went over with their drinks he heard ’em talking ’bout some group. He told me it sounded like a cult, “The New Shadow” I think was the name they used.’

    I could see there was nothing else and so said, ‘Thank you for your assistance and once again I’m sorry.’

    I and the guard left the Wolf’s Head and descended to the second level where we passed through the twisting streets and narrow alleys until we came to a rundown house that was once home to Arahir son of Garahir. I knocked and his widow answered, her eyes redder than blood. ‘It’s you,’ she stated, ‘well come in.’

    Inside it was dark, an opened doorway to the right revealed a recently slept in bed, I wondered if we had woken her. We were invited to sit on a comfortable but shabby sofa opposite which she sat in an armchair.

    ‘We suspect your husband was murdered by a Cult...’ I trailed off hoping she would either deny or affirm the statement.

    She laughed, surprising in her state, ‘I thought he was having an affair, I guess it would explain his absence at night.’

    ‘Is there anything that you could tell us that would help us catch Arahir’s killers?’

    She paused and eventually replied with a shake of her head, ‘But you could look in his possessions, they might tell you something.’

    I thanked her and followed her into the bedroom, ‘Bottom drawer and in that cupboard,’ she indicated before leaving us to it.

    I directed the guard to examine the chest of drawers whilst I explored the cupboards contents, it was large and mainly full of dresses but I found a large number of bags at the bottom (mostly the deceased’s wife’s unsurprisingly). I checked them and found one to be heavy, I picked it up and placed it upon the bed, coins jingled inside. ‘What are you doing man?’ I said as the guard rifled through a drawer of the woman’s undergarments, ‘bottom drawer! He’s hardly going to hide something from his wife in with her own clothes!’ That said he proceeded to examine the lowest compartment.

    In the bag of coins I found something that, had I been a lesser man, I would have been tempted to depart the residence with: more gold than the guard beside me would earn in a year. I hauled it into the lounge and asked her where it had come from.

    ‘I’ve never seen that before sir but he didn’t steal it, he was an honest man.’

    How did he get involved in this cult then? I wondered but said as my companion came out of the bedroom shaking his head, ‘Right, we will be going then if that is everything?’

    ‘Just catch whoever did this.’


    Part II:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part II: Thieves

    We walked to the door but we stopped as we reached it for outside someone was knocking persistently.

    ‘Are you expecting anyone?’ I asked the widow and she shook her head. I motioned to the guard beside me and we hid in the bedroom, swords drawn. We heard the door open and there were muffled sounds, the woman gasped and a man said, ‘Where’s the money?’

    She replied that it was in the lounge, that they should follow her and that they should not hurt her. I doubt that they would grant her wish. ‘There must be three, maybe four of them I would say,’ I whispered, ‘ready?’

    The guard nodded and we rushed into the hallway. I slammed into the leading ruffian whose knife, which was previously pressing into the back of the widow, fell from his hand. I smashed my leg into his groin then stepped back and ran him through with my sword whilst he was stunned by pain. Meanwhile my companion had ran into and then brought his sword down upon the thug behind and now was trapped in a fierce mêlée in the narrow space. At last the guard slid his foot hard into the thug’s ankle and the man stumbled before cold steel passed through his flesh and he collapsed to the floor, his left arm dismembered.

    I knelt beside this one and asked, ‘Who do you work for?’

    The thug spluttered blood, ‘I have more sense than to tell you.’

    I examined the nail on my right index finger, long, sharp, ‘I will make this easy for you,’ and I pressed my finger upon the stump of his arm, I managed to strike a nerve and he gave a bloodcurdling scream that made even me shudder; a flashback of Cirion on the rack struck me and my finger withdrew. ‘Tell me or I will continue.’

    He hesitated, I pressed my finger against the open flesh and pressed the nerve once more, the resultant scream was beyond anything imaginable. I withdrew my finger and grimaced, messy method and there were many other methods of torture. Panting and with many breaks for breath, he said, ‘Alright, alright, it was a cult of worshippers of Melkor, and you don’t mess with those guys, also there was a lot of money involved. I was just told he wanted out of the cult but there is no way out save the one he got. He had been given a lot of money to entice people to join the cult and they needed it back so we had come to get it. That’s all I know, I swear. Now, let me go.’

    I thanked him, then drew my knife swiftly across his throat.


    Part III:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part III: Virgins

    We were returning to the upper levels when, upon the third, we heard an ear-splitting scream.

    We ran towards the source to middle aged women shrieking over the worst sight so far: Sitting against a white stone wall, their skin pale as chalk, their clothes torn from their bodies, their hearts cut from their chests, their wrists and throats slit, their faces contorted into an expression of total agony and above them, daubed in their own blood, was written in common speech,

    The Blood of Virgins Failed

    I swallowed and looked upon their fair faces, they were only in their teens and had once been beautiful before some cult drained their blood in order to appease some evil god. I wondered what had happened to the blood, and then I remembered that there had been blood in the fountain when we examined the broken tree, not much, I presumed it was mainly to mark the tree. It was going in the fountain, but for what reason.

    ‘What do they mean? “Failed”,’ the guard asked beside me.

    ‘They are searching for a particular type of blood, a type of blood that will finalise their evil acts. But what do they aim to achieve?’ I trailed off and crouched beside the closest corpse though both bore the same mark but in different places. This one was marked on her left thigh, it was like a burn as if some cold-hearted man had thrust a burning poker against her and scolded her flesh. I touched it and the world went mad.

    Suddenly my vision slurred as if I had over indulged in Black Sheep and when it rectified I saw before me, not a fallen virgin but a black-armoured demon, His great hammer lost, His mighty helm broken and fashioned into a chain that now encircled His throat and trapped Him in the Void. My eyes stared into His and His stared into mine and He was in my head. I cried out and at last severed contact and I withdrew my finger from the scorch mark and now it was burnt. The vision was gone.

    I rose to my feet and ordered that none should touch the burn mark, ‘I must go,’ I said next, ‘I have a post mortem to attend.’

    I left the crime scene with my thoughts confused, I had at least reached one conclusion and that was the Cult of Melkor’s motive: not to appease the god but to return him to the world.


    Part IV:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part IV: Bodies

    The bodies of the two men each rested on a cold slab when I entered the mortuary.

    The pathologist began: ‘Bruising to the wrists and ankles shows that their legs and arms were bound together by rope, the rope must have had a strange pattern to create such indents, see?’

    I looked closer and saw the marks he was referring to, horizontal and vertical twists, ‘Cause of death; the heart or the loss of blood first?’

    ‘Now there’s the strange thing, the heart was removed first but I would say that the cutting of the wrists and throat caused death, slowly and terrifyingly.’

    I paused as I tried to understand how this was possible but said upon reaching no believable conclusion, ‘How?’

    ‘I am not sure of the details; I remember such a case from my medical studies: there was a cult once like this one, same modus operandi. An eyewitness reported that when sacrificing, a young girl it was, they “bound her and cut her heart from her body and raised it to the heavens and the victim cried out for still she lived and she looked upon her own beating heart and then the knife came down again, slitting wrists and gullet and letting the blood flow forth. Swiftly her shuddering body was lifted and raised above the waters which ran red with her blood. At last the miserable creature was left white as chalk, propped up against a wall. Her heart was placed upon her bosom and it burned as a flame until it was but ash.”’

    For minutes there was silence as we contemplated what evil had been done, at last I spoke, is that everything then?’ I sounded exhausted and realised I had barely slept.

    ‘Yes,’ he said and I moved to the door but before my hand reached the handle he spoke, ‘sir, there is one other thing. In that book it described how the next victim would be a baby…’


    Part V:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part V: Books

    I delved deep into the records that Minas Tirith allowed only the privileged to see.

    Deep in the vaults of history their lay accounts of the Ages where there were no men, only gods and elves and Melkor, always Melkor. There were no books concerning cults but still I searched and naught I found. One scroll I found describing the Black Númenóreans and at last I found a sign: that upon tall Meneltarma the People of Númenor erected a temple to evil Morgoth, where else would be better to hold sacrifices to the Dark Lord?

    Thus I searched for books detailing the darker side of Númenor and finally I uncovered from the dust of ages one detailing the Cult of Melkor:

    Not only did the people of Númenor worship Melkor but some Sauron in his evil corrupted further: these hid from society and corrupted their descendants and it is said that they alone were advised by the Deceiver to escape fair Númenor prior to its ruin. They were known as the Cult of Melkor or amongst themselves, “The New Shadow” for if Melkor escaped from the void he would bring with him evils that not even He could have summoned in His earlier days. He would bring armies of millions, beasts of fire and invincibility that no man, elf, dwarf or Istari could slay. And the sooner He came the more dreadful they would be.

    So thus they searched for the Key to the Door to the Night and that key was the blood, of an innocent but whether the blood need be from mother, father, virgin, baby no one knows, this blood they called True Blood and here is all that is known about it for their last known record is on Númenor and nowhere else and there they failed to release Him before the ruin of the Isle.

    That I read and learnt little from, I now knew of its origins but not where to find it in this great city, save for on the night of sacrifice. But why had none of the Guards of the Fountain stopped these men?

    And then I realised that there must be a Cult Member in the Council, who though? Something nagged me at the back of my head but there the thought stayed. I would go see the King, report to him my news and tell him to beware the councillors.


    Chapter I: The Noose Tightens

    Part I:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: Child for a God

    I walked up the last flight of stairs and stood now upon the seventh level and saw the gathered Cult.

    They were standing around the fountain, chanting as they watched their leader raise their soon-to-be victim to the heavens. The Black Speech rang in my ears and I drew my sword. How could no one be witnessing them, they were hardly inconspicuous in their robes of scarlet and words of evil. I then remembered the mist that had enveloped the Citadel since King Aragorn’s death, they were using it – or creating it – to hide from the world about them. There were a lot of them but if I had the element of surprise I may be able to take a few down swiftly and strike fear into the rest. They would not risk exposure. I stealthily approached until I was a few feet behind the Cult and then charged forwards with such speed that upon impact I sent two men into the fountain water and almost fell in myself.

    There was the sound of swords unsheathing but before the closest men could draw theirs fully I ran them through with my blade and kicked them aside for I dared not let them fall into the water. Finally steel met steel and I parried angry blows until my opponents wearied. Their leader cried out to guard him until the act was done and angrily I cut a path towards him, now feeling the true extent of my exhaustion. But as I drew near a foot tripped me and I skidded on the ground then turned over in time to parry would-be fatal blow.

    ‘No! He must not die for if we fail here where could we hide? A hostage may save us, especially one so valuable.’ So I was trapped to the ground by a heavy foot and could only watch as the screaming baby was held over the fountain by a Cult member whilst the leader raised his ceremonial dagger above it.

    And the knife came down.


    Part II:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part II: True Blood

    I saw the blood trickle into the water and was helpless.

    But nothing happened. The baby was thrown aside as the leader realised this. Baby’s blood was not what was needed and as they were stunned in puzzlement I pushed as hard as I could against my foe’s foot and he fell back and soon a sword was in my hand. Angrily I was attacked and kept parrying, cautious of the water behind me. I blocked one blow and then another until at last I parried a thrust but another ripped through by arm, blood dripped to the ground below but I tried to ignore the pain, it was just a flesh wound.

    There was a hiss behind me and all swords were lowered and all heads turned to watch the water. It was bubbling, only slightly. Had the baby really been the One? No I suddenly realised as another drip of my blood dropped into the fountain.

    ‘Dúnedain blood,’ the Cult leader said, I recognised his voice but could not place it. I realised what was about to happen, the baby was already dead and I could not take them all on.

    I ran.


    Part III:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part III: Sacrifice

    I pushed through the surrounding group of people and escaped from the circle at last.

    It was not over yet and the pursuit was on, I moved swiftly towards the stairs to the level below and was relieved to see a group of Fountain Guard approaching. Then their spears were lowered and I realised that they weren’t on my side, they were Cult members. I darted to the left and found myself running towards a dead end – literally if I went off the edge. Though that was not too bad a plan, they could not give me to Melkor if I was dead, but they could find another and I was the only one who knew. I could not find them off here though.

    I turned to the right side of the jut of rock, I had not run too far and here I would only fall to the sixth level. I had come to the end of my road. It was too far to fall.

    My pursuers were not far behind and I had little time. I had to choose. Death or Death. I closed my eyes, made my decision, looked down again, gulped in fear, scrambled onto the metre-high wall that guarded any drunkard from a fatal fall and leapt forwards.

    When the Cult Leader reached the spot from which I jumped he looked down and saw me, lying spread-eagled, face up, on the ground far below him. In the mist he could only make out my immobile body.

    ‘He sacrificed himself, how noble of him, what other Dúnedain are there?’

    ‘There is one that may be of interest to you my lord.’

    ‘Tomorrow night then.’

    That was all the wind carried to my ears before I blacked out.


    Part IV:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part IV: Leap of Faith

    I leapt forwards and in what must have been a graceful dive I plummeted towards the ground.

    My body landed the bale of hay I had aimed for and relief swept over me but I knew I had to move swiftly. Pain terrorised my body as I lay on the ground in a position that I hoped looked realistic enough to fool them. In the mist they could not notice the lack of blood or any other sign so I waited. Two heads appeared far above and words reached me in the night wind,

    ‘He sacrificed himself, how noble of him, what other Dúnedain are there?’ the Cult Leader said.

    ‘There is one that may be of interest to you my lord,’ a Cult member said, naming someone but I did not hear who.

    ‘Tomorrow night then.’ The rest of the conversation did not reach me in time, exhaustion took hold of me and I fell asleep.

    If it had not began to rain a few minutes later I would have still been lying there, bloodless and breathing, when the Cult descended. The rain disturbed my slumber and I arose drowsily but remembered I had to run. Weakly I did so and finally reached the door to my house; my wife answered the door and helped me in. She asked me nothing of why I had been out, she could tell I had been in a fight but instead just helped me to our bed and let sleep embrace me.


    Chapter V: Traitor

    Part I:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: Morning

    I sat down at the table as I did every morning, took a bite of toast, yawned, despaired.

    Somewhere in Minas Tirith a man or woman was being watched, spied upon simply because they were unlucky, and I had brought this upon them, if I had not been there the Cult would be unaware that I and every other Dúnedain carried what they called “True Blood”.

    ‘Want more toast?’ my beautiful wife, Lithiel, asked.

    I shook my head, ‘Stay in today, darling; don’t answer the door to anyone.’

    ‘Why?’

    ‘Someone may use you to get to me,’ I replied.

    She nodded uncertainly, she did not mind the danger that accompanied my job as long as it paid well and that I returned to her at nights, preferably in a vigorous condition unlike the night just passed. I rose from my chair, threw my robe around my shoulders and my wife moved behind me to fasted the brooch and plant a kiss on my cheek, ‘Don’t be late again dear.’

    ‘I won’t be,’ I lied and I turned to look into her gorgeous green eyes and run a hand through her sleek brown hair, ‘bye.’

    I walked from my house upwards, frequently glancing behind me but nobody was there. As I reached the seventh level Melion rushed up the steps behind to join me. ‘Councillor,’ he said.

    ‘Heard the latest?’ I asked, ‘a baby was sacrificed but that too failed.’

    ‘Oh,’ was all he said.

    We entered the Hall of the Kings and sat around the table, we skimmed through the matters as usual but I asked to discuss the murders in private. King Eldarion consented and so the councillors departed and we moved to a room where it was less likely to be overheard.


    Part II:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part II: Besieged

    In a room overlooking the red-watered fountain, I passed on my information to the King.

    When finally I had finished I let the King be lost in his troubled thoughts and looked out the window. A storm was coming to Gondor, the sky was dark though it was not yet midday, a thick mist was crawling over the lower battlements, slowly swallowing up the houses as it climbed upwards. It was like the storm of Mordor that Sauron had sent forth before his army.

    ‘You still have no idea who is in the Cult?’

    ‘No, nor do I know who we can trust, some Fountain Guards were going to attack me.’

    ‘How can they brainwash people like that?’

    ‘I think they have some power on their side. Possibly Melkor is imbuing some sort of magic into the Cult Leader.’

    ‘Magic, what makes you say that?’

    ‘That black mist and the people within it sire,’ I replied as the fog engulfed the highest level, shrouding the fountain from view. I had seen a gathering of robed people below and knew that they weren’t waiting for night to carry out the next sacrifice.

    A moment later we were descending to the armoury, seizing swords and shields, a few guards came to aid us, the others had been corrupted. ‘What do we do, we are outnumbered?’ Eldarion panicked.

    ‘Don’t worry sire, it’ll all work out fine,’ I reassured but thought, I hope. I moved to the door that led to the courtyard, ‘I’m going out there, Melkor must be instilling magic into the Cult Leader, if I can slay him this will all end.’

    ‘There are too many, you can’t evade them in the mist, you’ll be caught!’

    ‘I need a cloak, like their robes, scarlet, go now and find one, quickly!’ I ordered a guard and he ran off, returning a while later with one that was shorter but adequate enough. Shrouded in it I pushed open the doors and stepped outside and was lost in the mist.

    I could see nothing and relied on memories to find the fountain without stumbling into it; I saw people ahead and knew I had found the Cult. I drew my sword, slowly so that it made little noise and advanced towards the stump of the White Tree.

    There stood the Leader, clasping his dagger and below him lay a woman, his soon-to-be victim.

    Upon seeing her I did something stupid, and as I look back I know that if I had done nothing, stayed quiet, things would have been different, I cried out her name and then was seized by unfriendly arms.

    ‘Lithiel!’


    Part III:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part III: Trust

    ‘Hail Istion, I am glad you are here to see the End,’ said the Cult Leader as his servants restrained me.

    ‘I’m s-sorry Istion, I thought I could trust him,’ my wife said, weakly.

    ‘Ha, trust, you can never know a man can you?’ the Leader said, his face still hidden under the shadow of his hood, ‘Did you not wonder how we knew the barman was going to inform on us? He only spoke of it to you in that noisy bar and you told only one man,’ he threw back his hood, ‘me.’

    I paled as I realised all the mistakes I had made, ‘Melion you-’

    ‘Save the foul words Istion and watch, watch as we unleash the greatest evil known to the people of Arda.’ Councillor Melion looked down at my wife, a Dúnedain, and shouted to the heavens, ‘Sha-fli Armauk ob draut hu-na Bot.’

    I resisted the arms grasping me but they held firm. Two cult members raised my defiant wife above the water and Melion raised his dagger high... and brought it down. I screamed, as I saw those horrific deeds performed before my eyes and to her! Her True Blood flooded the waters of the fountain which hissed and sparks leapt high, in the centre of the pool a great light was forming and my wife no longer shook, her body frozen by death’s cold hand. The men clasping my arms relaxed their grip as they saw their work done and I broke free, charging towards Melion.

    I smashed into him but he regained the upper hand and knocked me to the ground, unsteadily I rose to my feet as he walked around me. ‘It is over, Istion, you cannot stop it.’

    Enraged, I surged forwards and kicked him back, sending him to the ground. The glow in the fountain now leapt from the water and as a stream of lightning sped along the ground towards the White Tower of Ecthelion but suddenly the body of Melion was in its path and he screamed as the strength that was meant to break the Door of the Night surged into his body and overwhelmed him because no man could withstand such power. All his followers had fallen to their knees gasping at the pain that was not only in their Leader’s head but their own. Then Melion exploded, sending flesh flying, his head landed at my feet, strands of lightning still raging around his skull. The darkness was gone, the New Shadow had failed.

    Lithiel! I rushed to find my wife, she lay immobile as she had landed, there wasn’t much blood, it all had been consumed by the lightning. ‘Lithiel! Lithiel! I cried but she said nothing, she just stared at the heavens and there her soul had gone.

    She was dead.


    Epilogue
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Epilogue

    It was a month since the Fall of The New Shadow when I resigned from my post as Chief Councillor.

    I had never planned to stay in the White City of Minas Anor, it was not the same without her. Just settled my accounts, passed my wealth to my children, save for a little that I would use on my travels. I was armed for war and to war I was going, I had always wanted to see more of Middle-Earth and now I would.

    I mounted my steed, bade farewell to my children and galloped though the levels of the City, out of the Great Gates and onto the Pelennor Fields, I looked back at the banners blowing in the breeze, at the Tower of Ecthelion and all that I once loved. Now it just gave me great sorrow.

    I turned my steed and we were gone.


    53 YEARS LATER . . .


    Book VII: Númenor


    “Among the Exiles many believed that the summit of the Meneltarma, the pillar of heaven, was not drowned forever, but rose again above the waves, a lonely island lost in the great waters.”
    ...

    “And some there were of the seed of Eärendil that afterwards sought for it, because it is said among loremasters that the farsighted men of old could see from the Meneltarma a glimmer of the Deathless Land.”
    - Akallabêth, The Downfallen
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Chapter I: Departure
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Departure

    The golden rays of the Sun bathed the marble-bricked houses of Pelargir in glorious light.

    It was 173 F.A. Peace was restored across the lands of Middle-earth; in the dark lands of Angmar at the northernmost point of the Misty Mountains the uprising of evil had been quelled, in the Wild lands of Dunland the barbarians had been suppressed and the fairest Mansion of the Dwarves was reclaimed at last. It was in spring of this year that a small number of wealthy Gondorian nobles gathered in the port of Pelargir. They were embarking on an expedition into the unknown, the roaring seas of Belegaer with the hope of proving a rumour true, the hope of a vision that was worth tempting a watery fate to see.

    I stood upon the pier as one of these nobles. I knew the myth, I knew the risks but I had nothing to lose. My wife was lost, my children moved on, only death awaited me and at my age it was near.

    The ship that was to bear us rocked gently as the waves lapped against its hull. It was not new, freshly constructed vessels often bore problems from construction; ours was a light transport vessel, light and swift even against the wind; the sail rose up tall, freshly woven and reinforced with more material to withstand the violent winds of the raging seas.

    ‘Captain?’

    I looked up at the sailor, dark haired, skin scorched by a life under a scolding sun. ‘Provisions all aboard? Weapons? Equipment?’

    The sailor nodded, ‘Yes, sir.’

    I turned away. It seemed strange to be in a position of authority after hard toil in the wild lands west of the Misty Mountains. I had been “elected” to the position by my fellow nobles, though I knew not why they trusted me so. I saw them now approach, striding along the pier to board the vessel and the expedition would begin.

    ‘Istion, is all well?’ checked the foremost Lord of Gondor.

    ‘Yes, my lords,’ I replied.

    ‘Then let us depart. Númenor beckons.’


    Chapter II: The Bay of Belfalas
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: Sail on the Horizon
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Sail on the Horizon

    The calm waters of the River Anduin bore the expeditionary vessel steadily south.

    I stood at the prow of the ship, staring out towards where the river spilled out into the Bay of Belfalas. From there the route would be uncertain, following the setting sun over towering waves in violent tempests. Our current course was against the wind and only the strong rowers kept our movement steady; however as the vessel reached Ethir Anduin, where the Great River opened into the Mighty Ocean, the wind changed. Here the river spread first into a large delta, stretching fifty miles across, before there came the Bay of Belfalas and the Isle of Tofalas. The sailors withdrew their oars, for amongst the many landmasses and reeds of the delta such tools were awkward to manoeuvre; instead, the sails were raised for the winds were now moderately favourable. Slowly they drifted through the narrow waterways until at last the reeds vanished and they were alone in the Bay of Belfalas.

    No, not alone: ‘Captain, a sail! Portside!’

    All heads turned, I looked in the direction but saw only a dark spec on the horizon. I glanced towards the catapult tower in front of the mainsail; it looked like it would be needed. I climbed to its peak, nodded at the men that manned the weapon, and raised my spyglass to my eye. There in the distance was a white sail, with no colours flying, its course directly aimed at us it appeared.

    I hesitated, unsure of what action to take. That lonely vessel could be a well armed merchant ship, despite the fall of Umbar pirates still ravaged the coastlines of Middle-earth – though in smaller numbers. Taking a deep breath I commanded, ‘Call the men to arms.’

    A few moments later the spare sailors now crowded the main deck, manning the ballistae of which there were ten on each side. Six more men operated the two catapults, each mounted on a tower, one before the sail and the other behind. The ship bore no ram, instead relying on the fifty or so, heavily armed, soldiers who now waited to board.

    I ran my eyes up and down these defences until they rested on the prow of the ship, there the swan figurehead stared ahead over the steady waves and silent waters. I looked back at the ship, it was much closer now and my naked eye could discern the shape of the sail and style of the boat: a Gondorian warship I would speculate.

    Not that that made it innocent, any pirate could steal a ship. I raised the spyglass to my eye once more and realised it was not steering towards us, it was not steering at all. The wind in the snow-white sail was pushing the vessel in our direction, but slowly for the sail was pierced by missile fire. The hull was battered by ballista fire, but the damage was high enough to keep the water out. A cloud of dense black smoke ascended from the main deck where a fire licked the mast. This was no pirate; this was a victim of such an attack.


    Part II: What the Wind Dragged In
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    What the Wind Dragged In

    The gulls cawed as they circled above the wrecked ship, they smelt the blood.

    ‘Prepare the bodies for a funeral, get any provisions or other supplies that are of use aboard our vessel then we shall burn this ship to a cinder.’

    ‘Captain!’ a sailor shouted from the prow of our ship and I turned, ‘a ship!’ I hurried across the boarding plank, up to the foredeck and raised my spyglass to my eye.

    ‘What direction is the wind, sailor?’

    ‘Easterly, sir, same as the ship.’

    I nodded grimly, lowering the glass. There were no colours flying again, but this vessel was powering with all the wind caught in its sails towards us; as it drew nearer I spied men crawling like midges on the deck. ‘All men, to arms! To arms! All orders are rescinded, our ship must set sail, vacate the wreck, man the oars, to the ballistae!’

    It took several minutes for the ship to pull away from the wreck and when it finally accelerated to its maximum oar-propelled speed the opposing vessel was almost in ballista range. Before I could challenge the opposing vessel it gave me an answer: two loud scrapes of bolts sweeping from their cradles sounded and the projectiles shot across the ocean, straight towards us.

    ‘Duck!’ a sailor cried but unnecessarily for the bolts fell short, skimming across the ocean’s surface before coming to a sudden stop when they struck the hull of the boat at a low speed. I made a simple calculation and ordered, ‘Hold fire!’ At the front of our ships were two ballistae, each below the deck and now pointing at the opposing vessels. ‘Fire!’

    The levers were pulled and the cords were released, dragging the bolts forward at a speed unmatched by any other projectile of the period, the missiles sliced through the air, and a moment later the left bolt soared over the enemy’s foredeck and arced down into a line of sailors, too slow to evade. Their screams caused their companions to drop to the deck like a loose apple falls from a tree; meanwhile the second bolt smashed through the hull and disappeared in a cloud of splinters and dust. As the muffled screams faded our ship turned slightly portside out of the path of the enemy’s front ballistae, our soldiers were readying the boarding ramp which had a long spike at the end that would impale the enemy’s deck to get a firm hold.

    A sudden creak and unwinding sound met my ears as the front catapult was unleashed. The flaming projectile soared upwards then arced down before penetrating the calm water’s surface. Those manning the artillery cursed as they prepared for the next shot.

    We were close enough now to allow my age weary eyes to see the faces of our foes. Foul southerners, remnants of those destroyed in the Dagor Vedui. At the prow I sighted a man with long black rope-like hair and lavish jewels that identified him as the captain; he also leant on a heavy mace and kept a shortsword at his waist.

    With the pirate vessel now beside us the sail was no longer in the way of the rear catapult; a clank and whooshing sound alerted me to the artillery firing and I watched as the projectile arced over the shimmering waters and crashed down through the deck in a burst of flame. The pirates did not panic but quelled the flames. A moment later they loosed their ballistae, almost simultaneous to when ours fired. The bolts sliced through the opposing hulls and men cried out as they were skewered; some ballistae were destroyed as the missiles slammed into them, others lost their crews as the bolts cut through them. I rose to my feet when the carnage was over, ‘What are the losses?’

    A sailor replied after he checked the deck, ‘Two ballistae out of action, sir, six men out of the crews are incapacitated-.’ Suddenly there was a cry from above and both our heads rose and rested on the men manning the fore-catapult. ‘It also seems,’ the sailor added as he observed the wreck, ‘that we are a catapult down.’

    I nodded, ‘Reinforce the crews and move two unused ballistae from portside to replace those out of action; and ready the boarding ramp and grappling hooks.’ I looked at the opposing ship; it was within range of our hooks and then it would be up to the skill of our men to decide, men hurried around on the deck, collecting weapons, readying for the mêlée to come. I spotted some grappling ropes of their own being prepared; that would ease the boarding sequence. All of a sudden the ballistae were loosed again, ours firing a second before the other. Our bolts cut across the narrowing gap and struck hull, ballista and flesh, one bolt even managed to collide with an opposing projectile and the missiles shattered.

    When the destruction was over, both sides hurled across their grapples and the boats were steadily drawn together


    Part III: With Sword and Bow
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    With Sword and Bow

    Flames were alight on both ships and thick smog hovered above the mêlée that was beginning.

    I watched as our men swung themselves across to the pirate vessel whilst the enemy swung across to our side. The clash of sword on sword ensued followed by the cries of agony I once swore myself I would never hear again, from my back I took my longbow and I swiftly strung it, drawing back the shaft to my eye, to my – ‘Argh!’ I exclaimed, my age was affecting my strength if I could no longer draw to my ear; I gave one last tug and I managed to pull it another few inches, my fingers brushed my ear. I now tracked a target, predicted where the arrow would fall and released. The projectile sped forwards and caught my target in his chest, so fast the arrowhead emerged from his body on the other side along with a single spurt of blood.

    I strung another arrow and once again felt the strain I had not felt since I was fifteen, I managed it and followed a pirate as he grasped hold of a rope and pushed off, swinging across towards our ship. I flexed my fingers and the arrow whooshed forwards, over the head of the target. I did not curse for as it passed the rope from which he swung, the edge of the arrowhead sliced halfway through the cord and this sudden weakness, combined with the pirate’s weight, severed the cord completely and the sailor was hurled downwards; he slammed into the hull of our ship and then was consumed by the watery depths.

    I let fly seven more arrows then descended to the main deck, striking dead a pirate from behind as he bore down upon a sailor. The man I had saved murmured, “thanks”, but I was already engaged in a short mêlée with another pirate. I struck him in the chest and he fell backwards, winded, he would have been assaulting me further had he not fallen overboard. There was a loud cry and I slashed my sword in the direction of a pirate as he jumped aboard, he collapsed backwards and the last I heard was the loud splash of his severed torso and legs falling into the depths.

    I grasped hold of a rope and kicked off from the main deck, an arrow skirted over my shoulder as I flew towards the pirate ship and rolled to an uncomfortable halt on their deck. Instantly a pirate attacked me with fierce determination and I defended with the skill only a veteran of too many wars could have. I pushed him back and for a moment our stance was frozen as we pressed our blades against each other, exhorting our strength in the hope that the other would weaken first. Suddenly I cried out in shock as he drew a hidden knife and thrust it into my abdomen. I staggered back, the knife was wrenched from my flesh, blood flowed freely down my side, the pain shot up my body. I tripped and fell, and kept falling.

    Then everything went black.


    Chapter III: Peaceful
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Peaceful

    I felt... peaceful.

    Ahead there were golden rays of sunlight, but above a torrent of storm clouds raged. Rain poured down on the deck and the heavy patter resounded in my ears. The boat drifted onwards and at last the curtain of watery darkness rolled back and I was engulfed in glorious eternal sunlight. I raised my head, my eyes closed, savouring the sensation of the warmth, I opened my eyes and was blinded.

    ‘Sir? Sir!’

    And suddenly the light was extinguished and I lay in my bed in my dark cabin with the ship’s doctor, a sailor and the nobles all staring at me. I groaned as an icy cold washed over me, ‘What happened?’

    ‘You were stabbed, sir; then you fell down the hatch.’
    As the memories flooded back I gave a hoarse chuckle, ‘I thought I had gone overboard!’ My laugh dissolved into a harsh cough. I raised my hand to wipe saliva from my lips, did so, then saw the red specs I had coughed up, ‘Blood!’

    ‘Don’t worry, sir; you just bit your tongue earlier.’

    ‘How is the wound?’

    ‘You’ll be fit for action in a few days, you just need some rest.’

    ‘Honestly I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere.’


    Chapter IV: Belegaer
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: The Mists
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    The Mists

    It was a blistering afternoon on the calm seas in Middle-earth.

    I stood at the prow of the ship, looking ahead into the dark depths. We were now directly south of the long peninsula known as Ras Morthil – “Long Horn” – that jutted out into Belegaer; a mile or so ahead the seas would pass through the mists into the great oceans where the waves were higher than ships and the monsters of the deep dwarfed the wild Mûmakil of southernmost Harad.

    Soon the mists were upon us and I raised my head to the heavens as the moist and refreshing washed over me. I glanced back; on deck a few young sailors enjoyed the experience as I did, others – notably the elder, more experienced, sailors – raised their hoods over their heads and sheltered against a non-existent storm; and in the distance I could see the burning sunlight straining to penetrate the film of vapour. I did not have time to wonder why the veterans had raised their hoods for a moment later there was a flash overhead swiftly pursued by a torrent of rain; I huddled up for shelter and cautiously made my way below deck. As I descended from the prow I heard a crack and my head snapped up then instinctively ducked as I saw a cable, severed in the gale, slice through the air at a lethal speed. It missed my scalp by inches and proceeded to slam into the woodwork behind me making a visible dent.

    ‘Hold to your posts, lads! It’ll be o’er in a few minutes! Hold tight though, there’s oft a chance of the winds being strong enough to hurl a man overboard!’ The voice was audible but, in the face of the heavy drumming of rain on wood, only just. I took the advice and held onto the rail by the edge of the ship, I glanced downwards. The waters lapped calmly against the hull, disturbed by the beating of the downpour. Strange that they were still so calm.

    ‘There’s the light! Hold firm, boys, we’re almost there!’ Ahead I saw the end of the rain, a distant glow. Slowly the ship approached and I saw as the rays of sunlight spread across the prow and stretched out towards me. Finally the rays reached me and spread over my body and the contrasting warmth was scolding. The curtain of rain rolled back and we were beyond the mists and ahead stretched a plateau of water, undisturbed, the skies clear. Everything was quiet.


    Part II: Fishing
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Fishing

    The burning rays of fairest Anor scorched our backs as we toiled on the decks.

    Three sailors sat at the starboard side, each holding a long fishing rod though none of them were having much luck. I had been watching their desperation to pull in a fish and angry reactions as they lost the catch for several minutes as I relaxed against the mast. Suddenly all heads turned as a sailor, playing a game of chance with another, let out a loud snort of laughter. And when I looked back there were only two fishermen visible on deck. His bemused companions had no time to speculate at his fate for a moment later the kidnapper rose from the icy depths and stretched forth its snake-like head and dragged a screaming fisherman into the water.

    I swore.

    ‘To arms! To arms! Do y’wanna be food for the fishes?’ There were hasty moves to weapon chests and to the ballistae, I hurried below deck to my room where I found my bow and other weapons, equipped myself then returned above.

    The mighty serpent of the deep had risen once more and now bore down on us, baring rows of shimmering silver teeth, stained red; its beady orange eyes glowed in the midst of its black scales. Suddenly it lunged forwards and smashed its head through the mast, it groaned and plummeted and chaos ensued. I saw nothing through the mist of splinters and dust, but heard the creak of the catapults and snap of the ballistae and above all noises a roar now could be heard, growing higher and higher in pitch until it threatened to deafen all those around it. I screamed at the pain of its agonised wail, reminiscent of those long since gone nine wraiths of Sauron whose cry was only just worse. I reached the starboard rail and saw the sea creature’s wound: a single ballista bolt had penetrated its scales but such an injury would not dissuade it. It suddenly lashed out in revenge, snatching two sailors from their posts before it returned to the icy depths.

    I took a deep breath then surveyed the decks. The explosion of splinters from the shattering of the mast had blinded one sailor whilst the falling mast itself had crushed another, men cried out in agony whilst other sailors hurriedly carried the wounded below deck. The archers had formed up on the fore and rear decks and I decided to arm myself. I descended below to my chambers where I equipped myself before retuning above. Over the starboard rail I could make out the dark shape of the beast, and as I watched I saw three smaller shapes join it. It was not alone.

    With an explosion of water two heads rose up on either side, fangs like knives shining a blood tinged white in their mouths. They were greeted with a shower of missiles and the elder beast recoiled as it was spitted by a bolt. Each beast was showered with arrows but they were like needles in thick skin and the younglings held firm, seeking for revenge. I raised a second arrow but dropped it and dived aside as a small snake head hurtled towards me before retracting. I ascended to my feet and readied my sword, and for a moment Dúnedain and Serpent locked eye contact, then the beast lunged for me again and I stepped to the left, bringing down my sword into its nape. The impact was devastating to my strength and the creature’s neck; screeching it tried to withdraw but I weakly hewed at it again and my sword struck bone, once more I cleaved and, in a spurt of foul black blood, the blade severed its vertebrae and emerged at the other side.

    But its screech for aid had alerted the beast opposite and this one now struck me from behind with the tip of its snout. I fell forwards with a gasp and rolled onto my back just in time to see a group of soldiers create a wall of spears between the serpent and myself. The beast rose up high, black blood pouring from puncture wounds in its chest from the arrows and spears thrust at it. It struck forwards once again, evaded the spears and snatched a soldier in its teeth; however it was too slow for as it sank its teeth in another soldier darted bravely forwards and skewered it. It dropped its intended meal and the weight of its limp body dragged its head back into the water.

    The elder beast gave a series of screeches and it and the only surviving youngling disappeared into the murky depths, their hunger unsatisfied. The men cheered and I thanked my saviours before descending to my room where I laid down on my uncomfortable bed, clasped the healing wound on my waist and took a series of deep breaths until the pain subsided and sleep washed over me.


    Part III: Into the Tempest
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Into the Tempest

    The heavens thundered and the only way to our destination was straight through the brewing storm.

    It struck violently, the rain battering down, the winds tearing at the freshly repaired mast, threatening to rip it from the ship. I held tight to a rail, the storm seemed determined to hurl me to an icy death. I could hear nothing but the winds hurtling by, see nothing but darkness occasionally punctured by a flash of blinding light. I was sodden to the skin, my head seemed in pain from the heavy beating of water on my skull and I could see no end to the torment. Another crack of thunder overhead was closely followed by a terrible, bloodcurdling scream, then a cry of, ‘Torim!’

    ‘What happened?’ I screamed over the wind at a sailor near me though I feared I knew the answer already.

    ‘Torim, sir, he wasn’t strong enough, the wind blew him overboard.’

    If it was possible, I turned paler than I already was.

    Suddenly the ship shuddered and rocked to portside. ‘What was that?’ I asked, cursing myself for letting my voice quaver – though in this deafening gale who would hear?

    The nearby sailor hesitated and then speculated, ‘I think that was a wave.’

    ‘A wave? If that was a wave then it must be as big as... Oh sh-’

    My words were drowned out as the roar of the “wave” overwhelmed that of the wind. I abandoned my firm hold on the rail and swiftly moved to the starboard side and there I stood, petrified.

    The mighty and fearful oceans were rising up in fury, a swell of horrific magnitude, large enough to consume the greatest citadels of Middle-earth, towered above us like the battlements of Barad-dûr. A wave of evil and darkness that would swallow us like a warg swallows a rat. Screams broke out from the youngest, even from a few veterans, the rest of us just quailed on the spot.

    This monster cast us in its shadow as it bore down upon us. This was certain death.


    Part IV: Certain Death
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Certain Death

    What was beyond the darkness?

    Some say that when you die your soul crosses the Sundering Seas and spends a joyous eternity in the blissful lands of the Gods; others say that there is a harsh judgement in which any wrongdoing damns one to a hellish afterlife; and some dread a Nothing, a “life” of darkness, of no air, no body, just a drifting thought in a vacuum. I believe the Gods, the Valar, exist... but if the first theory is correct then I think it is no longer true. The gods have forsaken these lands; they have drifted out of Middle-earth taking the Undying Lands with them, so why would they let us into their heaven now?

    All around us the storm raged, lightning forked down frequently, striking the surface of the sea. We were lost to our surroundings, trapped in enduring the wave of evil come down upon us.

    Then madness struck me, from my back I took my longbow and two arrows which I strung, unhindered by the wind for now I was sheltered by the Evil. I loosed the arrows but unsurprisingly there was no reaction so with a rumble like thunder the creature just drew closer, a mouth of glimmering fangs opening up to snatch us from fearsome Belegaer.

    What happened next is recounted by my companions with numerous adaptations of fantasy and myths woven in. No-one knows what precisely happened; logic dictates that a torrent of lightning struck down on the waters around our vessel. The beast roared as bolts of light snaked around it, torturing it, scolding it. It was unnatural.

    That wave of evil rose up then, the lightning flooding it. I made out a body, a torso, a head, limbs, and a neck. I notched as many arrows as I could fire in one shot and took careful aim (which with a throat the size of Sammath Naur, was not necessary), and released.

    The arrows sped forwards, slicing through the stormy skies, all about them the lighting raged, the winds howled but nothing affected them, they stayed true on course and pierced its gullet. It roared, and its roar threatened to shake the oceans into a maelstrom. It fell back, dead, unconscious, only those in the heavens knew, and the seas welcomed the beast and we never saw it again.

    I collapsed to the deck, my mind reeling. All my thoughts of life after death, of gods... had someone heard and sent a sign? Was this mere superstition? Had divine intervention aided us this stormy day?


    Chapter V: Númenor
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I: The Landing Party
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    The Landing Party

    I shivered as a bitter breeze drifted eastwards over Belegaer.

    It was many days since the seas had battled against us with an unnatural fury. Peace had crept over the seas since then. In the raging storm we had lost all sense of time, many weeks had passed since we departed from our homelands and now after fighting beasts and elements we were almost there – if “there” existed. Months of sailing, of risking our lives, all for this moment, the moment when all those rumours, those beliefs, were either proved to be truth or dreams.

    According to the stars the night before we were about two miles from the location of the sunken isle, and now, many hours later the bleak horizon rolled back to reveal a dark blot, pointing straight up at the sky, rising from a sea of mist. Some sailors cheered, others were relieved to have survived to see this day. I just relaxed, let the wind wash over me, and waited for the time to pass.

    Across the surface of the black waters around that growing spire an of island thick fog lay; tendrils of vapour stretched forth from it, beckoning our vessel in, and as we drew near I saw how those misty vines wrapped around the hull before the haze devoured us. An eerie silence fell upon our boat and all aboard quailed from an invisible force. Soldiers hurried onto the deck; sailors readied cannons, paranoid after the last natural phenomenon but in those mists nothing stirred.

    And there came a point, when our boat had passed some distance into the mists, that there came a sound of wood on rock, and our vessel halted. The crew raised their heads and looked about displaying faces plagued with fear and confusion. ‘What is it?’ a voice cried out.

    Then a new sound came, like when trapped in a tunnel with a raging gale blasting down it, all the winds of the Arda seemed to be massing somewhere ahead – and exploded. The fog dissolved in a sudden blast of air, too light to threaten our weakened mast but strong enough to give us a clear view of what lay ahead, and what a beautiful sight it was.

    A pillar of rock rose up to the clouds, utterly sheer but for a narrow road that spiralled upwards from the ocean where its roots were submerged in the icy depths. Five long ridges stretched outwards from this pinnacle before they disappeared into the murky seas, each one coated in a thick layer of luscious green grass and many fruit-bearing trees; these Roots of the Pillar grew increasingly steeper and rockier as they drew closer to the sharp Pillar of the Heavens.

    I swallowed in awe before I returned to focus on the immediate problem. I leaned forwards, over the prow and saw what appeared to be a structure, rising from the depths, white stone with a roof bare of tiles revealing a frame of rotting, millennia old, wooden beams. From behind there came a passing gust of wind, catching the sails and the boat shifted forwards. There was a creak and the building below crumbled and I lost sight of it as the waves churned it into dust. In time we reached a halt, the anchor was lowered and a landing party prepared, I would lead it. I armed myself, for I feared there may be some wild beasts still roaming the isle; then I embarked a small boat that was to be lowered into the water with six other soldiers and one noble: Calion, the eldest son of one of the councillors I had worked with, thirty years of age with shoulder length brown hair and piercing green eyes; he reminded me slightly of Boromir.

    Once deposited on the steady seas our small vessel, pushed forth by four soldiers bearing oars, cut towards a smooth sandy slope on the eastern promontory. Looking over the side I saw the roofs of numerous structures, all oddly intact. We ran aground and disembarked onto the small beach, I knelt and ran my fingers through the sand, each fine grain trickled through the gaps between my fingers, and I realised that no man, elf, dwarf or god had stood here for over an Age and a half. It felt reassuring to stand on firm land once again.

    ‘How has all this survived, these buildings, bones, life?’ Calion pondered and I looked at the spot upon which his eyes had fallen: the left thigh bone, right wrist bones and the entire pelvis of a woman rested, half buried, in the sand, a golden bracelet with her name on encircling her fleshless arm, Illôrien was the name inscribed upon it.

    ‘I think…’ I hesitated for I was not as sure of the forthcoming answer as I sounded, ‘that it has survived for us. For any that came afterwards in search of the isle. It survived to remind us just what happens when evil overcomes us, when we turn our backs on purity and the light.’ – That sounded unusually theological for me.

    We ascended along the ridge, evading boulders and bones that appeared in increasing amounts as we grew closer to the sheer spike of rock. In the bay to the left we saw, between the ship and the Pillar, a tall tower of white marble with a conical roof still adorned with slate tiles. That was Calmindon, the beacon tower that rose from the now sunken isle of Tol Uinen. Then the ridge rose steeply and we could continue no further, instead we travelled south-westerly, along a steep rocky slope that was hard to walk upon; often we were trapped by sharp drops to the sea below or by large rocks obstructing our route. At this elevation there were no roads along the sides of the mountain but we aimed to reach the spiralling track up to the flattened pinnacle from which we could survey the entire isle and of course the sight we longed to see.

    A sudden rumble of thunder broke the silence and Callion cursed, ‘If we don’t hurry we’ll never see a thing from the summit.’

    I remained silent, I personally remained sceptical about the chance of a view of the world beyond this one; how could we see somewhere that was no longer akin with this world? It took us a half an hour to scale the southern rock face in search of the road and when we did so it was slippery underfoot for the raging waters had eroded the steps to smooth, rounded rock. Fair Anor had ceased sending its scolding rays against us and a layer of cloud had formed a grey ceiling above us. We ascended slowly and carefully, each step a risk for the fall could be fatal. Calion was eager to reach the summit and consequentially was skidding with each step.

    I knew the tales of this ancient and long lost world backwards; I had spent the long hours in my cabin poring over maps and documents regarding the isle. The last tale I had read (and how such tales came to be recounted in the east, no man alive can say) concerned the last Queen of Númenor, Tar-Míriel. She foresaw the coming wave of water that would obliterate her realm and in desperation she looked to tall Meneltarma to keep her safe from the flood of destruction. She climbed the mountain but the Gods did not spare her, the water caught her before she reached its summit. And as I related this tale to Calion we cast our eyes on the skeleton, untouched by the wave for the Gods had frozen her there as a warning. Her right arm clasped a jut of rock whilst her left held a weathered wooden casket. On her head she bore a crown, encrusted with rubies and still glimmering gold in the glorious glow of sunlight. Calion bent down and prized the box from her grasp, it was plain except for the elaborate carving of a tree, and flecks of white were still visible in the wood grain. Inside were countless gems and other ornaments, the entire royal jewels of the Númenórean Sovereigns were now clasped in Calion’s hands, the temptation of thievery was overwhelming but such items were to be shown to the King (should we ever return). ‘Keep hold of them Calion, do not let anyone steal them, they must be worth more than their weight in Mithril.’ That said I took one last look at the Last Queen of Númenor and then continued the tiring and treacherous ascent.

    Eventually our road curved round for its final time and the ruined structures of the Citadel upon the peak came into sight. That would be structure. The Tower of Elros had been reduced to a crumbled pile of pale bricks, but beside it the Temple dedicated to Sauron remained. Black stone blocks with weeds and ivy cementing them together, crude designs were engraved on the walls and as I drew nearer, and drew an unsteady finger down the grooves to confirm, I saw the blood. I shivered as if these walls had passed memories onto me through touch, maybe they had for a moment later a flash of images appeared before my eyes, each one save the last haunted by the being that had corrupted this once fair island.

    As the tales went (for such accounts must always be subjected to scrutiny when those that write them fear to slander the dead and also fear those that still live with great power), Ar-Pharazôn, being the twenty-fifth King of Númenor, was corrupted by his prisoner to whom he then trusted enough to enlist as his closest advisor. The prisoner was Sauron and for fifty-eight years he infected the purity of Númenor, he burnt the White Tree, he sacrificed those loyal to Elendil to Melkor and ultimately he sent King Ar-Pharazôn on a voyage to the West, declaring that everlasting life would go to he who controlled the Undying Lands. But the Valar saw this and called upon Eru Illúvatar who cast Númenor under the Sundering Seas and removed the Undying Lands from the world. Such was a cheerless tale, heart-rending to any mortal of Elendil’s line.

    I raised my head as my eyes followed the crumbling wall upwards, five hundred feet of cold stone that had seen the slaughter of countless men, each murder unopposed by the inhabitants. It was sickening to think of, but reassuring to know that the guilty being was long since dead, and may he remain so for millennia to come.

    And as that thought passed through my troubled mind I entered the pitch black temple, it was hollow inside with a great and terrifying altar high up against the rear wall, a long flight of foreboding steps led up to it, red fabric still adorning them, I wondered if the carpet had been red to begin with. I turned away from this evil scene and was glad the candles gave off so little light. As I stepped out into the daylight I glanced back into the temple; as if an evil spirit had passed its cold hand over them, the candles gave off only smoke, as they had done just before I stepped in. I shivered and glanced up. A storm was brewing and we were going to face the brunt of it.


    Part II: Dawn under the Storm Clouds
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Dawn under the Storm Clouds

    Under the thundering heavens the entire ship’s crew had gathered and now rested in hastily erected tents.

    Calion and I sat around a campfire, warming our hands against the flames. Overhead there was only darkness and the horizon was equally black. There was no wind, but the silence was occasionally punctuated by bouts of thunder; each of us hoped for a clear day to follow and consequentially we were all restless in anticipation, the raging storm above did not help our mood. It must have been about midnight when Calion decided he would try to get some sleep and what seemed like ages later I resolved to do the same. Rising to my feet I looked around for something to quench the flames, but in the windless night the fire quelled itself and I looked back to see it had become naught but ashes.

    It took me half an hour to fall into a deep and satisfying sleep and a strong easterly breeze woke me when fair Anor was rising from its nightly grave. I pulled on a tunic and climbed out of my tent and to my dismay I saw that the rising sun was vanishing into a ceiling of storm clouds. My companions were waking and gave cries of disbelief and curses to the gods when they saw the darkness. An hour passed in which we made ourselves a mouth-watering breakfast and washed in the sea, and then finally we all assembled on the peak of Meneltarma.

    The clouds were calm and the sun shone through them casting a shadow across the isle. Some men were praying, a strange act for the gods were not normally regarded as deities to be worshipped; others just stared passively at the sky. Indeed we had little to do, we had come in hope of a sight of the Undying Lands but nothing could be seen other than misty horizons and grey skies.

    But then, just over twenty-four hours after our boat had passed into the mists around the isle, the storm clouds gave a thunderous roar and burst. Gallons of rainwater descended from the clearing heavens in an unnatural monsoon. We shielded our skulls from the impact; the water was so heavy that it pierced holes in the fabric of our older, weaker tents; lighting struck the oceans around us and then the vapours dissipated and gave us a clear view:

    The waters of Belegaer stretched out to a bleak horizon, the burning sun caused the oceans to sparkle with the beauty that tempts sailors to explore. But the true beauty lay not there but high up, for in the once dark but now clear skies there appeared to be an island, drifting unsupported in the vacuum of beyond. Around it was a translucent layer of water that melted into the atmosphere, reflecting the silver structures and green hills of fair Aman. There was one Great Isle that held the smaller island of Tol Eressëa in the Bay of Eldamar, and to the east of this were many smaller Enchanted Isles that glistened with mist. We spied the buildings of the elves, rising up from the grassy plains, and then it was all gone as a shadow crept between us and that faraway land, the shadow of some Ainur, denying us permission to see this after world.

    And then everything changed.

    ‘It’s beautiful,’ a Lord wondered and those were his last words.


    Epilogue


    “Thus it was that great mariners among them would still search the empty seas, hoping to come upon the Isle of Meneltarma, and there to see a vision of things that were. But they found it not.”
    - Akallabêth, The Downfallen
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part I

    ‘It’s beautiful,’ a Lord wondered and those were his last words.

    Those storm clouds had returned and the mists were around us. Suddenly from those evil skies fell a bolt of lightning and it struck that Lord on his head and he fell to the ground, dead.

    Silence.

    A scream broke out, someone cried, ‘The spirit of Sauron has returned! He’s come to sacrifice us all to the Dark Lord Morgoth!’ And then with another flash that man was reduced to smoking corpse.

    ‘To the Ship!’ cried another and that one every man obeyed. We ran to the steps and hurried down until we were sliding on our rears. Fear clutched our hearts; we knew not what wanted us dead but something was against us. This was hallowed ground, forbidden to all mortals and I had a bad feeling we were all going to taste the punishment of trespassing. The winds were growing stronger and stronger, by the time we reached the level of the sea we were battling against it, each step, each stroke of our arms through the water was an effort. We reached the ship and it shook violently in the wind, a few minutes later we were drifting swiftly eastwards, the wind in our sails.

    We entered the mists and around us the waters boiled, I looked over the edge of the vessel and saw something moving in the water, evil monsters of the deep were stirring, summoned by a higher power. The rain was battering the decks, I could barely see ahead, but then someone shouted, ‘The mists are clearing, we’re almost out.’

    The sailor was correct but we were not out of the storm. As the mists faded we entered an ocean of five foot high waves and beasts that rose from the icy depths. The sails were straining to push forwards the ship at a speed equal to the wind, the roar of it was deafening in our ears but currently we were making swift progress.

    Time passed, a week went by, the waves had doubled in height, the storm was stronger, the winds more furious, the lightning more frequent. ‘Crew, companions, friends... I see in your eyes hope, I see desperation to live, but let us face the truth, the facts. Every day this tempest grows fiercer, at dawn we will face waves tall enough to sink us. This is no spirit of Sauron. No Evil manifestation. This is our own gods, the Valar, the Ainur, Eru Illúvatar himself! They dare not let anyone see what we have seen; they dare not let any mariner see those fair Undying Lands. Offer up prayers if you will. None shall save us now.’


    Part II
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part II

    Dawn.

    In the heavens the clouds were coiling around a bolt of lightning which struck the ocean with devastating effect. ‘Maelstrom!’ a sailor cried in fear. ‘Move to starboard!’ another man cried but it was hopeless. The waters were drawing us into the swirling black mass, the wind that had brought us so far was now pushing us to our doom. A loud crack suddenly sounded and all heads looked up as the sails could hold the wind no longer, the mast fell down, split in two emitting a shower of splinters, blinding those nearby. A sudden wave smashed our starboard side and the boat leaned threateningly to one side. I cried out as I was flung to the floor, my head smashing painfully against the deck.

    I rose dizzily to my feet, my vision obscured by blood and rain. In a blur I saw Calion, struggling to keep hold of the rail before another wave of water smashed into the ship and engulfed him. I brushed aside my long and unkempt hair and saw to my fear that the man was gone overboard; then my eyes saw that our ship was now on the brink of the void that was at the heart of that fearsome whirlpool. This was it.

    Behind us another wave loomed, taller than all the rest, it slowly descended and swallowed up the rear deck. All my visions swirled, death was like a grim reaper beckoning to me. I saw that void, a pit of blackness, my watery grave.

    With a crash it swallowed my body and all my eyes saw was blackness. My last breath was escaping me, my lungs clawed for air, my mouth opened and water rushed in. I remember no more.

    The darkness has come for me, it takes hold.

    Sleep is nigh.

    Nothing.


    Part III
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Part III

    A warm breeze drifted over Ras Morthil.

    My limp form was brushed against a rock and my eyes opened, my mouth parted and air flooded in. A dream overcame me and I laughed for it was no dream. I had faced the legions of Mordor, the Mûmakil of Harad, the Golden Armies of Rhûn, the Cult of Melkor, the barbarians of Dunland, the Goblins of Angmar and the worst storms to terrorise Middle-earth. I guessed some God believed I deserved more than a watery grave. I rose to my feet; then collapsed from exhaustion; I fell on my chest and consequentially spat up a lungful of seawater and a stomachful of seaweed. Then with that done I rolled over and let sleep wash over me, an hour or so later the rising tide woke me and I felt strong enough to move. Rising to my feet I walked like a drunkard up the beach and thought of how I would tell everyone of the voyage that I alone had survived.

    And I realised then that no one ever believe me, that any voyage beyond the mists would end in failure for tall Meneltarma would be gone back under the waves. Our voyage was an example set, evidence that Númenor was and always will be an isle of death. Let any great mariner set forth in search of that evil peak, they shall never spy it.

    As far as the histories can tell: Men searched but they never found, men died in search of a dream that is gone. Aman is split from our Arda, that Straight Road is lost and only when the dead rise again in defence of all that is left, when the Heroes live to fight again, only then shall it send forth ships to aid our world.

    Now as far as I am concerned: Food, drink, and maybe a horse home. No more tales for I.
    The End


  4. #4

    Default Re: [Fiction] Istion: Soldier, Ranger and Lord of Gondor

    Completion Notes [Spoilers]


    Completed: 06/09/2010. 00:11am GMT

    Author: Andrew Grant (Inarus)

    Age: 17

    Satisfaction Level: 8/10

    Author's Note: I was originally intending to write another part at the end but then I looked back and decided there should be no comeback, even though what I had planned was small but satisfying. I also intended to write about his adventures in Dunland and Angmar but I think only your imagination can do them justice. Perhaps one day I may change my mind, until then Istion can be at peace. I also intended to rewrite several pieces but I have neither the time nor energy. Look at me, I'm writing this at half past midnight with college in the morning. So yes, I think my mighty Dúnedain has endured enough, now as far as I am concerned: Food, drink, and sleep for I. No more tales for Istion.

    Thanks to all the readers for inspiring me, this was my first Fan Fiction piece, best? Up to you to decide.

    Thank you again,
    Inarus
    September, 2010

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