[Third Age MOS AAR] An Orcs Tale - Completed

[♔atthias♔]

very good again I really enjoyed the update

[Turkafinwë]

Great update! Bad luck for the Gondorians and they could use all the luck they can get against the mighty Malthur. Another victory for our unstoppable Orc?

[Maltacus]

Thanks, both. The next update is about half done, which of course doesn't say much of how soon it will be ready...

Gondor has had some brighter ideas, like the ranger disruptive warfare earlier, but just can't get the hang of it in field battles it would seem. Well, esteemed consultants, how should the whiteskins deal with Malthurs army do you think? Is he really that unstoppable?

[Darkan]

The cheerleaders don their white tree shirts and line the outer walls. Go, Gondor, go! Go, Gondor, go! Or maybe not. It is of course the cheerreaders that does that.

Go Gondor, fight door to door! Go, Go, Gondor, door to door! Summon armies, Gondor go! Go Gondor, outdoors, indoors, fight the orc in corridors!

[Maltacus]

Chapter IX - III

"Muzul, report, you rotten worm!" Malthur barked. "The whiteskins have my lines encircled, chieftain! The flaming tarks are everywhere! There were first those that came up from behind but now I have foot and horse from the new bigger force as well coming up on my catapults!" "Yeah, poor little you! My heart grieves for your damned predicament. Listen up! My right flank guard will tie up those riders - they are bound to charge any time now and that is the most likely gap in our lines - and you are to move the troll crews to the front of the catapults so they have those between them and tarks! And if you have any left that ain't engaged you send them out to catch and surround any riders on your right!" "That's already done, chief! Sending out the trolls I mean, the attack is weakest there." "Figures. You start from there, work your way here with the troll crews once you've routed those flaming nuisances! I'll be keeping this maggot dung at bay 'til then. You keep your Olog-Hai with you to block the riders of their first force if they hit the right flank. And find that tark commander and bring me his filthy head!" "On it, chief!" In the middle of the rain and the slowly dissipating mists stood Malthur, in the middle of blood spraying, weapons clashing and cries of pain and fear, and fear disguised as rage. He imagined his counterpart on the other side watching as he did. This was a new breed of whiteskin captain, he faced someone not afraid of taking a chance and sacrificing his troops to win. It was not the largest enemy host but it was well led. It was distinctly similar to the battle against the ranger commander Duinhir, and had the same initiative as shown in the assault by that captured whiteskin lord, Dinethor or something, and by the seaborne army that slipped his grasp when Foulfang interfered. Good. It was too bloody long time since he had a worthy foe to battle. The whiteskin vanguard, or whatever it was, had struck from his right and Muzul had turned about on the spot facing his rear. It had been well enough so far but with the main whiteskin army coming from the left and spreading out along the lines They were now hitting Muzul in the read, although not with much strength so far. Meanwhile, the vanguard was spreading out and pinning Muzuls infantry, the front line that faced the rear now, and risked coming around Muzuls left and attacking Malthurs rear. It was a good tactic, the battle was a mess and he had no time to drench them in flames before the whiteskins were upon them. Malthur applauded the attempt, but unless there was a third whiteskin force the enemy had too few troops to make this work. Both sides were spread thin now and a battle of attrition would favor the orcs, with trolls and heavy infantry facing off against swordsmen and unbarded cavalry. Although, what if the third force was really out there, and what if it indeed consisted of the southern whiteskin armies? Could they have slipped past somehow, ferried despite the corsair attacks, to catch him here and now trapped inside their circular walls around the plain? They would run into the wraiths army. If it was still there... What if they would draw back just now, to let him be chewed up before sweeping in to deal with the remaining enemies? Typical of the flaming wraiths! No. Now he war really getting paranoid. If the wraiths wanted him gone they would have charged in and cut him down, with the filthy cowards of his army cowering in fear around them. Or removed him from command. It would make no sense to toss away his army in the process. Malthur was surrounded. They had done a neat job in that respect. But it was a net with rips and tears in it. His trolls were not contained on the right half and Muzul was sending them to new targets. On his own left he had his archers concentrate their volleys on Gondorian riders that fell back to reform and charge again. The whiteskin archers rained arrows on his, and it was grueling to not return the favor in kind, but his troops maintained their discipline. The heavy infantry was fragmented but held, locked in its place. On his own right wing things looked better. Muzuls trolls had drawn the foes attention and his flank guard of Olog-Hai was unengaged for the moment. Malthur could see professional enemy infantry meeting Muzuls trolls and sent orders for his own to charge the enemy flank. That would be the opening. Four troll companies against one of humans. Then he could use that opening to work his way along the infantry line and roll up the enemy front. The battle formation with one half turned to face the enemy had been needlessly complex, a simple wedge would have been much more efficient. Whether open or pointed towards the enemy, the V-like formation was almost always a guaranteed success, being easy to change and to shift between offense and defense. He had been too caught up in that flaming idea of two halves of the army operating independently, but even so they should have made use of something more compact to keep all the riders out. Malthur resolved to fortify the camp and siege lines outside the city a little more than planned. It didn't hurt to be prepared, especially not when you had others to make the preparations for you. His troops had been slow and lazy when responding, and would still need some good deal of kicking and whipping to get back in shape he could see. Perilas lay dying. He knew that. His left leg was numb and senseless but his hip hurt like there was a fire inside. He could barely turn his head to look at what was happening around him. His infantry had broken, at last, but they had made him proud before the end. Militia and yeomen standing up to heavy halberdiers, orcs or not, and those monstrous trolls. What a waste, still. The fog had lifted now and the rain ceased, but there was smoke in the air. Something burned somewhere. Perilas thought of Nirdir. Nirdir had been wrong, but they had made one hell of an effort. He hadn't expected the militia to last so long, or the riders to be so persistent. Perilas quietly forgave his friend. Maybe there hadn't been any good choice this day. He could see shapes moving far too his side. He rolled over - how it hurt - and saw that they were militia archers and footmen. They needed to get back behind the walls, but they were exhausted and broken. If some of the orcs, like their archers, had more strength left they would be easy prey in this state. Could he do it? Perilas grasped for something to lean to. He could see a spear shaft a few steps away and started to crawl to it, noticing that he was starting to feel very cold. The day was going to be clear and perhaps there would be snow the next time the sky turned cloudy. He raised himself to kneeling, hanging on to the wooden pole. "Come on, you filthy vermin! Get over here and finish it! I am Perilas, you flaming curs! Come out and face me!" He had to hang on so long as he could. But he was growing so cold. Those damned orcs had better have heard his tirade. He didn't know if he had the breath for another. He was so very, very cold.

[Alwyn]

Malthur, surrounded? This is worrying, our noble hero must prevail! Minas Tirith is so close.

This comes across as a very enjoyable battle - it's certainly a very enjoyable update. Perilas's reaction to what has happened is nicely shown, a touching moment.

[Turkafinwë]

Malthur in a tight spot and nervous? Surely our sly hero will find a way to worm himself out of it. Like Alwyn I loved Perilas' moments in this chapter, a strong and noble man indeed. A good update to be sure!

[Maltacus]

Malthur, surrounded? This is worrying, our noble hero must prevail! Minas Tirith is so close.
This comes across as a very enjoyable battle - it's certainly a very enjoyable update. Perilas's reaction to what has happened is nicely shown, a touching moment.

Malthur in a tight spot and nervous? Surely our sly hero will find a way to worm himself out of it. Like Alwyn I loved Perilas' moments in this chapter, a strong and noble man indeed. A good update to be sure!

Zis Gondorian rabble shall not stop us (adapted quote from Age of Empires II French campaign).
Hm, so Malthur seemed to be in that tight a spot? How interesting, because I didn't intend it to seem quite as dire when i wrote the update. I'll add some notes about how it went in the next update.

[Maltacus]

Chapter IX - IV

There was a cold breeze blowing this day. Up among the peaks of the White Mountains it blew up and brought with it snow and ice to hurl out across the lowlands below. The ground turned hard and stony where the wind touched and muddy tracks became as small mountain ranges and ridges upon which wagons would slide and shake. Snow fell upon Minas Tirith and Pelennor and buried the sad sights of the war that had reached the capitol. Orcs shivered as they replaced shovels with pickaxes to dig their entrenchments and field fortifications around the city walls. Further out east, the gale met the reinforcements under the ringwraiths command that made their camp close to the Rammas Echor and at a safer distance from unexpected sallies from the city gate. The snow fell on the frozen victims of Mordor, its enemies and its thralls alike, who lay as they had fallen. Humans in mail and shields clashing against orcs with plate and halberds. On both flanks were horses and riders broken and torn apart by the huge maces and clubs of the Olog-Hai. Stretched thin on every part of the battlefield the human armies had the orcs surrounded - surrounded but not squeezed hard enough to break. When the day grew longer and fatigue made feet unsteady and arms shaking, uruk armor and cohesion had held out, and the savagery of trolls know not such obstacles as exhaustion or dismay. The snow fell on the tracks of the few militiamen that had made it to the gate and the tracks of the orcs that had pursued, only to turn away towards where a frozen shape hung from a spear shaft, clinging to it with dead and freezing hands. The orc army was ready. For days they had fought a battle from afar against the ballistae and catapults mounted on the city walls. Orcs set fire to all they could inside and Gondorians crushed whatever they could reach outside. Many catapults had been lost and many emplacements had been destroyed. Now, all of the orcs artillery was ready in one unbroken line before the city gates. Malthur felt like he could feel the fear of the city. It trembled before him, prey ready for him to take. For all its high walls, Minas Tirith would not stand against him any more than the villages, towns and cities he had broken before, and her defenders would not succeed where so many before them had failed. He hungered for it. Here was the ultimate prize, the dream of any uruk to take. And it would be he and no one else who took it! He had built his army and drilled it through years for this moment. He had forged it into a construct of fire and blades that grinded everything and everyone in its path to blood and dust. Not even the traitorous, double-crossing, spiritless cursed wraiths had been able to undo it. He would not allow it, even if he had to slash the heads off half of it in the process. "Fire."

[Alwyn]

The ultimate prize, indeed! An exciting moment for our noble hero.

[Turkafinwë]

"Fear. The city is rank with it. Let us ease their pain. RELEASE THE PRISONERS! CATAPULTS!"

A short but sweet chapter! A fine jewel ready to be besmirched by Orcish hands.

[Maltacus]

Chapter IX - V

"I tell you, it's like them mining wretches do it. You pour cold and you pour hot over it all after each other and the rock cracks and gets brittle like iron you cool too late." "You fool, it's bloody freezing here! That little heat from our boulders ain't 'nough to heat a thing, it's the pounding that's gonna break those doors!" "You calling me a liar? You calling me a liar, you creep!?" "I'm calling you a fool, but clearly that's beyond your flaming comprehension." "Why, you little..." "LUGDUF! Get your stinking units in order! MUZUL! You are supposed to keep the maggot-eating dunghill swine in line! Make an example of those idiots, I want them flogged in front of the city gates they so eagerly debate!" "Aye, chief." "Will be done, chieftain." Malthur angrily turned his gaze to the side to watch for more jesters ruining his moment. He would have no more of that on the day of his supreme triumph. The splitting headache from the sun as it was mirrored by the snow was quite enough. He had by all means allowed the experimental bombardment with barrels of water against the gate to have it freeze over the night, then fiery boulders against some parts of it and then cold water again, but anyone in the army should be instinctively aware of the fact that there were two things only that broke enemy gates as well as enemy armies - the chieftains commands and the orcs obedience of them. "It's giving way!" "The gate!" "Keep firing, maggots!" "There it goes!" "OLOG-HAI! Into the city! The more whiteskins you catch, the more you get to eat!" "SMASH THEM DOWN!!!" The ground shook under leathery feet and mountains of iron plating. The Gondorian defenders were pulling their troops back along the wall but at some point they would have to cross the streets to reach the second city gate. On that street the Gondorian rearguard stood their ground, stubborn mailed infantry from Lossarnach armed with two-handed axes. They bit deep into the troll skin as heads were beaten to pieces and limbs crushed by troll maces. Turgon of the second bow company of Minas Tiriths militia ran as fast as steady as he could behind the one hundred and twenty-two of his colleagues that tried to keep up their pace and at the same time not lose their footing on the slippery and icy stone. His helmet and mail shirt usually drew out all the heat he could muster but now he found himself sweating like it was summer. Time and time again he turned his head to see sometimes nothing and sometimes the huge shapes that were hunting them. If anyone fell, he would not rise again fast enough. Next to the street were snow that none had had the time to spare to see piled up in the assigned spots or sometimes against the houses for added insulation when the winter was very harsh. The chase went ever upward, with pockets of militiamen shooting from rooftops or balconies, and small forces patrolling the inner walls. So few of them there were now, after the terribly bloody battle against the besieger that the steward had led them to. It had been a gamble and Gondor had lost it. Now they had to fall back to some place where so few could make an effective defense. Fear stole the strength of a man when he needed it the most. When it became great enough to overpower his stupidity or his bravery, it had become great enough to turn his legs numb and his hands to tremble uselessly. Breath came in short, uneven and insufficient gasps. So quickly the thick winter wools, the hard helmet and the unreasonably heavy chain shirt weighed you down until it was a wonder you could do anything more than crawl on the ground. They must go up, up and further up. From one end of the city and then to the other did Turgon have to run in his chain shirt so they could reach the third level, for the fashion of Minas Tirith was such that it was built on seven levels, each delved into the hill, and about each was set a wall, and in each was a gate. But the gates were not set in a line - the Great Gate in the city wall was at the east point of the circuit, but the next faced half south, and the third half north, and so to and fro upwards, so the paved way that climbed toward the citadel turned this way and that and then that across the face of the hill. Turgon nearly ran into the ranks in front of him. Why had they stopped now on this platform? He could hear faintly the arguments up ahead, apparently the captain Noruinivnir had halted his company and was ordering them somewhere. "...and I don't give a damn what you think of this, sergeant, you are going to hold this passage until the battlements are dismantled!" "We have trolls at the most a minute behind us! There is no hope at all to hold long enough! And even so, what then!?" "Haven't you listened!? We break the battlements above and let the boulders rain on those trolls, pushing them back and letting the holding companies..." "...whatever bloody pulp is left of them..." "Letting the holding companies fall back before we drop even more of the wall to block the street entirely! That is how we hold out until the reinforcements from the south arrive! It is the only way!" "Urgency does not equal feasibility. I will station my men on the slope but I consider myself holding until we are all forced to retreat behind the fifth gate." "We retreat only when I give the..." Noruinivnirs voice was suddenly drowned by the dreaded howls of the Olog-Hai. They had to move now! Why weren't those swordsmen giving way? Archers should stand behind swordsmen to shoot, not the other way around! They had to move! A troll had pushed Turgon and half a dozen more out of its way without taking notice of them when they charged the Gondorian formation, or more accurately mob since all had ebecome disordered and intermingled with each other trying to form up and unconsciously get as close to the street leading upwards as possible. Another troll stepped on Turgons arm and crushed it. His pained screams caused a third to look down briefly and stab at his chest with the spikes of its mace, silencing his screams with the blood that filled his punctured throat and lungs. The captain Noruinivnir fell back with the remaining swordsmen when the lines were broken through. They were trapped against the wall opposite the streets and there would be no escape. The last riders they had tried to force their panicking mounts forward one last time. The Olog-Hai had waded in blood but even they tired in the cold and dry air and their movement were slow. They could not defeat the battle trolls but perhaps there was a chance for some of them to sneak through and make it up away to the next gate. Noruinivnir looked out between two trolls but suddenly realized there was nothing but more of them behind. Where had they come from? Then he realized that the orcs had their catapults operated by such beasts and their chieftain must have sent the crews inside as reinforcements. Just as Noruinivnir was struck by the realization his feet were swept away by something he could not see and the next moment he was trampled by the enemys reinforcements as they rushed in to finish the surviving Gondorian swordsmen. Yet while her defenders faltered the walls of Minas Tirith would withstand the orcs that day. The fifth gate revealed an almost unbelievably sharp slope, quite impractical and unusable by wagons. In peaceful times, there were elevators and cranes constructed against the wall on wooden frames to lift goods and construction material further above where new wagons and hand carts would load them to bring everything further up. Now there was no trace of such things, the timber used for palisades or spare parts for the city's artillery. And orc catapults, even crewed by the massive trolls, could not be rolled up along the icy and slippery street, the beasts feet finding no point offering support as they strained to push the large contraptions. Uruk archers and halberdiers covered the sixth level unto the next gate, where even the heaviest of axes made little impression against the steel covered oak timbers. Numenorian craftsmanship, while on a decline as in most areas, still stood proud. Malthur received the reports of the situation in the city with his usual collected wrathfulness. A setback it was, but it would only be temporary. All the gates on the lower levels were permanently eliminated, either shot to pieces by heated rocks or simply torn and lifted off their hinges and thrown to the ground by trolls. The immediate matter was how to fortify the sixth level in case of the, admittedly unlikely, event of a Gondorian counterattack. In addition, the lower levels of the city might be used for quartering his troops to get away from the biting cold on the plain. And the outermost city wall was of course anothe rline of defense against any enemy reinforcements. As Malthur deliberated such details, he caught sight of a group of riders on black horses trotting closer from the east. The plate armor of the retainers and black cloak of the leader left no room for doubt as to their identity. It was not their witch king, nor was is Khamul, but the voice was almost as dead and hollow and still caused his blood to turn cold and his old scars to ache again. "OVERSEER. THY FAILURE SHAMES THE DARK LORD." Even Malthurs self-restraint in the presence of his tormentors was not unlimited. "Failure!? We have them! WE. HAVE. THEM! The last gates will break from a simple ramming, it is just the matter of having it lifted up to that cursed street!" "SILENCE, ORC." The last epithet was delivered with a vehement sneer that told all about how low the speaker regarded each and everyone of the race. "REMOVE THY WEAK MINIONS FROM THE CITY. THOU WILL SEE THEM ENCAMPED ON THE PLAINS EAST OF THE WITCH-KINGS FORCES WHERE YOU WILL CONSTRUCT THE EQUIPMENT YOU LACK TO FULFILL YOUR ASSIGNED TASKS." "Leave the city!? You mean abandon all we have gained today, for no reason!" "SILENCE, SERVANT. MIND THY PLACE OR THOU SHALL BE REMINDED OF IT. HAVE YOUR RABBLE SWIFTLY MOVED OUT OF THE WAY FOR OTHER FORCES WILL TAKE CUSTODY OF THE CITY." Malthur suddenly understood the game behind those illogical orders. He turned about. Sure enough, there was the witch-kings orcs marching towards him. They would line up to be ready to march into the city and hold the lower levels while he built siege equipment that could be assembled on the spot once it had been carried in parts and pieces to the upper levels. That would prove no great difficulty. But once his army marched out between leering hordes of ringwraith bootlickers it would appear as nothing short of a defeat with his forces leaving the city bloody after todays battle. And then naturally also appear as if the wraiths marched into it to salvage the situation! All he had regained of order and discipline the last weeks risked being washed away in this tide of humiliation. And the ringwraiths would be there watching expectantly for any pretext of removing him from command and label him traitor and rebel. Malthur clenched his jaws until his teeth were grinding against each other and faced the ringwraith again. "It will be done."

[Turkafinwë]

Lovely update! What a battle and again those blasted ringwraiths spoiling the party. They really are party-crashers those nasty, cloaked, hissing, sacks of .... uhum excuse me. End ringwraith supremacy. #Orclivesmatter

[Maltacus]

The ultimate prize, indeed! An exciting moment for our noble hero.

Noble nobility indeed.

"Fear. The city is rank with it. Let us ease their pain. RELEASE THE PRISONERS! CATAPULTS!"
A short but sweet chapter! A fine jewel ready to be besmirched by Orcish hands.

After Minas Tirith a certain directors home is next on Malthurs list for that surpassingly ridiculous portrayal of Gothmog. Not to mention the with-kings flail (yes, Malthur would even defend those guys in this instance).

Lovely update! What a battle and again those blasted ringwraiths spoiling the party. They really are party-crashers those nasty, cloaked, hissing, sacks of .... uhum excuse me. End ringwraith supremacy. #Orclivesmatter

Fire up the flame spam and send forth all legions! Social media shall be conquered! It is the sacred homeland of all trolls after all... #Orclivesmatter

[Alwyn]

This update brings home the challenge of taking such a many-walled city, which sits on such a steep slope and whose walls and gates were made such skilled craftsmen. The arrival of the cloaked rider is a well-executed twist. Will triumph turn to disaster or will our hero maintain disciplne and save his reputation?

[Maltacus]

Chapter IX - VI

The snow had melted and the ice let go of its grip of eastern Gondor. The plains were once again bare and wet. It was a morning four days after the city gates had been stormed and once again black armored uruks marched under the great gatehouse of the outer wall. The orcs under the ringwraiths direct command manned the two lowest levels of the city but had shown little interest in keeping and securing the upper parts, or been held back deliberately. Houses and wall points were manned and patrolled well enough but it was clearly with defenses in mind and not to keep the enemy restricted. It was thus no surprise for Malthurs vanguard to encounter a Gondorian raiding and scouting party when they moved in to retake the third and fourth and fifth levels. Battle trolls were once again spearheading the assault and siege crews followed bearing parts of battering rams that could be assembled on the spot once they had been carried, dragged and lifted by ropes past the slope behind the fifth gate. Four large beams formed a frame with wheels upon which the whole contraption rested. Three pairs of wheels gave it mobility. To the frame where also three pairs of vertical beams fastened and strengthened by a matching number of angled such that connected at the center of the frame. From the vertical beams hung the ram itself, a large log with a sharpened and steel-tipped end. All those parts could be bolted together on the spot and taken apart for another climb should the need arise. Trolls crewed the ram with no protection for themselves, but had little need for it since the sixth gate lay almost undefended. Before the sixth gate lay a small town square, a place for limited commerce and for shoring up goods and supplies before having them carried further up or lowered by the cranes near the fifth gate. Now there was an eerie stillness about the place and only the grunts of the Olog-Hai and the creaking of the crude timbers of the ram were heard. When it was in position the trolls needed no handles but grasped each one of the beams from which the ram hung and heaved in unison back and forward, facing away from their target to add their back strength to the movement of the arms. Here the trolls were built in a somewhat different manner than orcs or humans, and more easily moved with their upper back in aid to their arms. Hence they favored wide swings in battle not only because it let them hit more of their prey most times than an overhead strike downward. The impacts of the ram grew from a heavy knock on the doors to crushing and cracking sounds where materials broke apart. Metal straining and bending, wood splintering, the doors groaned and lamented the steady pounding they endured. In the middle, an iron bar bent inwards, the wood cracked. Another one over it gave ground as well to the ram, whose tip was now visible through the hole. The trolls howled with excitement and the rammers increased their pace, fueled by the prospect of breaking further into the lair of their tasty prey. Long forgotten smiths and carpenters had fashioned and crafted the doors with minute care and pride in their trade. Not only strong but easily operated despite their weight and adorned with figures and patterns hammered and engraved into the metal surface the doors had been a source of much pride and endless hours of oiling, furnishing and careful repairs over years, decades and centuries. It was indeed a strong obstacle, with ironclad timbers that defied all sorts of blades and axes of an assailant. But for all the strengths it had open and even ground outside it and no beams braced it against a rams heavy impacts. The legacy of generations of craftsmen and builders cracked, bent and splintered in the end. Above the winding stairs and streets no rams could be rolled but the gates were smaller still and the gate vaults could not accommodate doors that were thick and heavy enough to withstand troll hammers and maces, nor the unhinged log from the battering ram carried by them. Orcs flooded the stairs and towers, cutting down disheartened defenders that were falling back at every turn. So high up the top of the mountain slope was visible and green patches of moss and grass clung to the bare stone. No real defenses were built in such directions, for hat foe would scale the very mountainside? Only one road led up to the courtyard before the stewards hall with the white tower of Ecthellion that had so long been the pride and hallmark of Minas Tirith. In those halls had generation after generation of stewards ruled Gondor after Eärnur left the realm without an heir when he at last answered the Witch Kings challenge and rode through the gates of Minas Morgul to duel the ringwraith. Never again was he heard or seen outside and the stewards ruled until a king would return. Their rule went unchallenged, for while many could lay some claim to the throne the memories of kinslaying and inner strife lay heavily on Gondor and none wanted to risk more of such disasters. Weak and strong, wise and rash, stewards saw Gondor wane and wax, giving ground to retake it and then be forced back again. Many losses and many gains there were, but ever the white tower stood unbroken. Ever did Gondorian faces look over the battlements in defiance towards the east. Until now. From the highest level were for the first time seen enemy banners, the red eye and wholly red flags and pennants, Malthurs signal that the way to the citadel was clear and the last gate breached. In the back ranks of the orc army there were eyes with hunger in them, eyes with hatred for the tark city, eyes with fear of the next orc that would pass and eyes with leering malice towards them. And one pair of eyes with utter despair in them behind, for the first time in months, unending tears running freely for Minas Tirith and all of Gondor that had fallen for the orc chieftains hand. The weight of his colossal failures and monumental betrayal held his chest in a grip that seemed likely to just squeeze him to bits like the hideous trolls any moment. He hung from his chains that tied his arms to the cart, ignorant of how the shackles grinded against his arms in that position. Let it all end now. He could hear the steps of iron-shod uruk feet. Perhaps that would be his end. A gauntleted hand gripped his one arm roughly and he could hear metal clattering against each other. He realized that his right arm was free and almost fell down from the lack of support. With his head slumping forward he could see black plating before him. His left arm came free and he fell down on his knees and hands on the cart, breathing heavily. "I am sure you have realized that your city is taken by now, whiteskin." said the most hated voice. "Have you come to finish your work, fiend? Get on with it, then." The orc chieftain leaned in closer. "Finish it? Far from it. Do not think I would let you off that easily, you backstabbing coward. Though you showed some guts at that moment I guess, it is truly a pity you could not have summoned that up earlier, then you could maybe have put up some flaming resistance in the first place." "Then what the hell are you here for?" "As I said, I intend to repay you properly for all you have done. I will set you free. And I know you fully well enough to know that you won't bring yourself to end it for there is always the so small a chance that you could find some pitiful tarks to give your...valuable...aid, and neither will you ever let yourself forget just how much you yourself contributed to all this, or just how close you think you were to finish me off and prevent it. And that, my friend, I do believe is worse than anything I could do to you." Malthur said and indicated the city walls where smoke and hideous banners defiled them. The orc chieftain grasped him by the collar and seemingly without effort hurled down on the muddy ground. With filthy earth in his face and the cold eating at him anew he could hear the familiar mocking malice in the orcs voice. "The proud armies of Mordor thanks you for your services, Cirion." On the very courtyard, beneath the sacred White Tree itself, the last defenders made their stand, having rolled out the trebuchets from the battlements to form a crude wall behind which they took cover. Aradors best troops, professional soldiers of Dol Amroth, braced behind their shields together with the remaining militia companies of the city. The torrent of iron and leathery skin that was the Olog-Hai washed over the forerankers who had taken up the position just behind the beams of the siege machinery to stab from the cover. Blood splattered over the ancient stones and covered the mountain trolls. In his reckless frenzy, one of the middle trampled a swordsman in blind rage and proceeded to attack the next enemy with a mighty goring of his head, crowned with a horned helmet. The enemy on the receiving end was the White Tree itself, where the troll had now embedded himself in its trunk. Behind the trolls crept a worm of metal and spikes, the uruk infantry that was catching up at last after their own climb up through the city's winding streets, having broken into barricaded homes, towers and isolated strongholds along the way. They ended any Gondorian that still drew breath after having been knocked out of the way by the charge and onslaught of a troll mace. Before the gate of the Stewards Hall, the last of the white city gave up their lives and died in a broken mass. Minas Tirith had fallen.

[Turkafinwë]

Oh boy what a great chapter! The weaving of Gondor's history and rise and fall with the battle was very enjoyable. Malthur really shows he possesses a malice and evil that could rival Melkor himself! (Don't tell anyone, it might be seen as blasphemy and I wouldn't want some ringwraiths knocking on my door). Thus the White City falls. I wonder what comes next.

[Alwyn]

A great chapter, indeed, and a fitting end for the attack on Minas Tirith. I wonder what Malthur the Mighty will do now and what will happen to the prisoners who was released.

[Maltacus]

This update brings home the challenge of taking such a many-walled city, which sits on such a steep slope and whose walls and gates were made such skilled craftsmen. The arrival of the cloaked rider is a well-executed twist. Will triumph turn to disaster or will our hero maintain disciplne and save his reputation?

Yes, Minas Tirith is extremely defensible contrary to the custom elven settlements for instance (gate without doors...need more be said?).

Oh boy what a great chapter! The weaving of Gondor's history and rise and fall with the battle was very enjoyable. Malthur really shows he possesses a malice and evil that could rival Melkor himself! (Don't tell anyone, it might be seen as blasphemy and I wouldn't want some ringwraiths knocking on my door). Thus the White City falls. I wonder what comes next.

Quiet! They may hear you!

A great chapter, indeed, and a fitting end for the attack on Minas Tirith. I wonder what Malthur the Mighty will do now and what will happen to the prisoners who was released.

Only one was released, but maybe "prisoners" was a mistype? Cirion is closer to home than in a long time but the question is if there is a point returning home with Malthur and ringwraiths roaming the neighbourhood.

[Maltacus]

Chapter IX - VII

...make no mistake, Malthur, you will never climb higher, nor will any of those who succeed you... ...all who look upon you will know that they gaze upon the weakest and least among chieftains and why it is so... ...let's see what truths and lies we can discover beneath the surface... ...you were supposed to be dead, you know... ...it is time you relearned your place, orc. Or someone would perhaps be given the pleasure of reminding you of it... ...a strange thought it must truly be for you people, who see only a new back to stab when you look around among your fellow orcs... ...you are insignificant, a speck of dust blown before the eastern wind, a flake of ash floating above the fires of the dark lord... ...march too slow, and you will die... ...march, slave. Drive your army north... The courtyard did at first lay eerily still. Moments after the last Gondorian had fallen orcs and trolls looked around at each other in search of new enemies, not crediting their senses yet. Had they really done it, taken the tark city from where the enemy had always come after them? Then the momentary tension ceased to grip the most careless or arrogant, and they relaxed their hold on weapons and breathed out, shouting profane insults at enemies no longer present, or laughing madly at having made it through a siege that could have been infinitely more costly. As orcs always tended to do, many started to eye the fallen foe with the look that humans would cast on a plate of freshly baked pies. Uruks closer to the path up stood at attention suddenly, and ripples of orcs scrambling to form up formed from that part of the courtyard. Between ranks of quiet halberdiers entered the chieftain with his bodyguard marching behind. There was no way of telling what his demeanor was like behind the spiked helmet and none really wanted to find out that much. Ever quiet, Malthur marched across the stones until he reached the piles of fallen next to the white tree, now cut and desecrated, and the Gondorian trebuchets. He bent down and drew his dagger, cutting in some way at a body close to him. Still the orcs were quietly murmuring, anticipating but unsure. Rising and stepping up on one of the siege weapons platform, Malthur held up the breastplate he had cut loose from one of the humans and then tossed it out over the crowd. "Dinner plates!" He swept out his arms as in welcoming a party of guests and presenting to them a table filled to the brim with delicacies. "Meat!" He pointed towards the white tree of Gondor and the trebuchets. "Firewood!" The orc chieftain smiled, triumphant and menacing, at his orcs and trolls. "What are we waiting for!?" It was a feast like no other and never heard of. Trolls waded in delicious raw meat, taking bites here and there or stuffing themselves as full as they could. Orcs lighted fires randomly all across the yard and roasted freshly cut meat on sticks and broken spears and anything else they got their hands on. Drinks had been sent for as soon as the red banners were raised on the walls. They had broken the ancient enemy, the iron-clad, cold-eyed, sharp-steeled tarks. The silent terror that each orc of Mordor shared was that those tarks would one day stand outside the gates and overseers or nazghul would stand behind them with whip and sword in hand, driving them forward into pitiless sharpened steel, glimmering so that ones eye hurt and gazes filled with contempt and hate. But now they were broken and beaten, now their tower was beneath the great eyes gaze and dominion. And deepest, deepest down that thought was not a little bit terrifying in itself. But in the moment, such thoughts were washed out with great swigs of orcish spirits and drowned in the greatest chunks of meat that one managed to bite off. Least fortunate in the gathering were those few scouts that Malthur had posted on the top battlements to keep an eye on the plains around, not completely necessary as many of the orcs strolled to the rim of the courtyard to have a look at the lands they considered themselves to have conquered. The fields of Pelennor, the disheartening great river, smaller woods and fields south and east where the more rugged Lossarnach began. "What are those?" "Must be Gorbags rabble." "Nah, them lot was the other way..." "The nazghuls army, maybe?" "Make way! Out of my path with you!" Muzul, still diligent as second in command, pushed his way to the wall. "Those aren't any of ours, boys. They must be the tarks from the south we have been racing against to get here before they could sneak in and man the battlements." "Ha! Let 'em come! "We'll show 'em some bloody defense of this tower, we will!" "Time to teach them a lesson 'bout how it's supposed to be done!" The outbursts attracted the attention of more of the orcs and also their captains. Muzul found a heavy hand grasping his shoulder and turned around angrily, but stilled himself as he met Malthurs dark gaze. "Muzul, gather up the meat you can and distribute it among everyone to carry." "What...I mean, what for, chieftain?" "We are going to move out." "Why!? What the hell's going on!?" "Call it prudent caution. I would prefer to be wrong but I'm sure none of us will be that damned lucky today." "I still..." Malthur turned around angrily and to Muzuls eyes he could might as well have grown to twice his size, so unexpected was the grimness and hatred he sensed in the chieftains countenance. This was not the time to second-guess. "NOW, Muzul." "Will do. Will do!" Had Muzul looked over the wall in that moment he would have seen runners scrambling up the pathway, panting and with legs shaking from the climb. Uruk sentries watched with contempt but let them pass. On the edge of the courtyard could be heard screaming and chattering as the runners evidently demanded entry. Malthur shouted out and waved at the guards to let them pass though. It was with the greatest difficulty that the first one could form words. "Chi...chie...chieftain...they...they calls all out! Them...them...th-th-the...the w-wraiths! All are to form up...on the plain before the gates!" Muzul scratched the back of his head. Malthur had been right again it seemed. What was this about? It was with considerable despondency and reluctance that Malthurs troops marched out. The casualties among the orcs had been minimal but most trolls were wounded, while not fatally, and it would greatly slow them down the coming days. But most of all it was profoundly wrong to leave the safety of the walls and the untouched treasures that awaited the victor inside the vaults and the large tower. Outside were the armies under Gorbag assembled south of the city walls, and the witch-kings main host stood before its gates. Now they stood in marching formation but Malthur was not unaware that their front was still aligned so that he would have to march before them, in a far too obvious likeness to the previous exit out of those gates. Before the orcs there rode forth black numenorians on their warhorses, not in pairs or dozens but in squadrons. In their middle they had parted, and the sky darkened and the light faded before the ringwraiths unseen gazes. Malthur had the time to think that the next time he would appear on a throne borne by the trolls, only to spare himself from having to look up at anyone that was too lazy to use his own legs. Then cold grasped his heart and he felt the wraiths gaze upon him. He sighed and forced his stiffened limbs to continue marching before their crowned captain. He hoped his bodyguards marched impeccably, otherwise he would flay them afterwards if they made a fool of him now. Malthur knew with certainty what he could expect, but he found himself burning inside still when the witch-king spoke. "VANGUARDS OF THE ARMIES OF GONDOR HAVE CROSSED THE RIVER FROM LOSSARNACH SOUTH OF THE WHITE CITY. YOU WILL MARCH OUT AND DESTROY THEM." "We have just seized the greatest flaming fortifications on this side of the huge river! Why the hell would we move out in the open from such a position!?" "ARE YOU QUESTIONING THE WILL OF THE GREAT EYE, SLAVE? IT WOULD BE UNFORTUNATE IF I HAD TO WASTE TIME ON SELECTING ANOTHER COMMANDER WHILE KHAMUL MADE A PROPER EXAMPLE OF YOU." "We will march out and crush the whiteskins, then."