A captain has three duties that count. The rest is either means of fulfilling the three or superfluous details.
Protect the crew.
Protect the ship.
Save everyone else.
They are, in that order, the only things that matter in the situations where the captains title and authority truly matters. All else is pointless ceremony, petty and shallow. Anyone who will not do his uttermost to fulfill those obligations is a disgrace to the vessel he commands and the title he bears, and no real man at all.
Protect the crew. The position was untenable. They would be crushed by the prepared artillery. Istdor signed to his officers.
"Turn about and move it a thousand paces back, and be quick about it! I don't care if the lines tangle, they must get out of the fire!"
Protect the ship.
"Signal the boats to retreat out and warn the fleet! We have no chance to embark again here, we make contact again with the fleet near the beaches further south, which they must keep their eyes on!"
Save everyone else.
Istdor sighed. Around him was chaos as the infantry was turning and sprinting, boat crews hurrying to their oars and the quartermasters and their marooned deck hands stubbornly trying to gather up what little of the supplies they could carry on them.
"Leave it!"
"We can take some with us, captain! We can't run or fight on empty bellies!"
"You can't take anything with you if you're dead! Leave it! Colfinmens unit will provision us!"
Istdor hurried with them after the infantry. Colfinsmens half had been the vanguard. They had not brought many supplies with them except for tools and materials to fortify their position. Colfinmen had been supposed to cover Istdors deployment, not the other way around. But the orcs had outmaneuvered them once again and struck at their soft belly, quite literally in this case.
They were at least not too fast, though, Istdor noticed. The Gondorian infantry outpaced the enemy, who followed in a controlled manner, keeping their formation. They would have some time before the enemy caught up. They had to use that time wisely. In fact, it was rather simple. They had to get away from the orcs and they had to retake some of the supplies. So the first measure had to be to retreat further from the shore and lure the orcs away from the discarded baggage.
"Commanders! Turn the army east, by a quarter of a turn! We will link up with Colfinmen at the road!"
East over the waves of grass the ship of men now steered. Istdor waved and nodded to the rightmost two companies, which broke off south. He hoped they would be able to stay out of sight.
The army was coming over a taller ridge now. Istdor took the opportunity to climb a rock near their path and looked west. The orcs were steadily following, in formation and prepared. Their ranks was a carpet of black, crude and misshaped swarthy shapes that blighted the countryside. But what was that... That was a taller shape, even if it was hard to make out in the distance. Istdors eyes had been the best on every ship he had served on, but a lifetime of wind and sun had taken its toll even on him. There...he could see the strange orc again. He had grey armor, not black, and he was tall. Was he one of the accursed men who served Mordor? Probably, but there was something with him. Something that had made Istdor think of something. He just could not put his finger on what.
He could not stay where he was any longer. There was an army to save.
Colfinmen had taken up position on a hill with excellent view west. His force had been alerted and was waiting in formation. Istdor ordered his force to spread out and combine with Colfinmens, and then walked straight up to see the other commander.
"You heard about the landing?"
"Yes, my lord. They were waiting for us, all the time?"
"They must have been. They let you walk past, even though they could have smashed you at the shoreline, and allowed me to land as well. They want to catch us all here and cut us off from our retreat."
"Makes sense."
Istdor viewed his sparsely spoken colleague inquisitively.
"I mean, that is the kind of strategy that they were reported using before, isn't it? Like when they besieged Aravirs and Cirions army and let them take the time to walk into the trap properly before closing it."
Istdor did barely hear him, for his thoughts were racing back and around and around to that moment early in the night.
"Istdor waited, standing motionless with his thoughts drifting back to better days. Even to the war council in Pelargir when Duinhir presented the plans to destroy the orcs. It had been a moment of such strength and cooperation, of mutual trust and energy. It seemed so long ago now. Duinhir was gone, caught at last in the open with his peerless archers. The promising captains, such fine lads..."
No...
Not him... Not him.
Istdor ran. He stumbled, he was deaf to the shouts of his men. He was blind to everything but the next hilltop. He must reach it, climb it, spy from it, he must see, he must know...
He sensed younger and faster men catching up and slowed down. He would not reach the hill if they thought him mad. Glancing sideways, he saw their worried gazes but they followed him as a retinue still. There was the hill. He must know. One more step, and another...
The orcs and trolls were still too far away. Istdor sighed.
The first thing you could see as a thing of its own in the black mass was the trolls. The second was the catapults. Thirdly, different companies and units were becoming visible. Then the different armament of the orc infantry would become possible to discern.
Istdor suddenly realized that he had lost count of how long he had stood and watched in that same place. He took in all of the picture of the orc army advancing in the midday sun. There came halberdiers, archers, swordsmen. Catapults manned by orcs and those manned by trolls. Clusters of trolls on their own with only their giant clubs, hardly even needing a weapon to wreak havoc among enemy ranks. Istdors eyes darted from one to another, black helmet after black helmet... Where had he seen him before? Was it a specific company? Not with the bowmen, he was sure of that.
Istdors retainers were watching the sides, nervously shifting this way or that, clearly displaying that they thought it high time to fall back. He took no notice of it. He was, admittedly, transfixed by the sight of the orc army. Their order was almost immaculate. The speed was not bad for a force with field artillery rolling with them. But he could not see what he searched for.
Istdor felt a hand on his shoulder. As if from a great distance, he heard the call for them to go back. He lingered. He could watch for a little time more.
The archers were spreading out now, perhaps wary of Istdors group signaling an ambush. They were almost in range. A brave fellow grabbed him across the chest and started to drag him backwards from the hill top. Istdor struggled. He had to see. A group of the orc archers appeared to make ready their bows. Istdor sighed, and let go of the struggle. He would let the others lives go to waste just for his own sake.
Walking back with heavy steps, Istdor turned around to look one last time before they descended from the hill. Just one look.
Then Istdor saw him. Close to a company at the back, possibly the orc commanders.
Time stood still and Istdor perceived nothing but the other one with the rest of the world as a blur around the tunnel of his sight, but in it he saw with every bit of clarity of his hawkeyed youth.
Not him... That compassionate soul, concerned for a tired stranger telling a hard to believe tale. That noble heart, not wishing to condemn Dinethor based on rumors and unproven claims.
Not him...
Istdor had known it deep down. There was in truth no other explanation. The orc chieftain was good, no doubt about that. But nobody could appear everywhere at the exact right moment by being a good field commander.
Betrayal. It was not the first time in Gondors history. But it was the first time as far as Istdor knew that someone would sell them all to an orc. It was...degrading.
Colfinmen approached, staring at Istdor with a frown that said a lot of his thoughts about his private scouting sortie.
"What the hell was that supposed to be, my lord, if I might ask!?"
"Colfinmen, I have learned something. Something that I must bring to the ears of Gondor."
Colfinmen stared quietly at him for a few moments more.
"You know that we can't outmarch them. Not forever. We must stay together to keep them from sending the trolls running in and butcher everyone at will, and that will make us slower. Besides, we have almost no provisions."
"If we can lure them here, I have a plan for that. And we don't need to outrun them indefinitely, only so we can make it to the next shore and signal for the fleet."
"Won't do, captain. They are closing in on us."
"We just need..." Istdor sighed.
"A head start. I know that too, captain. I ain't blind." Colfinmen sighed too, then straightened his back and seemed to grow solid, to a rock in the ground. "I will give you the head start you need. I have my own catapults, or your ships, rather, and those mongrels wont like to march their precious trolls too close until we are silenced."
"Don't... Don't throw away your lives without a reason. You take what supplies we have left here, and you pack it with you and make a run for it when they come close. Take to the woods and split up. They can't take you all."
"Those of us still standing by that point, that is. There will be raining a lot of fire here today before we are done... Make it count, captain. Protect the crew."
"Protect the crew."
Colfinmen was turning around, seeming to Istdor now as a statue of stone, immovable, solid as the mountains.
"Catapults! To me! Let's give those beasts a taste of their own brew today!"
Malthur smiled viciously under his helmet. This had been a good fight. It had not been the largest battle, but it had challenged him. The enemy artillery had indeed posed a threat even to his trolls and he had been forced to take special care to spread his own artillery out to aim the maximum number of pieces against each of the Gondorian ones that came into ranger. Needless to say, his crews had won the duel. The infantry had held a hill to their right meanwhile, discouraging the enemy from making any sudden charges, and luring him to focus his attention on the infantry while the trolls bombarded him.
Still, there were too few enemies here. The bulk of them had got away for now. But he would hunt them down. Not even rangers would stop him from that. He was just about to give the order to disassemble the artillery to march quicker when he noticed scouts running to them from the rear. It was odd, running in this sun. Something was going on.
"Chief! They have taken the shore again!"
"What?! Who?!"
"Those Tark footmen! They came around from the south, two companies strong at least, and chased us off away from the coast. They seem to be retaking their food and such at that place!"
Malthur silently applauded the human commander. It was a sound plan, distracting him here while the rest made off and took back their provisions. He also cursed himself for not having burned those supplies earlier during the day. Sloppy. Now they could have a long march ahead of them. But they had marched before, and not all the woods in Ithilien could shelter the one that Malthur marked as his prey. For the second time, Malthur breathed in to order the army on the move when he was interrupted.
"Chieftain! Riders be comin' up on us from the north! They're a host o' them!"
"Who are they?! What kind?"
"Heavy plate, chieftain. Black horses. They look like the ones...the ones that ride with the wraiths..."
Malthur saw from a distance how his infantry parted, giving way for the riders, indeed not showing any will to remain close. He looked intensively for their captain, burning with hot fire at the thought of the wraiths. But the leader was no wraith.
A tall and evil shape, mounted upon a black horse, if it was a horse, for towering and horrible it seemed and its head was a mask of horror, more like a grinning horses skull than a living head and flames burned in its eye sockets and nostrils. The Lieutenant of the tower of Barad-dûr he was, and his name is remembered in no tale; for he himself had forgotten it, and he said: 'I am the Mouth of Sauron.' But it is told that he was a renegade, who came of the race of those that are named the Black Númenóreans, and he entered the service of the Dark Tower when it first rose again, and because of his cunning he grew ever higher in the Lord's favour; and he learned great sorcery, and knew much of the mind of Sauron, and he was more cruel than any orc. He reined in his horse in front of Malthur and his captains, measuring them and let out an echoing laughter.
"Is there any in this stinking rout with authority to answer to me? Or indeed with wit to understand me?"
Malthur discreetly counted the bodyguard and took note of the Black Númenóreans armament. They were the best equipped troops of Mordor, but they were still only men and their horses had little protection. He did not doubt that they would make an impact when charging, but trapped they would be easy to unhorse, especially for the trolls. Perhaps seeing or guessing the chieftains thoughts, the Mouth of Sauron continued speaking.
"Malthur, Malthur, what did you think? Did you believe yourself out of the great eyes sight? You are nothing, overseer, not worthy of the time of those better than yourself. Did you believe you could somehow go as you pleased just because some farmers ran before your little fire sticks?"
Malthur remained silent, his eyes deep pools of darkness under his helmet.
"It is time you relearned your place, orc. Or someone would perhaps be given the pleasure of reminding you of it..."
"A wiser man would have shut up by know, Tark."
The rider looked around, hissing with malice, but continued his speech.
"I serve the great eye! Raise steel against me and it will be a nazghul you see riding into your camp next time!"
"A little skittish, aren't we? Why don't you get out of my camp and continue serving somewhere out of my sight before one of your lackeys does something very foolish?"
"The eye has orders for you, Malthur! If you still claim to have any measure of loyalty to the Dark Lord, that is! The corsairs of Umbar do not display the fervour that we would have them. The fleets of Gondor and her allies sail unhindered. March to Umbar and bring them in line. Show the Haradrim that crossing the Dark Lord is death!"
Malthur watched the last of the horses disappear behind a ridge. He pondered the orders delivered by the little Tark maggot. He had been tempted to give the order to butcher them all, but he suspected that there was a grain of truth hidden somewhere in the threats of wraiths. The Black Númenórean had after all found his camp uncomfortably fast and his army was not the easiest to hide.
Umbar. It was the real capitol of the Haradrim even if their chieftain sometimes resided elsewhere. Umbar held the fleets, the slaves, the loot gathered through centuries of pillaging...
If Ammu Khand had been farfetched then Umbar was ludicrous. The deserts of Harad were said to be without end and only fit for snakes and scorpions. And the Haradrim were said to be unbeatable in their home terrain. It was a sensible plan, Malthur admitted. He would be lost in the deserts and any reputation would die a mundane and unremarkable death with him. And his army would soften the Haradrim up for the bootlicker hordes that would follow.
On the other hand, if anyone would ever find a way to the gilded cities of the southrons...
He smiled and produced the rod-like leather case he always kept on him these days and opened it. Harad was large, no doubt about that, but not large enough to be entirely without trails. They seemed to follow what had to be rivers, and those rivers would have dug out ravines. Ravines meant shade.
Indeed, if anyone would ever find a way to the gilded cities of the southrons...then it would be him!
"Form up, you maggots! Prepare to march south, to riches beyond imagining!"
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