Orc Attack – Part Two -

   Doran had never felt so young since the day he had entered service as a Citadel Guard of Minas Tirith. He strode from his hut alongside the rows of small buildings, helping here and there with cheering words, correcting the inept attempts at securing a net to a post, and encouraging those of the women, who said that all their efforts would be in vain. He felt strong again, and it was that feeling he had missed for too long. In the short time since Strider – or whatever name the son of Thorongil preferred – had retreated into Nilana's hut Doran had commanded the aimless crowd to work. He was not surprised that they heeded his words: most of them had not seen service in war. And those who had experience, Doran had immediately assigned to lead small groups of anxious fishermen.

   Doran nodded to himself. He was quite knowledgeable, and the small village was brimming with activity he had not seen for many long years. The children and old people had already left, the cattle were driven out of the village, and some of the young folk, who had as yet only listened to Doran's stories, now came to ask what new tasks he could give them. Despite the bitter doom ahead some thought this to be but the realisation of their dreams. Doran could read enthusiasm in their reddened faces and did everything he could to explain to them the seriousness of the situation, but he was not certain they had understood at all. Silently he shook his head and turned to where the women were carrying bowls and buckets filled with oil westward. Men were still digging the trench, but it would not hold back the enemy for long. He knew that. But he agreed with Strider that their aim was to surprise them. Maybe they would fend them off. Maybe not. Doran could not say, but when asked he displayed all the courage he had learned as a soldier. He wanted to convince them. For once – and he was sure it would not happen again – he was in the position to prove himself worthy as a leader. Now all that he had experienced ought to be of use to his companions. He would not rest until they all had fulfilled their tasks; until they all had taken their positions and were convinced themselves that there was a chance of winning.

   He swallowed, his eyes turned westward. The enemy they expected was cruel and reckless. A shiver ran down his spine thinking of their ugly faces and hideous behaviour. Strider had only pointed out why they would come, but he had not mentioned their viciousness and how they delighted themselves in slaughtering their opponents. It would not be an easy fight even if the number of Orcs was not terrifying enough to make the villagers turn and flee.

   A woman tapped Doran on his arm, her eyes full of fear, and he turned to listen and try to help her.

-o-o-o-o-

   In the hut the light was dim. The fire had burnt low, and when the wanderer woke it took him a moment to realise where he was. The rest had been short, but he felt refreshed. He found a bowl with water to wash his face, and bread and soup to eat. Nilana had left him immediately after he had lain down to sleep, so the hut was quiet and empty. He took a look around, and the thought of a silence lasting forever hit him. Within hours the Orcs could destroy this village, burn and break down the huts, and displace all the men, women, and children. They would be dragged far away to become servants for those beasts. He closed his eyes again, resting his brow on his palms. The thought alone was dreadful, but he had seen it happen.

   When he opened his eyes again, determination shone. Whatever was necessary to help those people, he was willing to do his share.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan exited his grand-father's hut and almost stumbled over two young boys, who stretched taut a rope they held at both ends.

   “Hold it!” he shouted. “I'm not the enemy!”

   “We win!” the first one yelled with glee. “Doran said so!”

   “We beat 'em back!” the other agreed and they ran off with the rope between them, almost bringing a woman to the ground. She screamed at them angrily, and laughing they evaded her slapping hand.

   Daevan shook his head. From the moment of shocked silence to this activity he had obviously been asleep for more than just a few hours. The sun was shining brightly. Squinting, he scrubbed his beard, looking left and right. Doran turned and came to meet him.

   “Aye, you're up finally! You missed quite a lot… tears, outbursts of anger, entangled ropes, curses of different shades…” He flashed a smile with few teeth. “But they are working as you see.”

   “I deemed this quite unlikely.”

   “You deemed right. But Strider and I pushed them into the right directions.”

   “He's already up?” Daevan asked with surprise and stifled a yawn.

   “Aye, and Gaellyn is spitting bile!” The old man laughed. “Go, look for yourself, they're still digging out the trench.”

   “Should I walk in where I could get spat at?”

   Doran slapped his back heartily.

   “Aye, take a shovel and go to work! Or I shall make you!”

   Daevan grinned and walked to where twenty men were busily digging. The wet soil was heavy, the complaints too many to count, and the first sentence the young man heard was “The oil will never burn in here! Not in a lifetime!”

   Strider looked up. His face was covered with sweat and dirt, and his long hair hung in wet strands, but his firmness could not be missed. He welcomed Daevan with a nod, and addressed the speaker.

   “Of course you have to fill it with hay first!”

   “Hay is…”

   “Or old cloth!” he interrupted impatiently. “It has to burn as high as possible to fend them off at least for a while!”

   “What if they see through this…”

   “There are no 'what ifs'!” Dinúvren interrupted heatedly. “If you'd dig more and talk less we'd be finished with this already!”

   Daevan began digging beside the son of Thorongil, and when the sun reached its centre the women brought water, bread, and dried fruits. Again and again all the workers gazed towards the west. No clouds of dust would announce the horde. They would appear suddenly and fall into their village like a plague of locusts. Daevan feared that moment more than he would admit. He had never fought other than in his daydreams after his grand-father had told yet another story of his time with the forces of Gondor. But there was another unbidden thought creeping into his consciousness: if this horde of Orcs had found them, would not others follow? Would it not be wise to desert the village and seek refuge in southern Gondor?

   He dug the shovel with more vigour into the wet ground. They would face the evil now and think about staying or leaving later.

-o-o-o-o-

   “They're coming! They're coming!”

   The fearful shriek of the young boy – much higher than his usual voice – roused the men from their late meal. In the last light of the setting sun he ran as fast as he could as if the Orcs were right behind him. The men stood, and Dinúvren caught the slender boy when he stumbled.

   “Slow down, Fimbre! I have you!”

   The boy's face was contorted with a despair that immediately took a hold of all of them.

   “They're coming!” he repeated amid his panting. “They're close!”

   “How many?” Strider approached, casting aside his bowl. “What did you see?”

   “Many of them!” Fimbre wiped his dirty face. His brown eyes were wide. “Many, many of them. They… they came out suddenly! From… I don't know! But they are huge! And they have spears!”

   Strider put a hand on Fimbre's trembling shoulder, stooping to him.

   “Calm down and tell me exactly what you saw. How many rows did you count?”

   “ A great many.” Fimbre turned to look at Dinúvren for help. Strider exhaled. They had sent a boy, who could not even count.

   “How far are they away?”

   “I ran… I mean, I saw them march… on the horizon. That's when I turned to come back.”

   Strider set his jaw and turned to the waiting men.

   “They'll be here soon! Take up your weapons! Retreat to the first row of huts! We will give them a welcome they will not forget!”

   “Do as he told you! Hurry!” Doran added and shoved one of the women back towards the huts. “Make haste! The lads come with me! I’ll disperse them!” He marched back, not heeding if they followed him, but he had not got far when a group – with Fimbre amid them – departed for the village. Some men collected the shovels, and two women poured oil over the old cloth and thin twigs, which other men had put in the trench. Daevan thought that the stench of fish alone could make the Orcs turn on their tail and flee. He followed Strider back to the border of the village.

   With keen eyes the wanderer stared westward, awaiting the horde. He had his sword ready, a simple but effective piece of craftsmanship. Not for the first time Daevan wondered why Strider carried a second - a broken - sword with him, a device of no use. He decided that – if he were allowed to live through this battle – he would ask Strider.

   “Now's the time to use what I gave you!”

   Daevan swivelled around, startled. Taken at unawares he looked at his grand-father.

   “But I don't know…”

   “Daevan, stop stuttering!” the old man said fiercely. “I gave it to you to use it! Not to rest in its scabbard to rust!”

   “I… I know.” Daevan looked down at the scabbard and the shimmering hilt. He had never thought of Doran parting with his cherished sword. It had proven its value during his serving time, yet Doran had only told little of its ancestry. The one thing Daevan knew was that his grand-father had stated that Ranaél had a mind of its own. “But I…”

   “Nay, there's no time for hesitation. You must help defend our village! No time for lessons now!” He gazed past his grand-son. Strider looked at him with a weary smile. “Aye, I know I should have taught you before! Alas,… ah, I'll better see what the others are doing!” He abruptly turned and left. Daevan still stared at the hilt and sheath, which was scratched, but still beautiful to his eyes. How often had he stared at it while it had hung high on the wall of the hut?

   “He is right,” Strider spoke into his thoughts. “You had better hurry.”

   “Aye.” Daevan swallowed and nervously fastened the belt. The weight on his left side felt strange and comforting. Yet without experience he would not gain a victory just by showing it to his enemies. The few lessons in sword-fighting he had been given seemed to have vanished from his mind.

   “The best defence is to avoid the attack.” Daevan turned his attention to Strider. “Step back, and then raise your own sword. Orcs are slow. They rely on their numbers, not on their agility and skill. Evade and bring down the sword the moment the enemy is taken by his own momentum.”

   Daevan nodded, but was uncertain if he had understood the wanderer's lesson. But there was no time for more. In the distance the torches of the moving horde could be spotted. The young man's heart sank as he took a look around. The village would not be what it was now.

-o-o-o-o-

   The Orcs moved forward, gladly accepting the darkness as their companion, licking their lips in anticipation. For too long they had walked that muddy plain, and many times they had lost one of their companions to the stinking fen. Such an environment they had not encountered before, and they were afraid of it, but had tramped onwards, sent eastward by the Man, whom they had called their leader, and who had ordered them to bring workers from the villages. Now they were in a foul mood, seeking revenge for their losses, seeking fresh meat to feast upon. For weeks they had only chewed on old bread and the remnants of animals they had captured further west. They were starving, but their chieftain had promised them more than they could devour in a night.

   With their torches lighting the way, the mass of bent bodies reached the settlement. In the fire's gleam Daevan saw small eyes and big maws behind crude helmets. Fangs with big yellow teeth were bared, and commands bellowed. The creatures were clad in ragged leather armour and boots made of fur and skin, all of it looking muddy and patched. Daevan swallowed, and gripped the hilt of Doran's sword tighter. His heart beat so fast he felt it pounding against his ribcage. The enemies carried bows, and black scimitars, which were notched and stained by frequent use. The earth trembled with the many feet tramping over it, and for a moment Daevan feared there would be hundreds of them – a simply overwhelming mass -, but when his mind cleared he realised there were no more than fifty of the ugly creatures approaching.

   The fishermen had retreated to the first row of huts, pretending that the village would be easy to invade. At the trench the Orc-captain raised his strong, leather-covered arm. The horde halted impatiently – they could already smell Men - while its leader sniffed the air, then stooped to the trench. He growled deep in his throat. Daevan clamped his mouth shut to stop his teeth from clattering. His hand on the hilt was wet with cold sweat. Another growl followed. The chieftain summoned up enough words in the Common Speech to form a barely comprehendible utterance, but his roar was enough to frighten the fishermen:

   “Move on, you maggots! Men's flesh is waiting for you! Remember to leave some tall ones alive! The others you kill!”

   He jumped over the trench, and, with a jeering yell, his men followed him.

   Strider had hunched behind the corner of the hut, and when half of the gruesome creatures had passed him by, he rose to throw a burning torch into the trench. All of a sudden flames leapt up high in the air, illuminating the figures, blinding them with its light. The Orcs outside the trench screamed in terror. They moved backwards, shouting, rising their clawed hands in self-defence, and squinting their sensitive eyes shut. The others and their chieftain turned, irritated, and taken by surprise. For a moment they halted, not knowing what to do. Then they saw Strider emerge from the shadow. The chieftain raised his scimitar.

   “Move on!” he shouted. “Get them! Pile 'em up! That tark's mine!”

   Then the mayhem started.

   The Orcs poured into the village, driven by hunger and the lust for the kill. Their spears and battleaxes raised they were heedless of any danger, as they rushed forward, each eager to be the first to set his teeth into flesh.

   Strider crossed blades with the chieftain, driving him back. Two Orcs joined him, weapons drawn, and the wanderer slew them both with heavy blows. The leader retreated, and Strider faced another row of goblins, drawing him into battle.

   The first Orcs hurrying into the settlement were felled by a rope, pulled taut across the small pathway. They hit the ground hard, and before they could get up again, heavy blows from axes ended their lives. Gaellyn spat on them and quickly moved back into his hiding place. Their minions turned left, but before they could enter a hut, one of them got entangled in a net thrown from the roof. Men with clubs beat him down until he did not move again. The young boy on the roof yelled with glee, a sound quite bizarre among the gruesome shouts of the enemy.

   Daevan stabbed the first Orc with Doran's sword. The enemy dropped dead to his feet, baring yellow teeth with a last dying howl. The young fisherman stared at the dead body, then at the bloodied blade. He was terrified. A shadow appeared in front of him. Another goblin! Too late he raised his sword. Too late he evaded to the side. Yet the crude blade never scratched him: Strider cut off the Orc's head the moment before the scimitar hit. It tumbled over the ground, while the rest of the body slumped over the first.

   “Watch out!” Strider shouted at him, his face tense and fierce. “Move!” Within a heartbeat he had turned, hewn off the arm of another foe with a raised blade and killed the creature with a fast strike. Daevan retreated quickly, hunted by yet another foe. But the goblin tripped and fell over a coil of rope. Daevan pierced him below the breastplate, pulled back the blade and moved on.

   The fire burnt low. The Orcs, who had run back and forth along the trench, jumped across it and - howling and hissing - they joined their companions. They released flaming arrows, and immediately roofs caught fire. Two boys, who had lain hidden, tumbled down to land hard on the ground. The first one was slain by an enemy. The other, quicker on his feet, threw a handful of dust into the enemy's eyes. Then he escaped around the corner, and dodged behind the main pole. The Orc followed swiftly, but ran into Dinúvren's dagger. He slumped across two others, who had already drawn their last breaths.

   There was no time to help those, who had less luck than the boy. The Orcs now prowled the village, aware of the traps. They avoided some, and the fishermen burst forward too early, running into the blades of the enemy. The villagers fought bravely, and never gave in, but defended their friends. Suddenly they realised that there was a chance to win.

   Strider stabbed the Orc chieftain's back in time to save Dinúvren. The fisherman stood panting, his eyes wide with horror as the creature fell with his scimitar still in his upraised hands. Dinúvren was unable to say a word. Strider made sure he was unhurt before he moved on to battle with three foes, who were pursuing a boy down the settlement's main path. They never got any closer to their prey.

   Daevan retreated. The sight of the hideous creature frightened him, but the long, curved blade bore a much greater threat. He felt a pole behind him, and quickly dodged the deadly blow. The scimitar stuck in the wood. Shrieking the goblin tried to free his weapon, but Daevan slashed his throat. This time he had the weapon ready to keep on fighting, but he only saw Gaellyn, who was in flight from a crooked-legged Orc. Daevan paid no heed to the fearful shouts, but intercepted the goblin, hewing off his hand. He went down bleeding. Gaellyn halted and turned in shock. That moment a dagger was thrust into his right arm. He screamed and dropped to his knees, letting go of his spear. From the other side an arrow was loosed and killed the Orc. It utmost astonishment Daevan saw Fimbre with the bow in his slender hands. He had not even known the lad could draw it.

   The skirmishes went on, illuminated by the spreading fires. Women ran to throw buckets of water to douse the flames, and their husbands and friends defended them against the survivors of the horde. But the Orcs realised that their prey was harder to kill than their chieftain had told them. Ever and anon they were thrown on to defensive, even by boys, who had listened to Doran and who now took advantage of their new found knowledge. The Orcs were maimed and killed, either by traps or by the ferociously fighting villagers. Doran had ordered them to leave none alive, and they were following his advice with cold determination.

-o-o-o-o-