They had lain hidden in shallow gullies and drainage swales, they tan woolen garments blending in with the windswept grasses. 

One by one, the scouts from Gondor made to cross those gullies only to be suddenly overwhelmed, pulled from their horses and bludgeoned.  Now Gondor’s eyes to the south were closed and silent.

Dezoch hiked out of the swale and made way to a low rise.  To his north the land gently sloped upward to a low rounded ridge just a league away where the land then eased down gradually to the elevated plateau where Gondor was making its stand.  Off to the northeast he spied black smoke rising above the plains clotting the sky with oily coils.  It was the signal he’d been waiting for, that the battle was about to begin.

It meant he had to wait.

To wait while the main Balchoth army battered Gondor’s mail clad soldiers, wore them down, spent their arrows, numbed their sword arms.  Then his six thousand men would roll over the low ridge south of the battle and sweep down upon them in a screaming rage.  Gondor would be crushed from the east, north and south.

Dezoch waived to his men who arose from low spots, shallow ravines and gullies.  They would march north quietly, then take position on the low rise overlooking the battle. They would await another signal. Then they would charge down the easy slope, rolling up whatever faint fabric of defense Gondor might have vainly retained on their southern flank, piercing the heart of the army and perhaps that of the Steward himself.  

Nothing short of a miracle would save them.  Dezoch did not believe in miracles.