Cirion watched the wind rip the black smoke away from the two great pyres of the Balchoth. 

“It is a signal, General!” he shouted at his army leader, just returned from the battle, slightly spattered in blood of unknown provenance.

“They do not roast mutton with their fire.  It is an ill omen of something we do not yet know” the General shouted back over the wind, nearly a gale.  Cirion rode closer to him.

“None of the morning scouts have returned.  Again, we are blind to the south.  I fear that those fires have summoned a host from that direction, one we can sorely face.  How do we stand?”

“The men fight steadfastly, Lord.  They have claimed more than two of them to our one.  Balchoth pile up like winter cordwood, yet more clamor to test our shields and offer themselves to our swords and arrows.  But even the arms of butchers tire.”

Cirion knew that a terrible decision was upon him.  Most of his army was facing east, fully engaged with the hordes of Balchoth.  His position was exposed to the south, guarded by just one regiment of barely a thousand men.  If they attacked in strength from the south, his entire position would be rolled up as they hit the rear of his lines.

There would be only one solution.  The regiment would beat a fighting retreat.  It  would link with the southern tip of the north-south combat line between Gondor and the Balchoth.  Grudgingly they would fall back as the combat line gradually pivoted to a northeast to southwest angle , then finally an east-west front that would concentrate their position. It would also open up a tactical retreat to the north, crossing the Limlight, forming a defense on its far shore.  It could be their last stand.   

There was little time to contemplate the possible.  A shout from one of his personal guards, finger pointed animatedly south.  Cirion followed the line up the shallow slope to a low rise to the south.  His heart sank.  Like maddened ants swarming over a neglected picnic, he saw what he had dreaded for two days, the southern wing of the Balchoth spilling over crest scarcely a mile away.

Before he could turn to him, General Vorandur had galloped off to his commanders in the center wing to begin the pivot back and linkage with the thin southern regiment.  Cirion ordered his signal men to sound the trumpet for a fighting retreat to avoid the regiment being overrun completely.

Then he turned to the Master of the archers. 

“Make haste to the south with your first battalion.  Slow the enemy as best you can to allow our regiment to the south to retreat north.  Return then quickly, behind our reformed line.  Your second battalion will stay here to riddle the enemy who will seek gaps as our line regroups on an east – west front.

Orders were shouted.  Five hundred archers hurried south to take up positions and buy time.  The remainder checked their stock of arrows, tightened their bows and waited further commands.

Cirion cocked his head.  Thunder, distant thunder on the wind.  He wheeled his horse around, galloped up the gradual slope to the west, pausing at the crest.  It took his breath away.  A long black wall of cloud was nearly upon them, its ragged skirt skimming the windswept plain, veins of lightning racing through its dark heart.  It was headed his way, fast.

A tight smile creased his patrician face.  What strange stay of luck this was. They might yet live to see tomorrow.  He knew what to do.