Dezoch watched a subdued sun rise over the eastern horizon, first light catching the tips of broken spears and notched swords littering the battlefield.  Unwanted detritus as they’d salvaged the useable weapons yesterday after the storm. Mail had been stripped from corpses, helms yanked from bloody heads.  Swords and spears were dumped in piles. 

But Dezoch’s real focus had been on restoring some measure of order.  The hours of battle, the violent storm and unexpected enemy retreat had left the eleven tribes in chaos.  The death of Muzok, the main army leader, had left the fractious coalition near turning on itself over scavenged booty and assigning blame. Dezoch had wasted no time establishing himself as new chief, clubbing one contender to the ground, menacing two others.  Overnight he had sent out fleet scouts to track the path of Gondor’s army. 

His three scouts returned, tired, but obviously pleased with their news.  Gondor had retreated north of the Limlight.  They would force him to cross it to do battle. 

Dezoch assessed his army.  They had lost four thousand men.  Another thousand were too injured to fight.  He still outnumbered Gondor two to one as their dead had yielded more than a thousand swords, spears and helms.  It would be a bloody crossing, but his numbers would prevail.  No force of nature would interfere.  He summoned the leaders of the eleven tribes for council.

They arrived one by one.  Wild haired, some bearded, their short wide bodies struggled to fit in the chain mail stolen from Gondor’s dead. Dezoch stood in his own stolen mail, still crusted with blood from its late owner.  He leaned on one of Gondor’s short battle swords, recently pulled from the body of one of his kinsmen.   

“Leaders of the eleven tribes.  We have taken the battlefield.  Gondor’s army waits for us north of the Limlight.  We can be at their throats by noon with a hard march.  What say you?

“Aye, why not finish it.  Three hours march and we are at the river.  Why give them any more rest"

It was Gorbuz, leader of the tenth tribe.  Going towards stoutness, his wild mane of brown and grey hair jutted out in all directions.  His beard was flecked with bits of gore. 

“Old warrior, let it be so then.  This day they will contemplate their death for die they surely will on the points of their own swords.”

Gorbuz grunted his assent. 

Dezoch stared at the other leaders.  None spoke.  Gorbuz had settled it for them.

“Good.  Now, finish scavenging the battlefield.  Organize your men.  We leave in half an hour.”

Dezoch turned on his heel and marched back to a small field tent left behind in Gondor’s hasty retreat.   

High above him, in an azure sky the first carrion birds wheeled in on the freshening breeze, patiently waiting the departure of the living. 

Their feast was only beginning.  The day was young.