“Down the slope!  Cross the river you fools!”  Dezoch screamed at what he felt was the slow pace of the Balchoth advance now that Gondor’s arrows were spent.  Some he just cuffed on the back of the head.  The more reluctant he clubbed in a rage until his commanders pulled him away.

No matter, hundreds were slogging across the Limlight every minute, meeting the thin ranks of Gondor’s North Army on the far shore.  Gondor’s soldiers fought bravely but their swords were being overwhelmed by Dezoch’s minions.  Dezoch paused to catch his breath, sparing a glance south where the long lines of his invaders were pressing towards the river.  A leering smile of satisfaction strayed across his face through yellowed crooked teeth.  They would have the Stewards head inside an hour and all the weapons of Gondor’s army.  The wide open lands of Calenardhon would soon follow.

Off to the northwest he could see the band of orcs streaming down the slope to hit Gondor’s weak flank, hastily reinforced.  All the more reason for haste on his part.  He had no intention of sharing any booty no matter how they shrieked and whined.

A fleeting light tremor danced through the earth beneath his feet.  He paid little notice.  After all he had thousands of men on the march.  The land should quiver in fear beneath their feet.

The tremor returned, steadier and stronger.  Off to the south he heard what sounded like a distant horn over the din of his shouting, jostling masses headed towards the river.  Still, he dismissed it, occupied with matters at hand and the sight of the Stewards banner now almost completely surrounded, backing towards the Anduin.

The horn was met with faint replies and the tremor became a low rumble.  Now puzzled, Dezoch climbed up atop a low rise to get a better view. 

At first nothing.  Then a line emerged on the southern horizon, vague in form but at times sparkling like tiny stars in the mid-day sun.  Something was coming, headed his way.  Not reinforcements, as he knew the entire muster of the Balchoth had crossed the Anduin days ago.  Nor could it be Gondor’s South Army.  What prisoners they had taken revealed under torture that it remained in Minas Tirith.  He briefly entertained the notion that it could be a stampede of some wild hooved plains grazers that could be found in his eastern homeland. 

The arrogance of his disbelief continued even as he could ascertain that the line had separated, its right flank altering path from the mass in the center and left.  The ground now trembled beneath his feet, noticeable to the wild haired tribesmen waiting their turn to cross the river.  They too looked to the south, with puzzlement and unease. 

Shaking his head, Dezoch broke the spell of his uncertainty and cursed himself a fool.  Whatever his shortcomings, and they be legion, he was a survivor and saw the shadow of death approaching however improbable it was.  It was too late to reorder his entire army, now spread across two sides of the river.  But there was time to make for an escape for himself and those of his tribe yet to cross.

Shouting a command in his tribal dialect he ordered a retreat west for his tribesmen, abandoning the rest to whatever fate would deliver. 

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Across the river, Cirion had no thoughts of escape or survival, only a swift death when it came, which seemed soon.  The line of battle was now scarcely fifty yards away.  To the south he heard the shouts and curses of the wild men and the clunk of wood on metal as their clubs battered the shields of his exhausted men. They retreated grudgingly, the rise and fall of their swords cleaving heads and arms in bloody spurts, the lances of the spearmen plunging deep into the faces of the maddened invaders.

To the west his thin battalions clashed sword on sword with the ravening orcs pressing for advantage with savage cruelty. 

On the line, Brandor felt his strength ebbing.  His shield arm was tired and almost numb from the endless club blows that had battered his shield nearly to ruin.  His sword arm was heavy and nearly spent, gutting one Balchoth after another.  Yet more came, pressing from the rear, forcing endless battle.  The ground grew slippery with their blood, the air foul with their odor and spittle ridden curses.

He slipped and fell, pulled back from a death blow by the lancer in back of him.  Gaining his feet he took a massive strike to his shield, sending him to the earth once again.  The lancer could not help this time, both hands on his spear lodged in the eye of an attacker.  With great effort he managed to stand one final time, mud and gore dripping from his chain mail.  Two huge wild men advanced, great clubs raised for a finishing blow. 

Dazed and weaving he thought he heard the sounds of horns in the distance.   A club blow sent his shield sailing off his useless left arm.  He fell to the earth once more.  A second barbarian stood over him leering, raising his war club to crush his skull. 

Brandor shut his eyes, ready to meet his death, having given the last measure of his strength.

Then a whizzing sound vibrated the air and a startled gurgle greeted his ears.  Brandor opened his eyes.  The crazed man with the club was clutching his throat where a steel tipped arrow stuck out under his chin.  Others like him were falling as well.  There was shouting in the distance, the horns louder.  The line of Balchoth wavered. 

His life spared for the moment, Brandor scrambled to his feet.  Over the heads of the remaining Balchoth in the line he saw a man with golden hair streaming out of his steel helmet, a man on horseback with a wild sword cleaving heads from shoulders. 

All along Gondor’s line he heard scattered shouts build, merge into a roaring cheer.  The sound of the turn of the tide.