Darkness descended, and with it a silence
fell upon the Hornburg. A faint wind hissed about the great stone fortress
and threaded its way along the ranks of warriors, a stifled breath of malice
that whispered of a coming storm. The black clouds that had lain low in the
east throughout the day began to rise and stretch out like a deadly hand,
swallowing up the stars. The Men upon the walls shifted restlessly, peering
out into the growing blackness. Weathered hands traced the patterns on their
sword hilts and ran along the shafts of their long arrows until they met
the taught strings of their bows. Along the Deeping wall the ranks of Lorien
stood, motionless as carved remembrances of ancient valor. Silver helms rose
above the jagged crest of the battlements, and beneath keen eyes burned.
Under their midnight cloaks each grasped his curving bow, felt the graceful
lines of the deadly weapon at his belt. Every sense was keen as their swan-feathered
arrows, precise as a fine tuned Elven harp. At the far right a crimson mantle
marked the captain of the immortal host. Haldir’s long hair fell uncovered
as he watched and waited, bending his far-reaching sight into the blackness
from whence would come his doom. High above, Theoden stood with his guard
and looked down upon his deathless allies, and far out into darkness.
The faint wind died, and a foreboding stillness
fell. A distant rumble shook the stifling air, the vanguard of the massive
thunderclouds. A sudden ragged bolt of brilliant fire tore the shadows, reveling
for an instant every crevice of the fortress and gilding the silver helms
of the elves with a blinding light. Utter blackness fell. Plink. A
single drop of rain struck the armor of the King. He turned his eyes heavenward
as the clouds released their fury. Rain fell in torrents, rattling off the
armor of the commanders, soaking the garments of the Rohirrim, sliding down
the glimmering mithril helms of the Galadhrim, plastering the dark locks
of the Ranger who stood among their ranks. Icy gusts of air swept between
the lines of fighting men, whipping the driving rain into the eyes that watched
the east.
An inky blackness poured into the valley from
the east, filling all the land between the mountains. Innumerable red fires
burned in the dark, surging toward the Deep like fire ships driven by relentless
waves. Rank upon rank the forces of Saruman descended upon the Keep, an unstemable
tide of death, a forest of spears, and halted before the wall. A savage cry
rang out, and the thunder above was drowned by the thunder below. The butts
of ten thousand spears ground into the soil, smiting the rain-washed earth,
shaking the silent fortress to its foundation.
The Men upon the walls swept out their arrows,
and set them to the strings of their bows. The fingers of the keen-eyed archers
of Lorien felt the soft feathers that bristled from each arrow, their fingers
upon the bow string like a harper’s upon his harp. The Galadhrim bent their
bows, their shining eyes peering along the deadly shafts. Another flaming
bolt of lightning split the air. By its light the elves could see each overlapping
plate of iron armor, the barred fangs, the thick spears, the broad flat blades
of their enemies. A sudden twang sounded, and a loosed arrow sped from the
wall and plunged into the neck of an Uruk-hai.
‘Hold!’
The thunder of spears ceased. With a stifled groan,
the Uruk let fall his weapon and crashed to the earth. The orcs looked upon
their fallen comrade, drank in the smell of his fresh blood as it mingled
with the rain. Roars of blood lust and rage erupted on all sides. The commanding
Uruk raised his sword and shouted. They leveled their spears and charged.
The rain broke out with fresh fury, thunder shook the fortress, and white
light seared the black mass of clouds as the Uruk-hai swept toward the Deeping
Wall beneath a hail of Elven arrows.
‘So it begins.’
