Outside the Deeping Wall, Near Deeping Stream Culvert
A cool mist is falling gently from the darkened, overcast sky.
The wind blows in from the plains, chilling you.
*************** You are unable to see the moon above. ****************
This is the outside foot of the Deeping Wall; the eastern side. The wall rises
sheer above you for 20 feet. Atop it are high battlements with arrow-slits
through which archers can shoot. The wall seems to hang outward over you, like
a sea-delved cliff, and the great stones are set with such skill that it would
be impossible to find purchase to climb it. The rise upon which the wall
stands descends east and north to the plateau below. To the northwest, the
Deeping Stream flows under the wall through a culvert, and across the stream
the Deeping Wall connects, high up on the Hornrock, to the even higher walls
of the fortress of the Hornburg.
Helm's Deep
It is now after midnight.. The air is heavy and thick, charged with
electricity, warning of impending storm. On the battlements of the
Deeping-Wall, and before the Hornburg, the gathered forces of Rohan stand,
ready to defend to a man their refuge. There is silence, an oppressive
stillness, and shadows cover all.
Of a sudden, there is a searing flash, and rain begins to pour down out of the
rent sky. In that ghastly flash, hundreds and hundreds of figures can be seen
in the space between Helm's Dike and the Deeping-Wall, sable-clad and
numberless, mail-clad and grim. Again and again the lightning flashes, and from
the sky and echoed from the hills, thunder booms like a great war-drum. The
assault on Helm's Deep has begun.
Atop The Wall
Gimli stands upon the breastwork of the Deeping Wall, looking
over to Legolas. "I like this," he says, patting the stone as if he had found
home. "My heart rises as we near the mountains. There is good rock here. This
country has tough bones. I felt them in my feet as we came up from the dike.
Give me a year and a hundred of my kin and I would make this place that armies
would break upon like water."
His dark brown eyes now sweep over the wall as the lightning flashes out and he
growls at the sight. He looks calm, and pats his axe. He looks ready.
At the base
The floor of the Deeping Coomb is lapped by a dark tide, eddying
this way and that. Every moment more of Saruman's forces pour in to join their
fellows - some through the breach in the defences where the road passes, others
swarming the walls of the Dike itself.
The bulk of the army are Orcs - spearmen brandish their weapons, growling
curses; archers protect their bowstrings as fat, heavy drops of rain lash down;
heavier, man-sized forms clunk sword against shield - all designed to instil
fear in the pitiful humans atop the wall ... Yet humans there are amidst
Saruman's forces also. Sturdy hillmen of Dunland, some bearing axe or spear,
others with broad shields that conceal the thing they carry between them -
something that requires many hands, it seems.
Atop The Wall Once again, lightning smites down from the dark heavens,
illuminating the night with baleful white brilliance. Visible now through the
weeping rain is the tall, silent form of Aragorn; heir of kings, lord among
Men, he seems a figure from legend, come down to walk the earth in black days.
All around him are the soldiery of Rohan, and his face is pale and stern.
In that hateful instant, the piercing brightness diminishes; shadow subsumes
Elendil's scion. Thunder rumbles, a peal of doom; and still, even in the
curtain of darkness, Aragorn's eyes gleam like twin stars, piercing and keen.
Atop the Wall
Another man, not quite as lordly as Aragorn, but yet with noble streaks in his
masculine features, walks along those gathered on the walls of the Hornburg.
Not helmet it upon his head, allowing his copper hair to blow freely in the
chilly wind.
Girt at his side is a scabbard, holding a green-jeweled hilt of a long sword,
and strapped to his arm is a large round shield, emblazoned with the white
horse. It is Hama, whose grim face is as a brewing tempest of billowing
thunderclaps: grave and mighty.
Atop The Wall
Right on the Deeping Wall, in a land only freshly familiar, yet
pleasant to his eyes, sits Legolas with a heavy countenance. Though it is
night, his eyes yet see far. They do not need to, as already orcs are amassing
below the wall. They come by hundreds, or thousands, and all blend into one
quivering black mass. He shuts his eyes when Gimli speaks.
"For myself, I do not like this place." says Legolas, "And I shall like it no
more by the light of day. The rock and stone hold as true as those within them.
Look below us now, Gimli. They are indeed like water. Your kin is strong, but
you are dwarves. And dwarves are a strange folk. We do not have dwarves here,
and we do not have a hundred years. These men we fight with are not battle-fit.
Moreover, they are too few to hold off such a sea. But you comfort me, Gimli,
and I am glad to have you standing nigh with your stout legs and your hard axe."
Atop the wall
Beside the light of Elendil, the grim sheen of golden hair, of
silvery mail, the dark shield of green and white horse on open field. Like
twins light and dark, Eomer stands at Aragorn's side, as grim and determined as
the heir of Gondor, the heir of Rohan looks out in the flashes of lightning at
the sea below them.
Atop the Wall Bows bend, too hastily drawn, plucked by fingers too eager or
frenetic for care. Legendary warriors the Rohirrim, true, but young -- too
young! -- the grim faces under so many of the helms, those left behind on the
long road of death that has claimed too many in Saruman's harvest. "Hold
arrows!" cries a voice, belling across the wall; and hands hold, darts waiting,
tremulous in the anticipation of battle and pain.
Atop the Wall
Thunder booms and echoes, the electric sky is traced with
sheets of falling crystal droplets illuminated as lightning flashes across the
grim, dark horizon. It seems there is eerie silence momentarily, the sensation
of fear and adrenalin caught in the close air as the enemy motions ever closer.
A deep rumble pounds in the Sperewigend's ears, his pale eyes narrowed as he
observes the never ending lines of Saruman's forces, a metallic glint of sword,
spear and axe reflected in irises of icy hue. Flaxen locks cling to his face
and neck, soaked from the tirade that does not cease from the black heavens
above. Ceolhelm's hand tightens around the grip of his sword, his palm clammy,
though discerning strength from the determined presence of his fellow Rohir,
the man keeps his cold gaze steady, his expression defiant and unwavering.
At the Base
The orcs move foward in a mass so thick in large it seems to be
one living organism. Their growls and snarls are animalistic as they anticipate
the spilling of blood. The drums beat moves them foward, drives them foward to
the walls, but slowly they begin to fade off.
An earie silence brakes over the mass of orcs, which is only interupted by the
sound of a few orc commanders shouting out commands. In the silence all can
hear the streching of bow strings, as hundreds of orcs raise their bows to the
walls. A moments pause is given and there is nothing but the sound of the rain
pouring down upon the countless number.
At the Base
Contorted is the face of Gor'luuk; Uruk-Hai of Orthanc. Matted
hair of dark ebony hangs from his skull; droplets of water running down his
sallow skin and dripping to the earth not pure as it fell... but corrupted by
his touch.. purely evil. The entirety of this Uruk-hai is filthy - his garb
near completely armour, breastplate and helmet of iron, leggings and shield of
rough leather.
Amidst the din at the base of the Hornburg; few shouts may be discerned...
though near some that may be heard from Gor'luuk and those around him are the
jeers - continuous.. following the pace of the orcish drums that beat out and
between the slavering howls of the wolf-mounts in the Coomb. "Come down filthy
horse-boys... Come down and face us!"
Atop The Wall
Looking out over the wall, Gimli grimaces as Legolas speaks.
"Perhaps not, Legolas," the dwarf begins. Yawning, he continues, "But we will
have to do with what we have. And I wish there were more of my kin here. We are
a fearsome race, especially in front of orcs. Turning towards Legolas now, he
continues, "Riding is tiring work. Yet my axe is restless in my hand. Give me a
row of orc-necks and room to swing and all weariness will fall from me!"
Turning back to look over the wall, his eyes continue to make out the forms of
the creatures below. His hands are restless, his axe bouncing in his hands, his
feet shuffling on the stone. "The fight is before us," he booms out.
Atop The Wall
Voices roar, rams thud, and all the world is covered in
darkness and fire. Aragorn turns to Eomer at his side, his features illuminated
by another silent blast of lightning. "Come!" he says, his voice clear and
forceful over the din below. "This is the hour when we draw swords together!"
And not a moment too soon, it seems, for the hosts of Saruman are spread out
below like shadows of hate.
Aragorn does not wait for his companions, but springs like an arrow from the
string; running like fire, he speeds along the wall, up the steps, and passes
into the outer court upon the Rock. In his wake, a number of swordsmen heed his
progress; they fall in without a sound. Aragorn dashes through the postern
door, onto the narrow path leading towards the great gate.
Out sweeps the sword of Elendil, silver flame in the pressing night! "Anduril!"
cries Aragorn. "Anduril for the Dunedain!"
At the Base
The silence amoung the ranks of the orcs is broken by one loud
command barking from an Orc commander. The sound the procedes is most
extraordinary sound heard, but any bow man knows the sound. It is the release
of hundreds, nay thousands of arrows. Their black forms take flight high into
the air with an arc designed to come down on the heads of the humans sitting on
the wall.
Time seems to stand still as the arrows reach their pinacle, then they come
down. They come down upon the men of Helm's Deep as thick as the rain.
Lightning crack and rain pour, one of the fighting Uruk-Hai stands firm
and tall outside the Deeping Wall - baleful eyes alight beneath a pronounced
brow. As icy rain pours down his armored form he grunts and shakes his head,
one heavy hand clasping a crude sword tightly and striking it loudly against
his shield - although the only sound he makes for this moment with his mouth is
a surly grunt of impatience. His booted feet tramp heavily on the spot in the
mud, the rain collecting in a murky puddle beneath his feet as he continues to
strike his shield with his sword and stare up menacingly at the Rohirric Keep.
As Gor'luuk speaks the Uruk-Hai known as Grikaak grins broadly,
cracked and sallow fangs glistening in the light cracking through the sky. He
speaks, his voice heavy with impatience and malcontent, "They fear! And rightly
so" mimicking the cry of Gor'luuk he ceases striking his shield for a moment,
"Come down! Come down and face us!"
Atop the Wall
Legolas hops off the tall stone and glances to Gimli sharply.
Already he is fingering his long bow-string, and already it twangs eagerly.
There is a smile on his lips as he looks to the orcs, but it is a sad smile...
an elven smile.
But the murmurings of war grow steadier, and there is no time for melancholy
and pondering. It is a time of action now, if such a time ever was. Away from
Gimli just a few steps more, Legolas pulls an arrow, pinches it, and holds it
to the string. His eyes looks through a thin gap in the wall made specifically
for such a purpose. Around him gather the archers of Rohan until they are a
dense group.
At the Base
Curses and jeers ... as the first Orcish arrows are loosed to sail
high in the air, the shouts of Gorluuk and his ilk are echoed by voices from
human throats. "Cursed Strawheads .. Hiding behind your walls ... come out and
fight!" The speaker a Dunlending, a broad burly man whose dark hair is
plastered to his shoulders beneath its protective helm. Already he and his kin
are forcing their way through the press of bodies, heavy shields
counterbalanced by the heavy weight they bear - their destination the ramp that
leads to the Gates.
Atop the Wall
And by Aragorn's side, his own sword flashing from its sheath
in unison as the men spring through the door, leading the hosts of Rohan in the
charge. Eomer's voice rises as well, harsh and roaring as a battle cry.
"Guthwine! Guthwine for the Mark!"
At the head of the company of swordsman, Hama comes forward! Stout are the men
following him, Guards of Edoras - their silvery mail bright, even this dark
hour, under the dark field of heaven.
"Forth, Eorlingas!" shouts Hama, their captain, whose gilded helmet now crowns
his head. His sword gleams like a bright flash of lightning as it is drawn,
hissing as the white steel penetrates the darkness.
Atop the Wall
"Anduril!" The shout rises from wall and tower, a benediction
of hope in the face of overwhelming terror. "Anduril goes to war!" cry the
Riders of the Mark. "The Blade that was Broken shines again!"
At that, Aragorn raises his sword high, and shouts encouragement to Eomer,
Hama, and the company of swords. They charge the flanks of the Dunlendings,
hurling themselves upon the wild men in righteous fury. "Elendil!" cries
Aragorn, hewing the head from one of the hill-men in a single stroke!
"Boom. Boom. Boom", the sound of drums gets closer and closer as the Orcs march
through the Deeping Coomb. Endless squads of evil creatures and men walk
towards the gate. Many torches light the way, though keen are the eyes of
goblins in the darkness. Scimitars are unsheathed and spears are held. Shields
are lifted as the uruk come into the range of fire.
In front of a squad comes a tall -for the measures of orcs- Uruk-Hai. Long is
his hair and his eyes are black. Leading the group, he soon reaches the gate
and on the arrival of the first shafts shouts, "Damn the strawheads! Raise your
shields fools!". Banners with the white hand wave in the wind and some carrying
siege ladders walk by the sides, "Boom. Boom. Upon them! Now!" (Morghash)
Atop the Wall
Cold is the stone of the Deeping-Wall, colder than winter,
perhaps even as cold as the heart of the foe that sent such a force here, to
hunt down not just Riders, but old men past their prime, and boys who should
still be at play. Amongst a knot of these younglings is a war-hardened veteran,
watching the approaching foe with sorrow in his eyes as well as anger. As the
arrows fly towards them, he ducks beneath his shield instinctively, but not all
the young lads do. "Shields!" he shouts, pulling one boy down, and covering him
with his own. Many are those, though, who seek cover too late, and the stone is
splashed with blood. Bodies topple from the wall: a heavy hail to fall in the
midst of the storm.
Atop the Wall
"My stout friend," says Legolas, "We have not seen such battles
before. But we will return unharmed, and I shall keep a count. I feel there are
many battles that will yet have need of us." And he turns again to the wall.
"DRAW!" he shouts to the archers surrounding him. They did not expect command
to come from him, but they accept it as the situation warrants. They draw.
"Shoot! Shoot surely and freely! Let your arrows fall like leaves in automn
upon the heads of your enemies!" The line releases and a volley springs forth
from the wall.
But some pause as they turn to regard Elendil's heir. They take up the cry,
"The Blade that was Broken shines again!"
From The Base
A branch of lightning tears open the darkness, revealing the
slow crawling mass of the men who push their way through the roiling throng
towards the gates. One among them growls at the name of 'Strawhead' and his
face twists in a snarl of hatred even as darkness returns. Lifting a huge axe
over his head in both hands, Kordan shakes it at the company of Rohirrim.
Atop the Wall
A deadly rain, a black plague; Orc arrows fall and like a wave
they crash, melting bodies from the wall as though they were avatars of sand,
impermanent, transient. "Draw bows!" cries Rohirric command at the far end of
the wall, cracked across the screams of men. Bowstrings creak through reined
chaos; faceless bodies flow to fill the gaps made slippery by death. Behind the
metal helms eyes squint through rain, bright with rage, or terror, or both.
"Loose!"
The arrows of the Horse-Lord do not arc; they are too short and swift for the
range of elven shafts. Swift and deadly they sliver through the rain, silvered
by lightning and the whimsy of torches. Brutal rain to answer brutal rain,
they answer the deaths of comrades with eager teeth of their own.
Atop the Wall
Amongst the gathered host along the wall of Helm's Deep, Hrinhelm silently
espies the host gathered before him, flashes of light illuminating dark, vile
faces of horrors unspeakable. Their roaring host echoes with the rolling
thunder of the darkened sky within his breast. Dread awakens within him as he
surveys the hosts before him. His verdant eyes remark upon a spring which will
not be, which will not be should he fail at his duty. Such a burden cannot be
his to bear---
Suddenly, amidst the roaring armies below, he sees shards of something faintly
flicker in the ebon sky, when abruptly lightning is let forth again, and he
Hrinhelm raises his shield at the onslaught of arrows. His head is reeling as
he hears the inspiring cries of his compatriates. Hrinhelm, however, remains
silent, intent upon what he must do, and what may be, and he cannot help but
contemplate the taste of steel upon his flesh.
At the Base
Brazen trumpets ring out; the horde of Isengard surges forward.
The largest Uruk-Hai lumbering on with the trunks of felled trees - pressing
forward towards the gate of the Hornburg. Gor'luuk is amongst them; fell
black-bladed scimitar still sheathed.. waiting.. lusting for the blood of the
Rohirrim.
Thus do the most haughty of the Uruk-hai gather before the gate, preparing for
their strike.
Atop the wall
"And King Theoden! Westu Theoden hal!", exclaims Hama, his voice deep as ever,
and grim; and while the glorious summer days of his life have turned to autumn,
there is a youthful power in his voice.
Enflamed with the fire of Anduril and the fierceness of the Rohirrim, Hama
rushes forward, pushing one of the fell men aside with his shield, and at yet
another, his sword lashes out in a mighty stroke.
And what a strike it shall be. The burden that is borne by the strongest Men
and Orc-men is revealed at last - two strong treetrunks make a fine ram to
assault Helm's Gate. Roaring, the ram-bearers rush forward...
Boom. The gates shiver under the impact
Atop The Wall
"And I shall keep count as well," Gimli answers Legolas, though
his attention is drawn towards Aragorn and Eomer. Yawning, he jogs after the
two men, trying to avoid the arrows that are beginning to rain onto the wall.
He bounces as he moves, watching the men draw arrows to shoot down below.
Grumbling something about his axe, he trudges forward, watching Aragorn fight
the large hillmen. He quickly finds a rock to sit behind to watch the battle
happen, his axe twitching in his hands.
At the Base
Now among the press of rammers, his sword a blur of silver and blood, Aragorn
slashes at captain and foot-soldier alike. None can stand against him, or the
fury of his assault; verily, the wild folk of Dunland let fall their trees and
turn to face Aragorn and his company. "Elendil!" he cries once more, and the
wall of their shields is broken as by a lightning-stroke. The rammers are swept
away, hewn down, and cast over the Rock into the stony stream below.
Amidst these powerful Uruk-Hai stands Grikaak, his own sword drawn and
striking his shield as he marches alongside Gor'luuk towards the Gate. His
heavy feet strike in the mud as he marches unrelenting, his foul breath
freezing in the air before him as he continues onward and continues to hit his
shield noisily and cry upwards to those atop the walls.
"Come down! Come down!"
Atop the Wall
Some of the men around him have fallen to the black shafts. The
group about Legolas is thinned, and it has only been one flying surge that
they've received. The elf pulls back his long fingers and releases, again and
again, without aim -- what use is it to aim a pebble into a lake?
Atop the Wall
"Ram!" The warning shout gains body from a hundred voices, and
beneath the wall warriors fly to bend their shoulders to the gate. Behind the
archers another voice calls, stringing new shaft to bow and bending swift aim
to new target.
"Take down the ram! Archers! Shoot!"
At the Base
Leaving those still with him to their grim duty at the gates;
Gor'luuk draws his scimitar with a ring of cold steel.. chilling and evil.
Bearing his fangs in a foul grin he challenges the Rohir, Hama. "Filthy
horse-boy.. yell make yerself a good meal fir me!"
The Uruk-Hai looses a howl of fury and swings his curved blade at Hama; his
yellowish eyes burning with a dark flame.
Arrows find their mark and rammers fall ... yet for every heavy body that
crashes to the ground there is another to take his place. "Onwards!" one voice
cries out, and the great ram crashes against the Gates again ... and again. As
blades flashes suddenly in the night gloom, the rammers turn their heads in
sudden alarm.
At the Base
"Do not show pity", Morghash growls as he raises the shield
himself; an arrow stops on it. On the uruk's command about two dozen orcs swing
their scimitars -or lower their spears- and dash towards the wall, following
their commander. They fall upon those that had come outside with great rage,
ignoring the ones that fall down. However, they put out the torches, having
understood their mistake. And they continue the slaughter, yelling at the
Rohirrim. Behind them follow those with the ladders, steadily heading to the
wall.
Atop the Wall
The rain spills down in torrents, icy water tracing its way
down the hollows of his pale face, droplets shattering as they hit the thick
stone of the fortress. Quiet is the rider Byrtwold, who has not yet seen
eighteen seasons, green-grey eyes wide, taking in the enormity of the army
facing his ranks; but his heart is beating loud in his ears, drowning out the
thumping of the orc-drums, the fevered shouting of the White Hand's black army.
Pale fingers grasp the thick pole of his spear as he watches the battle
unfold in front of him; bloody terror seizes his mind as he sees the dark
shadow of onrushing ladders and Uruk-Hai. Now feathered arrows singing songs of
death seek out Rohirrim blood. Quickly, he raises his shield, paltry protection
against the hordes of Isengard. Yet it gives protection enough, it seems--a
foul shaft, quivering, grows out of the wooden rim, mere inches from his face.
The rider begins to tremble, quivering in the fury of the assault.
But then, below! the bright blades of Men leap from their scabbards, and he
takes heart once more. His hand clutches his spear more tightly as he braces
himself against the faceless enemy, lightning flashing through the sky of
Helm's Deep.
Eomer. runs into the rammers, Guthwine rising and falling as the wildmen flee.
Thunder rumbles in the distance as he and Aragorn are left halted before the
gates. A keen wind howls through the valley from the North, stars beginning to
peep between storm-wracked clouds.
Even the westering moon rides low above the hills of the Coombs-side,
glimmering yellow.
Atop the Wall
A look of disgust comes to Hama's face, his blue fire leaping from his eyes as
he lays them upon the scimitar-bearing orc. Now he leaps forward, one pace,
another, "Watch your right, son of Arathorn!", rings out Hama's voice,
struggling to be heard over the cries of battle. "I will hold back your foes
here!"
And with that, the Rohirrim warrior thrusts his mighty sword at the orc, while
his green shield is held up in defense.
Where now the horse and the rider? Where now the horn that was blowing. . .
Atop the Wall
One arrow is too little, but it is loosed nevertheless. From
Legolas's true bow moves one, and then another, and it plucks away at orc after
orc. Yet more run up, and more carry the ram. Then Legolas's fire is
concentrated on one splotch -- one area of black uruk-hai, and it brings down
so many that they are piled one on top of the other. Yet more lift it up, and
thrust it against the gate with a fury so savage and a disregard for life so
clear, that Thranduil's son cannot help but wonder at it.
It appearing that their foe, for the moment, has scattered before them, Aragorn
likewise pauses before the gates. Breathing hard, he looks to Eomer; his
visage, fair and commanding, is illuminated by periodic flashes of lightning.
"Well done," he says, his eyes glittering in the darkling air. That wind from
the North blows once more, stirring the Dunadan's dark hair; in it is the
freshness of the mountains, piercing and cleaning over the reek of blood, smoke
and war.
"It seems we did not come too soon," adds Aragorn, looking at the wrenched and
cracked gates.
At the Base Around him, Kordan's fellows are struck down, some felled by
arrows raining down from above, others falling to the sword-strokes of the
hated blond men and the other who fights with them. His mouth open in a
wordless howl, he charges towards the attackers, swinging his axe almost at
random. Hazel eyes burn with cold fire. But even as he nears one Rohirrim, the
man at his side is slaughtered, his lifeless body pushing the axeman off
balance and over the edge of the ramp.
At the Gates
Eomer turns to look at the ruin of the gates, cracked and bent.
"Yet we cannot stay here to defend the gates." He points down the long
causeway, where the gathered forces of Orcs and Men already approach. "We must
inside, we must fortify the gate! Come!"
Atop the Wall
Arrows whistle past his ears, the groan of many a successful
target heard against the drumming of the enemy and the thud of their march on
the wet ground below. Though through the din and clash of steel, Ceolhelm hears
the valiant calls of his commanders and a grimace of renewed valour traces his
lips in a twisted frown. The flight of the arrows easing to the boom of the ram
on the gate, the Sperewigend ventures to spy the scene behind his upheld
shield, the glint of silver bright under the thundery sky.
At the Base
Black blood stains the blade of Hama as it pierces Gor'luuk's
arm; though this machine... bred for war and destruction lumbers on. Swinging
once more his scimitar at the man - this time with renewed fury in his stroke.
Uruk-hai embody thews and power.. fearsome in their battles. Once more does
Gor'luuk howl, his yellowed fangs gleaming sharp and gruesome in the
rain-obscured moonlight.
Atop the Wall
Here and there, hands grope for quivers too soon emptied,
reaching for arrows already sped. One archer stoops and learns invention by
need; with apology lost on the ears of the dead, he rips Orc shaft from a
comrade's corpse and returns it to its masters, deadly play. Around him, eyes
flicker, and learn. Necessity makes violators of all, and bows made useless by
lack of bolts learn to taste the salt of Rohirrim blood.
Duanor sights down a black and wounded shaft, and looses; what matter where it
fall, when the enemy presses like the tide, countless and faceless and nameless
and indifferent? One tiny pebble that makes no ripple, but no matter. "More
arrows!" he cries over his shoulder, with his fellows. And errand runners run
on the wall behind him, shoulders weighted with tardy missiles.
at the base
A fine target those tall men standing by the gates make.
Orc-archers bend and loose, sending whistling arrows past the heads of their
own kind (and in some cases not past, one figure desperately scrambling for
balance is pierced and knocked away) and towards the figures of Aragorn and
Eomer. Moments later one of the archers falls back with a gurgling cry,
Duanor's shaft has found a mark.
Atop the Wall
Of Legolas's group now few remain. Only five men of blonde hair
and severe features draw their bows with the elf. "HOLD!" cries to them
Legolas, "Send all your fire to the ramp, sons of Rohan. Let us bring them down
before they bring down Helm's gates!" A volley releases then, and it heads for
the ram-bearers.
At the Base
His shield marked with arrows that jut unchecked from its
face, Grikaak moves to the opposite side of the valiant Hama and readies his
wicked and blackened scimitar in an instant. The powerful warrior orc rears
back with his shield held at the ready, only moving it aside to swing his blade
downwards towards the shoulder of the fighting Horse-Lord. He does not speak
now, his speech only grunts and hisses as he tries to fend off what arrows may
find him with his shield while at the same time attempting to deflect any blows
directed at him by Hama.
Atop the Wall
A deep cry of pain is released from Hama's throat as the Captain suffers a blow
from the foul Uruk-Hai. Sinking to his knees, his white armor is stained red in
blood, that looks dark and grey in the depths of the night.
Coughing up blood, the fair face of the Captain of Edoras is in deep agony.
Mustering his strength, in one last effort he swings his sword at his opponent
"For Theoden! Theoden and the House of Eorl", he cries out.
At the Gates
Turning swiftly, Aragorn dashes back along the path to the great
gates; orc-arrows whistle down and rattle amongst the rocks, narrowly missing
him. The tall ranger picks his way amongst the slain, his boots squelching in
mud and blood alike. Though safety is a relative thing within the gate-house,
it is preferable to the vulnerability of this current position; and so Aragorn
hastens back to the walls, and away from the press of Orcs and Men beyond the
stream.
At the Gates(Base)
A grunt of pleasure rises from Gor'luuk as his foe comes
to his knees; eyes gleaming wildly he raises his already blood-stained scimitar
high - sending it crashing down towards the helm of the horse-lord. "Sharkey
the all powerful shall have your head!... Urgh!" His taunting turns to a
painful growl as Hama's blade imbeds itself into his thigh.
Atop the Wall
Bodies tumble screaming from the wall, limp or flailing as they
are found by some arrow. Gold gleams under stormy light, bright hair quickly
subsumed by mud and blood.
A shouted order breaks a group of such targets from their too-easy cluster;
archers turn and run the stones, scattering their numbers across the wall. A
handful join their bows to the elf's company, sparing no breath for greeting or
command. New arrows find their strings, are drawn, and are loosed, sent
searching for black hearts in the tumult by the ram.
As Aragorn and his companion run, there is a stirring from the ground behind
them. Puddles of blood and gore indeed - yet not all who lie there are dead. A
snickering laugh comes from the throat of one yellow-fanged Orc as he springs
to his feet and sprints after the two men, crooked arms outstretched to grasp
their victim, tripping if they may.
Aldrich swings his cold sharp longsword in an unsteady haze from atop the wall.
The sounding of his heart beating is fiercly more louder than any call made by
his commanders. His friends and foes fall around him as he sees no end to the
mass of uruk-hai which would almost resemble a black ocean streaming in towards
Helm's Deep. A lucky arrow from beyond the wall strikes him upon his right
shoulder. Falling to one knee, he grasps at his deadening arm and with a quick
motion, removes the arrow with a trickle of his blood rolling down his arm
slowly. He growls gutterally, "For Rohan!" as he rises and resumes his swinging
which is now forged by anger.
At The Gates
"Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!" A hoarse shout is heard and a
small dark figure leaps out of the shadows at this precise moment. It is Gimli,
leaping to the aid of Eomer. He drives towards the yellow-fanged orc with
purpose and glee, his axe bounding in his hands. With a well practiced stroke,
he slashes at the neck of the creature. Quickly turning at the sight of another
orc, Gimli growls, and brings a return slash aimed at the neck of a second orc.
He laughs, and under his breath mutters "Two." He looks at the remaining orcs,
axe ready for more.
Hama's lifeless body collapses against the cold Rock. His sword still held
tightly in his gauntleted hand. Is then, this, the hour where men will fail?
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning, or behold the flowing
years from the Sea returning?
Atop the Wall
Legolas narrows his eyes. The Rohirrim that shot with him have
fallen, and lie broken upon the cold stone floor of Helm. But now new men have
come, and their bows sing as well as the bows of the old. He rests his own
weapon against the stone for a moment only, and looks about him in the cold
night. His hair is streaked with thick water and clings to him like moss to a
rock. Even from his cheeks, droplets hang. It is a wonder they do not block the
view of those elven eyes... There is no more time to pause.
He lifts his bow again, and in a manner practiced over centuries, draws. His
eye is to the arrow, and now he lets go as it streaks down towards the head of
Gor'luuk. Though to the elf, it is of course, just another helmeted perversion.
at the base
A sharp cry, abruptly bitten off, and a spew of blood, are the
yellow-fanged Orc's response to Gimli's sudden attack. The sharp Dwarven blade
cleaves between his helm and shoulders and sweeps on ... felling a second Orc
in the same manner. The others who creep after him cry out in dismay and flee
if they may, one throwing himself flat as a long arrowshaft speeds nearby.
At the Gates
Eomer struggles to his feet, looking down at the stricken orcs
and Gimli. "I think you, Gimli, son of Gloin. I did not kow you were with the
sortie, but oft, the unbidden guest is the finest thing to see. " He pauses,
turning to watch the ongoing battle on the causeway, "Tell me, how came you
amongst us?"
At the Base
Kordan slowly pushes himself up from the rocks he had landed on.
Stepping over the body of an orc nearly cut in two, he holds out a hand to help
a fellow hillman to his feet. "Ladders," he says gruffly, no more; jerking his
head towards where they are being readied and limping off. His axe is hooked
over one shoulder, the huge blade glinting behind his head.
At the Gates
"Fear the White Hand, filthy strawheads! FEAR THE FIGHTING URUK-HAI!"
Gor'luuk roars, falling to his knees with a fell fire in his eyes. Raising his
scimitar high above his head - almost as if he were sacrifing the corpse of
Hama, he brings it down into the lifeless body; hissing and grunting
inaudibley. Bringing the scimitar to his lips, he runs his blackened tongue
along it; reveling at his victory.. tasting the blood of his opponent.
At the Base
A cruel laughter echoing up and across the battle as Hama
falls, Grikaak clasps his sword tightly and in a repeating motion brings it up
and down once more upon the body of the Horse-Lord. He stamps his feet as he
does so, still holding his shield in his defense as he hacks mercilessly at the
slain warrior.
"See how Straw-Heads fall! What passes for might lays slain at their
gates!" Laughing maliciously once more he takes a final stab at the corpse with
his sword before turning his eyes to Gor'luuk.
At The Gates
Gimli watches the fleeing orcs before turning back towards
Eomer. He answers, "I followed you and Aragorn to shake off sleep but when I
looked upon the hillmen, they seemed overlarge to me, so I sat beside a stone
to see your sword-play." He grins, looking down at Eomer's sword, patting his
own axe in the meantime.
At the Gates
"I shall not find it easy to repay you," Eomer states grimly, the
ring of his nobility showing through gruff words as Eomer turns to make his way at
Gimli's side back into the keep.
At The Gates
Gimli grins at Eomer, "There may be many a chance before the
night is over." He quickly follows Eomer back into the keep. "But I am content.
Until now, I have hewn nothing but wood since I left Moria."
Gor'luuk's slavering jaws drips with greenish-black saliva as he licks his
blade - though his actions are quickly stopped.. the arrow of Legolas; shaft
strong and true spearing through the back of his skull... the tip of the arrow
now black protruding from his opened mouth. His blood begins to flow through
the wound.. spilling across the corpse of Hama - thus does Gor'luuk fall to the
earth.. drowned in his blood.. dead as he lived.. in battle and flame.
At the Base
Uruks soon rush again, with renewed fury this time as the
rohirrim hide behind the wall. "Damn 'em. The laddahs. Bring 'em. Now!", cries
Morghash, a cold, violent voice coming out of his lips. "I'll show yer, damn
horsemen", the Uruk-Hai hisses at himself as he raises his shield to protect
from the volley. His fangs show up as he grins with malicity. And still the
ladders approach the wall, now being very close.
Soon the arrive under the wall. "Hey, ho. Lift 'em boys", the Uruk-Hai cries
again. "Lift 'em and show those filthy horsemen our powerrr", he adds. Thus the
ladders are placed against the wall, and swift orcs jump on them, snarling at
the enemy.
Aldrich screams viciously as another blackpelt falls at his feet, "You shall
not..." Alas, he has been struck from behind. The feeling of blackened steel
piercing the flesh along his back send shivers through his body. Not valiant in
death, he swipes recklessly with his beloved blade, removing the sinister smirk
from the face of the orc as it too drops to it's knees before finishing with a
solid thud against the cold stone. Aldrich hits the smoothed surface shortly
after, his eyes staring into the sky as he realises his time is nearing.
Atop the Wall
For the length of this assault, Hrinhelm has stood in sorrow at his charge. No
arrow has stricken him, though greater men have fallen to his right and left.
He has watched, then, the falling of so many men he had known in life, and his
mood grows fey, for he feels regardless of what he does he shall die. Thoughts
of honour and noble death flood his mind, much like the streaming sea of vile
faces in the onslaught below him. Enraged too at the death of Hama, his gaze
becomes one of tremendous, unbridled anger directed at the foul race of orcs
and the traitorous men who swear allegiance to the same lord. He subtly seeks
to follow the action at the gates for a moment, but a captain at his side,
withholds him. Then, peering into the dense army below he sees why he has been
left at his charge, though still in heart he is stricken at the death of his
countrymen, for ladders begin filtering through their ranks, gradually nearing
the walls. He tightens the grip upon his spear, his sweaty palms wrenched
heavilly upon it."Ladders, they are coming!" shouts one beside. How can they
survive when there are so many before them? The foe seems too great, especially
as he descries the intricately luminant corpses of his brethren stricken along
the ground.
Atop The Wall
Gimli runs back quickly to the wall, excitement in his eyes,
proud of his deeds. Rumbling over the stones, he finally reaches Legolas.
"Two!" Gimli shouts out with pride, patting his axe.
Grikaak barely spares the fresh corpse of Gor'luuk a second glance
before he turns from the pair of corpses and begins to run - his powerful form
still unmarred by arrows - back towards the orc ranks. His shield flies up as
several arrows whistle and hit the ground about him and plant themselves into
the ever-growing forest of Rohirric arrows upon his shield. He returns to the
ranks as arrows meant for him cut down two smaller orcs at the fore and
prepares to march again, hacking at the arrows upon his shield and splintering
them.
"Ladders." The voice of Aragorn son of Arathorn is unsurprised at this, and the
Ranger wastes no time. He steps into place in a gap in the ranks torn by
black-feathered arrows, speaking softly to the men about him. "Stand fast! They
shall not take Helm's Deep so easily." Anduril is raised to greet the first
wave of attackers with a length of flickering flame.
Atop the Wall
"Ladders!" a shout rises.
"Arrows! Bring them down!"
"--Spearmen! Archers, draw swords!"
Bows drop with a clatter, where bodies hurtle towards the breaches. Archers
that have so far stood immaculate, unsullied by all but far-shot wounds, sweep
up spears to stab at climbing bellies and strike at grasping hands. Here is
battle aplenty, where enemies press like lovers, each knowing the other's
bodies with the frenzy of a different lust. Sweat mingles with blood, both
unnoticed; boots strike fallen faces and snap dead bones, dancing across the
corpses of friend and foe alike.
Atop the Wall
A smile; even a chuckle escapes Legolas as he pauses his
shooting. "I am afraid you will be disappointed," he says, "I make my tale
twenty at the least. But that is only a few leaves in a forest." The elf
reaches his hand blindly to the arrows he has laid before him, but pats only
cold stone. "Ah, you see? All my shafts are gone. I will have to go and gather
more. I fear I will not have chance to retrieve the feathers of Lorien. They
served me well." He rises cautiously, and looks over the well. "They have
brought out the ladders Gimli. Our strength is tested. It has been long since
dwarf and elf fought back to back. We shall make new tales tonight."
His bow forgotten, Legolas draws two long knives.
At the Base
Among the orcs who swarm up the swiftly raised ladders, are some
figures that are obviously men. A body plummets downward, two arrows bristling
from his neck, and bounces in front of Kordan. The Dunlending jerks back in
surprise, just in time for the shaft that would have split his head to graze
his neck instead, then shoves forward again. His face is set and hard; a
trickle of blood creeps blackly down to stain his shirt.
Atop The Wall
Gimli seems deflated at first as he hears Legolas' count, but
quickly roars with approval, "Indeed. It is time for us to fight. Tales to be
sung in future days. Ha!" he laughs. "My axe is ready to hew more orc necks."
He wipes the blade of his axe quickly, and looks out on the ladders as they
start to come.
At the Base
Striding through the ranks of Uruk's, wolf-riders and fellow
Uruk-Hai, Bur'zum comes like a fell wind. Massive and looming, dight all in
armour of iron - spikes covering most of it.. crude and gruesome. Carrying a
battle axe he roars; jeering the men forward. "CLIMB those Ladders you filth!
GET THOSE HOOKS UP!" Kicking at those he deems necessary.
Coming towards the group of Uruk-Hai once led by Gor'luuk he snarls, his own
men gathering around. For several long moments they mutter in private; Bur'zum
motioning towards the western section of wall.. preparing them for some new
assault.
On the ladder
"Quick foolz! Climb up and slaughter 'em", Morghash snarls and
with that climbs on a ladder, following the others. His shield is held atop his
head, for many arrow fly down through the night. "Come on, follow me!", he
cries, ignoring those that fall next to him. There is need for speed and not
worries. In a few moments his head emerges from behind the wall. At the sight
of Legolas he hisses, "Elf flesh! That is real luck", and a cold laugh comes
out of his throat.
At the Base
Grikaak - fancying himself something of a veteran now
considering he is not dead when others are - waves a burly arm as he falls in
alongside Bur'zum. His shield now covered with the jagged and protruding shafts
of arrows he holds it before him and yells angrily towards the group of orcs,
rallying them;
"You heard our captain - to the ladders! Onward!" With that, unheeding
of the other soldiers in the group, he runs once more towards the Deeping Wall
where the ladders have been hastily erected. His shield held on an upward angle
before him as he moves he scowls and glances about - seeking the other orcs.
Atop the Wall
Following Aldrich's lead, Hrinhelm and several others begin trying to topple
the raising ladders in large teams, for the ladders are a monstrously large
obstacle. They are able to cause only one, which has not yet been made
steadfast, to fall before the orcs begin reaching the top of the wall. Hrinhelm
and the others form a small barricade of their shields, but, alas! the orcs
upon the top are everywhere, and cannot be impeded in their onslaught. The band
is sundered as each are forced into single combat. One orc is stricken by
Hrinhelm as he jumps onto the wall, without looking first, most probably, for
he is skewered by the edge of Hrinhelm's blade. He tries to loose the spear,
but it is lodged in the armor. He quickly grabs a spear from among the
stricken, and is sliced on the shoulder in the process, though it is luckily
deflected by his well-placed shield. His mind reels and falters as he runs,
only on instinct, his wits are lost for a moment, with his blood. Returning to
full consciousness after this strike, his fury is greater, and he charges the
onrushing host atop the walls.
Atop the wall
A grappling-hook clangs on the rough stone parapet where Aragorn
stands, and the bright blade of Anduril is put to menial use, hewing at the
rope in an attempt to prevent one more scaling ladder being raised. The rope
parts - yet already another ladder has risen further along the parapet. No time
for pause ... again and again sword is raised against the foe, and withdrawn
stained with blackened blood.
Atop the Wall
"They come!" shouts Legolas, and with it runs to the edge of
the wall, where a ladder stands freshly raised. "You may find that my flesh is
harder to hew, even then than yours, servant of Saruman." muses he in calm
answer to the orc's hungry yelp. And then, even as his enemy is just off the
ladder, the ornate elven knife seeks its mark in the uruk's neck.
Atop the Wall
At Aragorn's side as ever, Guthwine works in Eomer'shand,
hewing and hacking orc and rope alike. Wearier and wearier he grows. Wearier and
wearier the men working behind them, those fighting the climbing forces, grow.
It is a relentless wash of orcs and men upon the wall, rushing and
dashing themselves upon stock and stone like so much water upon a rocky shore;
ladders and grapples rise through the night and are cast down, orcs clambering
like apes up their frames to crest the walls fight and die, whilst the
defenders on the battlements do well to beat them back.
But not all make to besiege the parapets, nor either attempt the
causeway and the gate; for rams and ladders may be beaten back, whilst stealth
better befits the work of evil; For Helm's Deep has one weakness, by flaw of
design even if through necessity. In the deeping wall a culvet, no more than a
drain, muddied rain-water from the storm now swelling the mountain brook that
runs through it allows entry. So it is, that whilst the defenders hold the
walls against the endless-seeming tide of evil against this Bastion of Rohan,
that Saruman's orcs make to creep through the hole at its base. A pretty
company there are, and Lobsang is with them; more than man-high is this huge
Uruk-Hai's form, his limbs thick and straight, though his face be gruesome and
his dark eyes hate-filled and cruel. Black is his armour and so too his broad
shield, blazoned with the ghastly white hand of Saruman; his sword is squat but
straight, glinting keen by the moonlight now shining pale through the clearing
storm; surely, for all the men at the Deeps defense are atop the wall, none
might notice such insidious attack until it were too late...
Atop the Wall
It is not the first time enemies have braved ladders to the
Deeping Wall, though never in such numbers. Here and there, warriors drop their
weapons and band together, plying their weight and muscles to the long poles
readied for such assault. Forked at their ends, heavy-banded in metal, the
repellers are raised to brace against ladders. A shout makes rhythm to the
pushing arms; while men die by the score to press their weight into the levers.
Atop the Wall
The night wears on. The sky clears, but the sinking moon gives little hope to
the host of the Riddermark, for their enemy seems to have grown in stead of
diminished. The mounds of the dead are piled high, and yet there seems no end
to the battle. Men grow weary; every arrow is spent, blades are notched,
shields are riven. Even the rallying cries of the greatest among them can only
keep them going for so long. Three times they drive the enemy from the wall,
but the battle still goes on.
Suddenly a clamor arises in the Deep beyond the Wall...
The grin disappears off Morgash's face as the knife approaches his neck. Just
in the nick of the time he turns his head and only a deep scar is made, only to
excite the Uruk-Hai. "You are doom'd", he cries as he swings his sword and
brings it down with force on the enemy.
Scrabbling and crawling like rats through a sewer, claws besting
water-slick stone, Lobsang and his lads come through the culvet, in the deep
before the defenders can react, rushing in among the horses and the guards;
moonlight glinting on sword and spear-point as they make their sudden attack;
steel on steel, ring and clash, and the uruk-hai battle with the sentries at
the pickets, behind the main defense.
Atop the Wall
Gimli tries to help Legolas as the ladders brings orcs upon the
walls, his axe being used as best as he can. But sounds can be heard behind
him. Shouts. Metal clanging. Horses neighing. He quickly turns and watches in
horror as he sees orcs behind the wall. With speed, he moves.
"Khazad! Khazad!" A fierce cry echoes in the cliffs. A short bearded form
suddenly leaps from the top of the wall going after the orcs that have crept
through the culvert. "Ai-oi," he shouts, "The orcs are behind the wall. Come
Legolas! There are enough for both of us. Khazad ai-menu!" He smiles as he
realizes there is plenty of orcs before him to increase his count.
Grikaak reaches one of the heavy ladders as yet unmoved by, and
gripping onto its rungs he begins to scale it with grim determination. His
sword clasped in a simple leather thong upon his belt while his shield is held
up before him - even more arrows finding their way into it. Nevertheless he is
protected, save for an arrows that sails too close to him and grazes his bare
arms before slowing and falling down into the throng below. Paying this small
wound no head the orc continues to climbing, calling out to the small host of
Uruk-Hai who follow behind him.
"Climb, you dogs! Over the wall! Death to the Straw-Heads!"
From the Hornburg
Creeping like greasy blackened vermin, a swarm of orcs
clamour through the culvert gathering in the shadow of the craggy cliffs; the
battle atop the wall now thick and fierce.
Gamling the Old, Lieutenant of Helm's Deep peers down from the Hornburg, his
lined eyes narrowed as the booming voice of the dwarf echoes in his ears. A
kindled fire of alarm is traced in his reflective gaze and raising his arm to
his company, his stern tone rises against the ensuing tumult.
"The Orcs are in the Deep!...Helm! Helm! Forth Helmingas!"
Leaping from the stair, his silver-flaxen hair tossed around his shoulders and
his sword raised, the Lieutenant leads the Rohir of the west, their voices high
as with fierce intent they descend to meet Saruman's hoardes with a clash of
burnished steel and a stirring war cry.
Atop the Wall
Unmatched grace are in each of Legolas' steps as his feet
side-step, and he spins with the knives. The blow is avoided by a long
distance, though the elf waits before retaliating. He steps back, and returns a
comment to the orc while taking a glance behind him to find Gimli.
"I am doomed, yes. But it is by the seashore and the seagull, not by orc-blade
and wizards' ploys." With that he takes a step forward and leans his entire
body into the knife as it goes towards the orc's stomach.
Atop the wall
Bone-weary, blade-heavy. Every archer of Rohan has spent his
arrows, and blades gleam wetly in the moonlight that now shows through the
tattered clouds. No matter how many of the enemy are hewn down, how many ropes
are cut away, there are always more, scaling the Deeping-Wall like malevolent
spiders. Little wonder that when a clamour rises in the Deep behind men's
hearts falter. Yet the assault on the wall is still at its height. The
battleworn features of Aragorn show only grim determination as he turns to
Eomer. "Come, let us rally them once more." Without pausing for an answer, he
raises Anduril high and swings the blade forward and sideways, towards the head
of an Orc only now emerging from one of those heavy ladders.
Quickly then, overwhelming the guards and scattering the horses,
Lobsang and his crew turn their attention back to the wall; many are the orcs,
but not all so tall or fey as their captain, rather more the creeping sort who
might assay the way by which they entered, and so doomed perhaps; still, they
do not quake, but answer the dwarf with harsh cries, but rush to meet Gimli,
Gamling and the men of the westfold at their backs.
From the ladders
Ladders are pushed and some fall, men and orcs tumbling to
their deaths, but Kordan reaches the top safely. Or mostly. Another arrow cuts
through the top of his shoulder, adding to the spreading splotch that stains
his woolen shirt. Bracing himself on the top-but-one rung, he sweeps his axe
before him and then leaps onto the stone wall. Eyes fixed on the nearest of the
despised defenders, mouth twisted in a rictus of hate, he takes first one step
and then another; axehandle gripped in both hands.
Atop the wall
And as if such urging was needed, Eomer moves off a little ways,
his own sword, bloody and dark in the shining moonlight, swings at a
neighboring ladder's climbers, swift and strong and true. He eyes stray to the
moon, to its slow descent through the sky.
Atop the Wall
Great men have breath for conversation. Duanor, who is but a
man withal and no figure of legend, is betrayed by his body, which strips him
of breath and dignity both by descending into farce; a hiccup saves him from a
descending sword, jerking him that bare inch further to slip beneath the
scythe. A river runs from forearm to blade, brought up on the backswing to bite
into warped bone. Another body, Rohan-bright, hurtles out of nowhere and
engages his enemy.
Where is an enemy for him to fight? The erstwhile archer straightens and gasps,
stripping bloodied hair from his eyes with the sweep of an arm.
Atop the Wall
Deeply Morgash gasps as the knife dives into his stomach,
penetrating his iron armor. For a few moments he loses control and stumbles.
But then, with greater fury -for he is of a breed of orcs designed to stand and
he is himself strong- makes one last effort to inflict some damage to the elf,
as long as they are still close. So, he puts all his force in his right arm and
the sword heads for the elf's legs.
Behind The Wall Gimli wades into the battle, Gamling at his side. Trudging
forward, Gimli snarls with hate at the orcs before him, and slashes left and
right at the creatures. His blade slices in the air, hewing the necks of orcs
as he moves. He shouts as he moves, the orcs blades and armor nearly useless as
his well versed stroke fells one after another. He shouts at Gamling, "Over
there!" and points to a couple of the creatures who have moved into a dangerous
striking area. Black blood is spilled behind the wall on this day, the ferocity
of the swings ensuring that.
Atop the Wall
Legolas pulls the steel back to him. The elf's long legs carry
him around the range of the orc-sword. He side-steps all the way to the side of
his accoster, and from there plunges one blade towards the side of this orc --
forward, and one blade to another -- to the left. His quick eyes scan but find
Gimli nowhere nearby. "I think," he almost whispers, "I might fall back from
the count of my friend if you do not end soon."
Atop the Wall
Grikaak continues to scale the ladder until he almost
reaches the top, and in a fluid motion - quickly grasping a rung in one hand
and swinging aside as a stricken orc tumbles down from the top of the ladder
and almost strikes him - draws his sword. Shield upon his arm he is quickly
over the top of the ladder and in a swift motion swings it towards the neck of
the nearest foe - that foe being Aragorn. Behind him several orcs pour over the
top of the wall and begin to swing their weapons towards the soldiers who man
the battlements. Meanwhile, Grikaak scowls at Aragorn.
"You are no straw-head; but you shall nevertheless taste my blade!" he
then yells over the din to the other soldier orcs, "Kill them! Kill all of
them!"
Behind the Wall
Ever pushing back the foe into the chasm of the Deep , the
brightened clash of sword and roused passion of Gamling's men persists, their
voices roaring in unison to their King and the Mark.
Falling back a little, his blade stained red in vengence the Lieutenant leads
by example, his scarlet cloak swirled in motion as he moves to Gimli's
prompting, swinging and lunging his sword at will. A grimace of pure hatred
drives him on, splatters of thick, black orc blood trickling down his noble
brow.
Atop the wall
Hrinhelm, as though thunder himself, grows strong in the roaring din of battle.
Lightning flashes about his face and helm. His senses are at their utmost
height. Impassioned, he descries amidst the sweeping onslaught of men and orcs,
Kordan, a Dunlending encroaching as he comes off of the ladders. Hrinhelm
charges with all his might, his last mustering of energy, and it comes in swift
strength, amidst his weariness, as he sprints, spear in hand, though now his
shield is split; however, as he nears the man, his toe strikes the helm of a
fallen Rohirrim, and he lurches forward directly in front of the man. Thoughts,
hopes,dreams pass before his eyes, as he wields his spear for a final blow,
sprawling through the air towards the man upon the wall, whom he sees alone
amidst the myriad of shapes of men and orcs scrambling upon the wall.
But no Snaga is Lobsang, no goblin to cringe before the bright eyes or
keen blades of dwarves or men, and though all his company begin to fall and
quail, taken by the sudden onset of the defenders coming back down off the
walls, still he holds his ground, his dark blade doing its work as he hacks and
slashes his way through the press, old men and young falling about him even as
do his lads; soon he is alone, with Gamling's force driving the remnant of his
own towards the caves and their hidden defenders; the Uruk-Hai screams with
rage and the inevitability of defeat, even as his enemies surround him.
The art of the elf is too much for Morghash and with the last piercing, black
blood comes out and he hisses, "Damn ye!", before taking his last breath. He
falls on the floor, his scimitar still clutched.
Atop the Wall
Many strong lads there are atop the wall, able to bear arms. But lads
nonetheless, and they waver as the ladders come up again and again. Fear is in
their eyes, for many of them have fallen, and many more will fall. Still in
their midst stands Falred, encouraging them with quiet words when he can, with
battle-cries when he must. Yet as the foe attacks again and again, their
numbers dwindle, as does their hope...
The clash of blade against blade - Anduril meets the Grikaak's sword,
deflecting it safely sidewarys. All around them the tumult of battle rises, as
the men of Rohan under Eomer's guidance rally to battle these latest
assailants. Aragorn wastes no words are wasted on his own foe, as limbs move in
graceful pattern, the training of years guiding the blade in this deadly dance.
Grey eyes survey the creature a moment, then sword-tip flicks forward, a swift
slash towards the Orc's face.
Upon the Wall
Grikaak is a soldier of skill - and so he is not to be
slain the moment he climbs upon the Wall. His shield quickly rises to guard his
face and the blade of Aragorn shatters the arrow shafts still planted firmly in
it. Undaunted by the sudden force applied to his arm, he brings his scimitar
towards the sword arm of his foe and scowls - he does not speak again, his
voice nothing more than brief grunts and furious roars now.
Behind The Wall
"Seventeen!" he puffs as his axe finds the mark of another
orc. He looks right this time as an orc aims at one of Gamling's men. He
swings... "Eighteen," he shouts with laughter.
He stops for a moment, looking back to the left, an orc charging
straight at him. "Ha!" he shouts, his axe slicing in the air. "Nineteen!"
He quickly wipes his blade before continuing on his way. Spying a
fleeing orc, he quickly rushes after it, swiping first at its legs, then a
swift slice to the neck, "Twenty!"
Gimli turns around, and sees the final orc on the battlefield, Lobsang.
He quickly moves towards him. He booms out, "Are you ready to die?" before
swinging his axe at the uruk-hai.
Atop the Wall
In the thick of the battle that rages around him, Ceolhelm's
sword mirrors the dim glimmer of the skies, warm blood still dripping from the
deadly tip as he weaves and tumbles through the piles of corpses, men and orc
alike. Moving towards his superior Falred who encourages ever on, the
Sperewigend stands with those who still stem the flow of beasts that flow from
the ladders, his blade glinting as again it is risen with embittered passion.
Atop the Wall
The strawhead's spearpoint pierces Kordan's arm, tearing a
ragged strip of flesh from the bicep and the hillman cries out before leaping
forward, his axe raised high above his head. "Die Strawhead!" he roars and
brings the weapon down with all his might and an audible grunt.
Behind the Wall
Turning to the master dwarf, Gamling the Old's expression is
marred by the bloodied experience that years of battle bring, though the fire
in his eyes has not abated, the adrenalin pumping in his veins as his husky
voice calls out. "We must stop this rat-hole; Dwarves are said to be cunning folk
with stone. Lend us your aid, master!"
Atop the Wall
Morghash falls, and another by his side too. Taking steps
towards his friend the Dunadan -- a man he has not seen since the battle's
beginning. "I find Aragorn and Eomer amidst a throng of enemies. It appears I
am well-come. Let us hold the Wall for a time longer." With those words he
thrusts a long and curving knife to an orc on his side, and moves surely around
him in the same moment. "You have not seen Gimli?" he asks, "These yrch do not
fight fairly, son of Arathorn. They will cut at parts of his braided beard, and
he will be most despaired. I would aid him."
"I'll see you flayed in the pits of Isengard first, greybeard!" Lobsang
answers, spitting, then he leaps forward in a final effort of defiance; very
mighty is he, tall and strong, his sword wet with the blood of many men of the
mark, riders and farmsfolk, old and young; there is no fear in his eyes as he
strikes out at Gimli, Gloin's son.
Atop the Wall
Fate is odd, with a strange whimsy, and oft makes tranquility
out of chaos. Such lulls happen, small places of peace where a boundary forms
across which no battle will spill. For no rhyme or reason, Duanor finds himself
in such a nook, a haven of space: it suits him ill. His blade, he discovers, is
shattered; no matter, there are fallen weapons aplenty on the wall to threaten
legs and fallen wounded. With a lurch he drags obedience from his limbs,
driving exhaustion through his heels.
A sword's rain-slicked hilt is scooped up in a fist, bladed with torchlight
though the metal is drowned. Ugly teeth rasp its nicked edge, an ugly thing
wielded by an orc's hand but a short lifetime past. It little cares what its
master is. A hillman's leaping silhouette catches a flash of color, limned by
some reflection against the greying sky; the Rider becomes Runner, sprinting
towards a nameless enemy.
Atop the wall
Perhaps a lesser man would have succumbed to Grikaak's blow ... yet that scowl on
Grikaak's face is warning enough. Aragorn withdraws his sword-arm swiftly, so
that the Orc's scimitar merely scrapes along his arm, not parting the mail.
Another swift thrust, then the tide of battle moves him away.
When chance brings him next to Legolas, a smile curves the Ranger's lips. "A
Dwarf without a beard? Ah, I fear our stout friend would never live that down."
He shakes his head and the smile fades. "They fight like the filth they are -
and it is not their fairness that concerns me, merely their number." Then, in
an undertone, "The men of Rohan are tiring."
"Of course," Gimli shouts out at Gamling, "But we must kill this vile beast
before we do so." Turning back just as the uruk-hai brings his sword towards
him. He brings his axe up and parries the blow, Gimli taking a step back at the
force of the attack. "Is that all you have?" he laughs and brings his axe up
and slices through the air at the creature's neck.
Atop the Wall
Grikaak lets out a roar of anger as Aragorn is moved
away, attempting to move towards him as he raises his sword and points it
towards the man. He lets out an angry cry over the din of battle, his eyes
ablaze with anger.
"Come back! Come back! You shall fall by my bla-" His cry is cut short
by an audible thud and a throaty gurgle, and wide-eyed the tall orc looks down
at the spear that has been jammed heavily through his armor and into his
stomach. He looks up at the Straw-Head soldier who wields it, his mouth opening
to speak but not a sound coming out. Coughing up a mouthful of blood onto his
chin, the orc clasps at the wound in his stomach before stumbling backwards and
over the battlements. With a loud cry of unparalleled fury he tumbles through
the air before hitting the ground with a loud thud - dead.
Gimli's axe rends the air with a silken sound, even as it does
Lobsang's neck; a sickly gurgling noise, and a spray of blood is the Uruk-Hai's
only answer, and that might be enough, for the unstopped arterial flow sends a
sheet of black blood and ichor up over the dwarf that might coat him lest he
leaped aside; at last the orc collapses, his head and body falling separately
to the sodden ground.
Atop the Wall
Legolas's voice sinks in cohesion with the Dunadan's, "They are
tiring and afraid. They were prepared for a creek but not a flooding river.
There is no end to Saruman's cold fighters, and the men see no hope. Yet there
is still hope, Aragorn. There is hope while man and elf and dwarf fight as
one." ... his voice rises... "There is hope in the defence of a wall that has
never been breached." ... louder... "There is hope when men of good heart and
men of strong will stand against treachery." ... It rises to a hauntingly
melodic crescendo... "There is hope upon the Deeping Wall."
He quiets down, as some eyes have landed upon him. Some men smile while many
more orcs scowl. "I led my people in the Greenwood against a threat and a
shadow. Often we despaired that such evil could come to our Wood, but never did
we allow despair to take us."
Behind the Wall
As the Uruk leader gasps his last gurgled breath, Gamling's
me rest not. Gathering small grey boulders and sharp, broken stones that could
come to hand with all speed, the men of the West-fold under Gimli's direction
swiftly block the inner point of the culvert, until only a narrow outlet is
clear. Chocked and swollen through the tirade of ceaseless rain, pools seep and
spread slowly up from cliff to cliff.
Behind The Wall
"Twenty-One!" Gimli shouts as he watches the orc fall to the
ground, a grand smile on his face. "Now my count passes Master Legolas again!"
he says as he helps Gamling move stones and boulders to block the culvert.
Noticing the pools that are starting to form, he calls out to Gamling, "It will
be drier up above. Come, let us see how things go on the wall."
Climbing up the stairs of the wall, Gimli sees Legolas standing next to Aragorn
and Eomer. Bounding up to the elf, his chest out in pride, his axe bouncing
next to him, he roars out, "Twenty-one!"
Atop the wall
Time to rest, time to breathe - or so it seems. With the assault
on the culvert foiled for the moment, there is time to draw back and look on
the scene below: half-ruined gates, the muddy waters beginning to pool, and
everywhere the bodies ...
Aragorn tilts his head to look back on his companion, and remarks quietly, "My
hope is in the dawn." His gaze shifts at the sound of footsteps, then once more
the smile comes to his lips. "And your hope was not in vain. What, twenty-one
stairs you climbed?" This last to the approaching Gimli.
Atop the Wall
As he falls upon the ground, so too Hrinhelm feels the icy bite of steel
piercing his back. With a yelp he is stricken to the floor. Wafting clear as a
bell above the din of battle, he hears Legolas' speech to Aragorn, and laughs
as the thunder cracks above him, "There is no hope left. No new dawn, of hope
and life and peace, shall reach this land!" cries the dying son of Rohan. "All
hope is lost in men! Let me die that this death may come honourably to us all.
Then, with a single blow left in his twitching nerves, he swings his spear,
hoping it would strike someone, anyone, yet it hits none but empty air. If only
he could see now, that their foe was turning back for a moment, and that some
hope was left remnant.
Atop the Wall
Climbing up beside Aragorn, his scarlet cloak lingering at the
curve of his muddied boots, the Gamling observes the heir of Isildur's initial
words, his stubbled chin rubbed with blood stained fingers as he looks to the
lightning skies.
"Dawn is not far off... But dawn will not help us I fear..."
A tinge of sorrow is evident as his words turn to whisper carried on the
chill, relentless breeze. Mayhap, a trace of impending defeat tarrying in a
cold, steady stare of question.
So little hope the folk of Eorl have left - or so it would seem. "Dawn has ever
been the hope of men," Aragorn repeats now, the words directed at Gamling, but
spoken loud enough that those who watched their comrades die may also know that
assurance.
Atop the Wall
Legolas has already began to whet the long knife carefully in
his hands. A lull in the attack has formed, and it is a time for him to rest a
moment. But his head raises from the work to Gimli and his hands go out in
greeting.
"Gimli!" he shouts, "I was afraid you had been drowned by orcs, and here you
come with ten times your old count. However, I now number two dozen. It has
been knife-work up here."
The night is cold upon him, and many strands of his golden-yellow hair stick to
his face and back. His features are as fresh as after a spring-fueled wash, but
even one of the fair folk needs rest.
His axe bites deep into Hrinhelm's back and Kordan wrenches it free with a
bitter laugh. "No. There is no hope." Contemptously, he steps away from the
feeble swipe of the dying man's spear and with a single-handed swing severs his
neck in two. Then he stoops and graps the bleeding head by its blond hair,
holding it up high and then hurling it from the battlements. Growling, he looks
around to see another Rohirrim bearing down on him.
Atop the Wall
"But these creatures of Isengard, half orcs and goblin-men that the foul craft
of Saruman has bred...they will not quail at the sun..." Swallowing back hard,
the Lieutenant surveys the amber horizon. "Do you not hear their voices?..."
Atop the Wall
"Twenty one stairs?" Gimli booms out though it turns into
laughter quickly. Without commenting further, he turns to Legolas and grins,
"No, I was hewing orc necks down below. But I will catch your number before the
fight is through," he says as he tugs on his beard.
<Atop the Wall
Urgency gives speed to Duanor's feet, a heartbeat too far, too
late to halt the falling sword from its brutal work. There is no grace left in
fatigue, for the sons of Eorl too battered and bruised with screaming muscles
and gaping wounds. Hands and hip bracing the blunt pommel of his borrowed
sword, he drives towards Kordan with reckless finality, metal teeth gaping for
the belly's entrails.
Atop the Wall
"I hear them," says Eomer as he steps forward. Rolling his head
once to ease the tension in his shoulders, he looks to Gamling. "They are but
like the screams of bird and the bellows of beasts to my ears."
Atop the Wall
His wounds, minor though they be, are still bleeding, and weariness
slows the Dunlending's reactions. Again, he raises his great axe over his head,
gripping the blood-slick handle tightly. Again he begins the ponderous downward
swing, but it is too late. Duanor's blade slices through wool and leather like
butter, cutting a great hole in Kordan's belly. With a look of shock, he folds
up on himself, the axe falling from suddenly nerveless fingers. A puddle of blood
spreads outward to join that which already discolors the stones.
Atop the Wall
Turning to Eomer and Aragorn, the bitterness and sorrow does not forsake
Gamling, his pale eyes widened in earnest speech.
"Yet there are many that cry in the Dunland tongue...I know that tongue. It is
an ancient speech of men and once spoken in the western valleys of the Mark.
Hark! They hate us and they are glad; for our doom seems certain to them...The
King, the King!...They cry, we will take their King... Death to the Forgoil!...
Death to the Strawheads! Death to the robbers of the North!...Such hatred of
old, of a thousand years has Saruman inflamed. They will not give way now for
dusk or dawn, until Theoden is taken, or themselves all slain..."
Atop the wall
At Gamling's speech, Aragorn leans forward to survey the enemy
below, glances back along the wall to where one dark-haired warrior falls
lifeless even now. "Such needless hate," he murmurs as though in sorrow, then
turns back to his companions. "Nevertheless, the new day will bring hope to
me." And looking to Eomer, he adds, "Surely it is true that the Hornburg has
never fallen when there were men to defend it?"
Atop the Wall
The axe lands, less harmful without its guiding hand but
damaging enough; it strikes Duanor's temple with its heavy handle, clanging off
the helm and sending him reeling. With a grunt, he wrenches the weapon from the
yet unmade corpse, its jagged edge ripping free more than it severed.
Momentarily dazed, staggered on a leg, the Rohirrim stumbles against the wall's
lip and grabs hastily for stone to drag his frame up.
Atop the Wall
"So the minstrels say," replies Eomer. "But then it has never
been tested as such as it has been this day."
Atop the Wall
His eyes glazing over already, Kordan sees the blurry figure of
his enemy staggering off balance and gathers himself for one last effort.
Lunging to his knees, one hand holding his innards in place, he throws himself
towards Duanor's legs. It is his last living movement, for even as he falls,
death comes for the Dunlending.
Atop the Wall, and then no longer atop the wall but somewhere else instead.
Knocked askelter by the weight on his legs, Duanor pitches forward into the
dark, caught for a moment in the wonder of flight. And so he ends, without
blade, without glory, refuse sent to tumble and break the bones of a pillowing
orc.
Fate is a wicked, whimsical thing. It understands nothing of dignity. Duanor
bounces before he dies. And then, blackness.
Amidst the rubble
Even as those atop the battlements; spilling their own
blood to turn back those orcs that would scale the walls of the Hornburg, seek
to take respite while their lords speak there comes a blare of fell trumpets.
Suddenly the culvert collapses, the stream no longer choked but flowing freely.
As it comes, a great hiss of fire and flame fills the air... followed by the
gruesome cries of the hordes of Orthanc as they pour in through the gap. Those
who stood above it crushed, men and orc alike slain by falling stone. Saruman's
devilry playing its part in the aiding of his forces; the Hornburg now slowly
flooding with his host.
At the same moment the walls collapses in a flurry of dust and rubble; a cry
goes up anew. The Uruk-hai of Saruman press on, their ladders raised like a
wave; a black tide eating away at a cliff-face. His hosts flooding through the
gap and into the deep with jeers and taunts; "Fear the White Hand!" Do they
call. "Fear the Fighting URUK-HAI!" Has the trickey of Sharkey turned the
battle in his favour... or shall the dawn bring hope once more for the
beleagured defenders?
Faced with such sorcerous flame, who would not fear the White Hand? Men already
wearied by battle tremble at the blast, wondering what new devilry this can
be. Then comes the Voice of Aragorn, a rallying shout: "The Orcs have crept
back into the culvert while we talked, and lit the very fires of Orthanc
beneath us! Elendil!" Yet even as Aragorn leaps into the breach and brings the
bright flame of his blade to bear, more ladders hurtle skywards as Orcs renew
the assault on the top of the wall. The defence is swept away.
What choice then, but retreat? For Aragorn that means the Hornburg, urged on by
Legolas' shout. Orcs pursue him, yelling in their harsh tongue, and had it not
been for the swift arrow of Legolas, and the well-aimed boulder that comes
crashing down, perhaps even the Heir of Elendil would not have reached its
safety. The door clangs shut, and only then is there time to ask the
whereabouts of trusted comrades old and new ... and to learn that some are
missing.
Atop the Wall
Even elvish balance is disturbed by such a mighty shake. The
rumbling of the earth below his feet, its rising and convulsing, sends the elf
stepping to the side uncomfortably. He looks about him then, as the final
assault splashes against the Deeping Wall. Upon light feet the archer tramps
about as the wall is destroyed. He looks here and there for arrows from the
quivers of the fallen, and pours them all to one.
Little rattlings of Rohirric chain make themselves heard as he finds a spot
above the stair, where Aragorn defends the Keep alone. Falling on one knee, he
draws a swift arrow, but holds. Only when Aragorn climbs the stair to flee into
the Hornburg and its caves, and only when an orc leaps upon him, does Legolas
release the shaft. It strike's the orc's throat and he falls dead. Immediately
his comrades leap over him to lash at Aragorn, and are smothered with a huge
boulder.
A massive rock thrown from above falls just behind the Dunadan and crushes his
pursuers. Following him, Legolas seems to take just a few steps, and finishes
already inside the Hornurg itself. The door is shut behind him.
Legolas sighs and looks about him. Aragorn is safe, but where is Gimli?
Behind the Wall
Gimli jumps as the wall explodes in stone. Spying the forces
of orcs crawling over the wall and under it, he begins to follow Aragorn at
first. He rushes down behind the wall, fighting the orcs that are quickly
rushing in. His axe slices left and right both in defense and in attack and he
is slowly pushed back, back into the Deep. Back into the caves.
Behind the Wall
The blast, flying rubble and clouds of smoke cause chaos and confusion
initially as with an almighty boom the Lieutenant is thrown off balance. Though
wiping the dust and grit from his tanned, creased brow Gamling narrows his
watery eyes to the path of the dwarf, his pace now steady as he too descends to
the Deep, his blade raised to meet the onset of swarming orcs which lay in wait.
In the Hornburg
Legolas looks over to Aragorn, and extends his whole frame,
to search behind the man. "Where is Gimli?" he asks with a hint of impatience.
Upon the blaring of the trumpets, the last words spoken only
moments past are proven wrong. Chaos of rubble falling, and fires licks the
remains of the fallen. Hurrying forward on the heels of the Dwarf, Eomer
gathers all who can follow to the mouth of the Deep. The force of the Orc who
pour in is more than can be pushed back, and while swinging his sword without
pause, Eomer, is driven back into the caves with Gimli, Gamling, and all others
still standing.
Hornburg
Where is Gimli? A question that preoccupies at least two, but not one
that Aragorn can answer. "I last saw him fighting on the ground behind the
wall, but the enemy swept us apart." He pauses, leaning on Anduril a moment,
then adds thoughtfully, "It may be that he has withdrawn towards the Caves.
Such would be to the liking of a dwarf."
Within the Deep, Atop the Walls
Scimitars and crude blades clash upon shields
as the Uruk-hai of Isengard pour into the Deep; pressing towards the caves,
toward the walls.. surrounding those that they may in hopes of blood. A
seething black mass they are - rain-soaked and filthy.. truely a gruesome
war-machine. Commanders jeering their troops on with curses and physical
threats - all taking positions as told. Onto the walls they come; scaling the
ladders to meet their evil brethren.. into the deep before the caves they
poor, giving challenge to the defenders wherever they are to be found.
In the Hornburg
Legolas' keen eyes dart in both directions, but no dwarf do
they find. Then with a pause and a word he moves past Aragorn. "That is my hope
as well," he says, "I wish that he had come this way, for I had intended to
tell Master Gimli my tale is now nine-and-thirty." The elf runs his finger
along the scabbard's leather -- a small piece of material that holds inside a
most elegant and deadly tool.
Hornburg
Even in this moment of battle-weariness Aragorn can smile - and a
rumble of laughter escapes him as he peers at his elven companion. "Far better
than twenty-one, indeed. But if Gimli wins back to the caves, his count will
surely surpass you. Never have I seen an axe so wielded." He nods to emphasize
this high praise.
In the Hornburg
Legolas smiles and stops, standing side to side with a King
of Men. "But this is idle talk." he says, clasping the man's shoulder, "They
have breached the Deeping Wall, and in the Hornburg lies now our only hope. I
shall go and collect more arrows, for I had sent the last at the throat of your
pursuer." With a quick movement the elf steps forward and is gone.
In the Deep
"Gamling!" Gimli shouts and points towards a couple of charging
orcs. He looks to his sides, grinning watching Gamling and Eomer and rest of
their men fight valiantly against tremendous odds. His axe slices through the
air once more and Gimli shouts out "Thirty four!" with triumph in his voice. He
then turns towards his next victim, holding his axe up and over his head before
bringing it down on the soon to be deceased creature.
In the Deep
To soon is the middle aged Lientenant thrusted into the throng of
battle again, dust and dried splatters of crimson hue now stain his brow,
though at the pace of one agrieved and of ignited spirit does he rush
undeterred behind the master dwarf. Shadows and darkness lie in a mass of
ensuing orcs and with a curt nod towards Gimli, a pale glance cast at Eomer
Marshal does Gamling slam into the foe, his sword soon warm with spilt black
ooze.
Hornburg
As Legolas searches for arrows, Aragorn enters the Hornburg - to
hear the news that some of the Westfold-men have seen Eomer, Gamling and Gimli
fighting in the mouth of the Deep. It is with knowledge of these tidings that
the ranger strides on into the inner court, long legs climbing the stairs to
the King's chamber with ease. There he bows his proud head, speaks in a voice
still hoarse from shouting: "The Deeping Wall is taken, Lord, and the defence
swept away," a moment of silence, before he adds all the reassurance he may,
"but many have escaped hither to the Rock."
Hornburg Tower Room
Theoden stands as he has stood throughout the long night: watching from a
narrow window, a dark silhouette in the shadows. Yet as Aragorn enters he
turns, and his bright mail gleams with flickers of light. He regards the
Dunadan for a long moment, and then nods his head. "Is... Eomer here?" he asks,
his voice grim.
Aragorn answers that with a small shake of his head. "No Lord." There is pity
in his cool gaze, yet he continues, "But many of your men retreated to the
Deep, and some say that Eomer was amongst them. In the narrows they may perhaps
hold back the enemy and come to the caves - though what hope they may have
there I do not know."
Hornburg Tower Room
"More than we," answers the King, his eyes flickering. Not Eomer too. Is he the
last? He steels himself, and lifts his head. "They have good provision and
clean air. None can force an entrance against determined men. They may hold out
long..."
In the Deep
"Keep the number rising!" Eomer shouts as he thrusts his blade
forward to impale a charging orc. Grunting with the effort, the dark creature
stops and falls forward, forcing the Marshal draw back to retrieve his sword.
The ground grows slick with a mixing of human and Orc blood, causing his next
blow to wound rather than kill. Placing a hand upon the wall to steady himself,
he dodges the returning blow. Gritting his teeth sharply, he lifts upwards to
strike a killing blow.
Hornberg
Once more Aragorn must be the bearer of ill news - stormcrow, some
would name him. "The Orcs have brought some devilry from Orthanc - a blasting
fire. With that they took the wall - and if they cannot enter the caves, they
may seal up those inside. But," he shrugs in dismissal, then raises his eyes to
meet those of the King, "we must give thought to our own defence, Lord."
In The Hornburg
Inside the Hornburg, Legolas is already found ammunition. As
one after the other, the yrch pour in, one after the other they go down. And if
they do not fall with feathers sticking out of them, they fall from a group of
strong Rohirric men and their swords. But the arrows of the far-eyed elf are
not endless...
Hornburg Tower Room
"I fret here in this prison," answers Theoden, his eyes flickering. "If I could
have borne a spear in battle, leading my men, maybe I could again have felt the
joy of battle, and so ended. But what purpose do I serve?" He turns and looks
out the window again. "It is said that the Hornburg has never fallen to
assault, but now my heart doubts. How can any tower... any people survive
against such reckless hate? Had I known the true strength of Isengard, i might
not have ridden to meet it, no matter the arts of Gandalf. His counsel now...
seems not so wise..."
Hornburg tower room
Aragorn shakes his head. "I have known Gandalf many
years," is his own carefully stated response, "And his counsel has not proved
ill. Do not judge Gandalf's council until all is ended, Lord."
"The end will not be long," answers the son of Thengel. 'But I will not end
here, like a badger in a trap. Snowmane and Hasufel and the horses of my guard
are in the inner court. When dawn comes, I will bid men sound the Horn of Helm,
and I will ride forth. Will you ride with me then, son of Arathorn?" The
Eorling king turns to look at the Ranger, and his eyes burn. Together we shall
cleave a road, or make an ending worth a song!"
In the Deep
Gimli grunts with weariness, though his axe blade does not slow
much. "Thirty eight!" he shouts out as the newest victim of his blade falls to
the ground, its blood splashed across the ground. But he is still slowly pushed
back, the orcs still seemingly advance, an endless number of them are in front
of them. But he does not quit, and his blade sings through the air again.
In the Deep
A cry in agreement to the Marshal is all Gamling can offer, his
trusty blade glinting in the muted light as he pushes his sword deeper into the
back of a screeching orc. Pushing a handful of dampened hair, thick with sweat
and tinged with red, the Lieutenant regards his companions with a wry smile,
drawn on twisted lips as he draws back the gleaming hilt to turn on the next in
line.
Hornburg tower room
"I will ride with you," Aragorn states, a light rising
his his grey eyes as he surveys Theoden - and a faint smile of approval.
"Together we shall fall upon the foe, and we shall make an end to be told in
song and story." The proud words of like to like. "I must go to make one last
circuit of the Burg - by your leave, Lord." His long legs carry him swiftly
away to find Legolas and strengthen the defence as best he may by simple words
and guidance.
Legolas follows in Aragorn's steps around the keep, shadowing the Dunadan. A
word of advice here, and a well-placed arrow there. But his old post lies
abandoned, and orcs might now stream through it... The Hornburg is far from
well-defended, and desperate times call for desperate measures.
Hornburg
Desperate times indeed. For the very stones shake, as blasts of
Orthanc-fire shoot up from below to sear the walls of the Hornburg. When these
fail to damage the stout walls, grappling hooks and ladders are used once more,
as Orcs attempt to breach the inner defences. Again and again the defenders
force the enemy back with arms long grown weary. In such a situation, both Elf
and Ranger offer what aid they may.
At last Aragorn finds himself standing above the great gates, looking eastward
to where the sky pales with the first hint of dawn. The ground below boils with
dark forms - but Aragorn reaches neither for sword nor bow. Instead he raises
one hand, palm-outward.
At the Base (Me)
At the sight of the tall dark-haired man standing atop the stone
wall, the orcs begin to jeer and howl. "Come down!" yells one. "Come down!"
taunts another. Other voices take up the call. "If you wish to speak with us,
come down! Bring out your king! We are the fighting Uruk-hai. We will fetch him
from his hole if he does not come. Bring out your skulking king!" Scorn is
evident in every word, distorted faces twist in mockery and malice.
Atop the hornburg
Aragorn's features might be carven in stone, for all the
reaction he gives to the jeers. At length his lips move. "The King comes or
stays at his own will." Still his gaze is eastward, over the heads of the
defenders.
At the Base (Me)
"Then what are you doing here?" is the sneered reply. "Do you want
to see how great our army is? We are the fighting Uruk-Hai."
Atop the Hornburg
Calm grey eyes do not shift; Aragorn's countenance is
peaceful. "I look to see the dawn," he replies simply. Then his gaze drops to
the beseigers at last, and a hint of steel is in his tone now. "Get you gone,
lest it turn to your ill!"
At the Base (Me)
The orcs crane their heads towards the east and laugh. "What of
the dawn? We do not stop the fight for night or day. Get down or we will shoot
you from the wall!" A bow is raised, the string pulled back threateningly.
"This is no parley. You have nothing to say."
Atop the Hornburg
The threat is ignored, and Aragorn's voice strengthens and
deepens. "I have this to say. No enemy has yet taken the Hornburg. Depart
/now/, or not one of you will be spared to take the tidings back to your
Master." A light wind rises, pushing dark locks away from his face and
revealing features stern and noble. His mail and helm gleam softly in the
growing light, and in his eyes flickers a grey flame.
At the Base (Me)
Scattered among the orcs, the men of the hills stare in amazement
at the unexpected majesty revealed in Aragorn's voice and face. Uncertainly
they look around, backing away from the great wall and peering at the sky in
fear. But a great howl of evil laughter rises from the orcs and first one dart
and then a hail of them are sent whistling over the wall towards the man who
yet stands there.
Atop the Hornburg
Legolas stands behind Aragorn in support. His eyes skim
over the sea of orcs and a glimmer of disgust is reflected in them. His lips
purse.
Atop the Hornburg
Aragorn looks to his companion, and speaks softly. "They
should have listened."
Words spoken, there is no point in lingering further. Even as the darts come
flying, Aragorn leaps back and down, trusting to Legolas to do the same, and
not one barb touches him.
Helm's Deep
As Aragorn leaps down, there is a roar and a blast of fire. The Gates that had
held so long, even broken, fall, and the archway above them crumbles. Orcs and
hillmen alike yell in fierce triumph, preparing to charge. But from behind,
there comes a clamor of voices, crying out strange news in the dawn. A rumor of
woe for some, a rumor of hope for others. And even in the moment of indecision
as the orcs waver, the sound of the great Horn of Helm rings out sudden and
deep and terrible. Long it blows, and proudly, and the echo of it springs from
rock to rock and hill to hill.
In the Deep
"Forty!" Gimli shouts out as another orc's head tumbles upon the
ground at his feet. He turns to look after Eomer and Gamling to ensure they are
still fine. For a moment, he watches Gamling's blade kill another foul orc and
Gimli shouts in support. "Let us kill them all!" His eyes now roam for number
forty one.
The Great Horn of Helm's Deep rings out into the morning, resounding
throughout Helm's Deep and out into the distant plain beyond. But nay! It is
not just echoes playing across the mountainside, but horns sounding in answer
to the great hornblast issued forth from Helm's Deep. From whence they come is
unseen, but they sound ever closer - winding fierce and free through the
mountainside. Could it be that Helm has arisen to answer the call? Could it be
that Helm has once again come to war?
Atop the Hornburg
Legolas leaps the same. It is a distance down, but his feet
land softly, and with hardly a crouch he is on the move again. He runs after
Aragorn as the world explodes behind him.
"Helm! Helm!" cry the remaining Riders. "Helm is arisen and comes back to war!
Helm for Theoden King!"
At the Base (Me)
Many of the orcs throw themselves to the ground at the sound of
the horncall, covering their ears with their claws. Weapons are dropped,
forgotten in the horror and terror of the sound.
At the Base
The sound of the horn's call brings the proud men of Dunland to a
halt, sends cowardly shivers through them as they turn to run, the tales of
ROhirric terror, the words of Saruman ringing in their ears. "We are doomed!"
come the shouts in their resonant tongue, "Burned and eaten live, run, run!
Home to hill and field, run!"
Hornburg
With the shouts from his people and the sound of the horns ringing all around,
the King rides out. his horse is as white as the snow and his shield is golden;
his spear is long and deadly. Light springs in the sky, as if summoned by the
horncalls that do not die. His Riders follow him, charging forth from the Gates.
"Forth Eorlingas!"
Hornburg
At Theoden's right hand rides Aragorn, Elendil's heir, all trace of
weariness gone from his features, and Anduril blazing like a star in his hand.
The eastern sky shades from blue to a bright and bloody crimson. Dawn has come
at last.
At the Base (Me)
Before the might of the king and his men, none can stand.
Captains and champions alike flee before them, those who do not falling to the
swords and spears of the Riders. In their panic, the orcs give over all thought
of defense, looking only for escape.
Across the hills
Once more a horn sounds; booming and noble. Echoing that of
Helm. What new devilry is this?.. Saruman's doing.. surely it cannot be men of
the mark.. though again more horns sound in tune with it; resounding off the
hills; moving ever closer.
In the Deep
Roused by the dwarf's words, Gamling lunges his sword into the
gut of a wriggling orc, his arms now aching but the song of battle fresh on his
lips as is the tradition of his brethren, as he ploughs on. "Aye, master
dwarf...one and all!..." Flaxen braids, traced with the silver of age sweep
back as he drags his sword back, his scarlet cloak flowing to each swift
movement, the stench of orc and death keen in his flared nostrils. Yet, then
the blast of the horn of Helm sounds through the darkness of the Deep, piercing
the shadows with hope. Whispered words are quickly uttered forth, pale eyes
narrowed in question. "How can it be?..."
At the Base (Me)
Fleeing that is until they are caught in an anvil, with known
foes behind and unlooked-for enemies ahead. Those in the front of the fleeing
horde stumble to a halt. Wailing in fear, many are trampled by their fellows in
their desperate attempt to escape.
In the Deep
Gimli watches as number fourty one falls to the ground, but
perhaps watches for too long. "Argh!" he bellows out in pain as an orc's
scimitar hits him squarely in the helmet. The helm falls harmlessly to the
ground, and Gimli turns to face the massive orc before him. His eyes catch the
fear in some of the orcs around, some starting to fly away. Blood drips from
his forehead now, and Gimli growls, "Run away like the rest of you cowards" he
leashes out. But before he finishes the words, his axe is up in the air and
slices towards the orc's neck. "Die!" Gimli croaks out but as the blade slices
through the orc's neck, the axe clangs against the orc's iron collar.
But it is enough as the orc falls, blood spurting from the wound. Gimli turns
towards Gamling, "Forty Two!"
And light is most welcome on this day, for it has ever been the hope of men.
Legolas rides with Thoeden, outwards. Out to his doom, and to the doom of all
Rohan, if not all men. For doom seems certain with the coming morning, and they
are outnumbered significantly. But behind him his hair waves proudly, and his
cloak that now appears white scrambles and quivers in the wind. In his right
hand is a spear of the Mark, and never since Aeglos has a weapon been so
wielded. Legolas is tall and wondrous upon his steed; and untouched by fear.
Only one cry he has, "For Greenwood and the Mark!"
And that cry is echoed by human throats: "Eorlingas!"
Down from the Gates rides Theoden's host, cutting the enemy down like grass for
the burning, fuel for the fires. Anduril shines crimson now, lapping greedily
at Orcish blood as Aragorn Elendil's heir leans in his saddle to slash here,
there ...
(Me)
Beneath Aragorn's shining blade, first one orc and then another fall to be
trampled by the hooves of the horses that follow. A tall brown-haired man
grovels in horror as the riders near, falling to his knees. Dropping his
weapon, he covers his face with his hands and cowers there.
Wild and free blows the Horn of Helm, and the king and his company ride forth.
Theoden's eyes gleam as the foe flees before him, and he gives a great shout of
fierce joy. "Eorlingas!" he cries out again, his voice loud and deep. On they
ride, from the Gate towards the Dike, the Riders of the Mark at the coming of
the dawn.
Suddenly as the bright morning sun creeps over the ridge to the West
and as a figure riding a horse of brilliant white, clad in garbs that seem to
glow immaculately white with a brilliant sword held aloft in one hand. He
pauses for a moment and surveys the scene for a brief second before he points
his sword towards the cowering orcs and he charges down the slope towards their
dark host. Following behind a thousand men with sword in hand march over the
ridge and follow after him as he sweeps, still glowing as if he has the very
spirit of the sun within him, and swings his sword - glowing just as he is -
towards the nearest orc neck. Gandalf the White has come!
Upon the hills above the Deeping-coomb
Trumpets bray once more upon the
hills; this time though those who would sound upon them appear. Hastening down
not far behind the White Rider they come; one-thousand strong men on foot -
their swords in their hands. Amidst them there strides one tall; noble and
lordly, his shield - crimson. Upon reaching the Valley's brink he sets to his
lips a great horn of ebony and emits a ringing blast in answer once more to the
horn of Helm.
(Me)
The once-proud hosts of Saruman now cower in mortal fear, in terror of the king
behind and the Rider before. Vainly, they crawl about the walls of the coomb,
seeking a way to climb up and escape. But to the east, the cliffs are too
steep; the stones throw them back. And from the west, doom approaches. More and
more hillmen throw their spears and axes and swords to the ground, throwing
themselves down after. And the rising sun looks down on an uncounted enemy all
but defeated, for the orcs reel and scream and flee like smoke before a great
wind.
At the base
For a moment, pale features framed by dark hair beneath a shining
helm, last remnant of the majesty of the Sea-Kings of old, stare down at a
brown-haired hillman who has cast aside his weapon. One moment only ... then
Hasufel leaps lightly onward, and Aragorn hurries to return to the side of
Theoden King, and to marvel with him at what awaits them.
Those Men who surrender this day are not hewn down.
"Mithrandir!" cries Legolas, and his eyes are flecked with golden joy.
"Mithrandir has come! This is wizardry indeed."
But the Hillmen do cower, their weapons thrown down hastily, a leader, tall and
brawny, stepping forward to growl. "Will you kill us now?" in heavily accented
westron. He stands proud, arms crossing over his chest, obviously prepared for
the atrocities he has been told will happen.
"Erkenbrand!" the Riders shouted. "Erkenbrand!"
At the Dike, the King's company halts, for the land before them has changed.
The slopes of the green dale of the Coomb are now covered of great trees, bare
and silent. Great roots are twisted in the grass and between the silent menace
of the woods and the Dike are but two furlongs.
The Hillmen's words are heard, and Aragorn makes answer. "No." It is simple
statement. "For you have been deluded by Saruman, and would have reaped naught
but death as a reward. No, you must await Theoden King's judgement - and his
mercy."
Grey eyes turn away, to take in three new miracles. Then Aragorn murmurs to
Legolas with wonder, "Wizardry indeed. There was no wood here yestereve."
(Me)
Eyes are uncovered at Aragorn's words, wide with shock and disbelief. Another
man stumbles to his feet and takes a step forward, his empty hands bloody.
"But.. Saruman said... they would burn us alive," he stammers to the leader.
Legolas laughs in return to Aragorn. His spear plunges into the air with a
triumph. "I would look on this forest." he says to Aragorn quietly, and then
tilts his head to the fresh morning sky as the blue air washes across his face.
"Let us ride!" he says with inspiration, "Let us ride to meet Gandalf, ere he
think us lost and forgotten. I would look on the White Rider! And let all in
our way reel before us and curse our passing! It is a bright morning for us
all, son of Arathorn."
The king looks upon the hillman and shakes his head. "No," he says gravely. Yet
no answer more full does he give, for the wonder of the dawn is full about him.
"Erkenbrand! Gandalf!" he cries. The horn of Helm rings out again, and the
riders of the King's company lift their own in answer. Then with a great shout
Theoden urges his horse forwards, and Snowmane's tail flies behind him like a
banner. "Forth Eorlingas!"
Red dawn has given way to golden sunlight, that glints now off spear and sword.
Aragorn directs Hasufel to follow the King of the Mark, and looks to Legolas at
his side as he responds, "Aye, Gandalf has brought us victory. Did he not say
'await me at Helm's Gate'? All that could make it better is to see our absent
friends rejoin us."
(Me)
Trees crowd the valley, trees that were not there hours before and under their
dim and waiting boughs, the orcs flee at last in terror of both the king and
the White Rider. There is nowhere else they can go, but from that shadow, none
ever return.
And Legolas is away upon his white mare. He smiles broadly as the trees move,
but his head is always to the White Rider.
And Thus with Gandalf's coming, with Erkenbrand's men, and with the Trees of
Fangorn the orcs of Saruman are scattered and slain upon the field. Helm's deep
has not fallen, and Rohan will see another day.
Narrator's Voice
And as the orcs flee into the shadow of the trees, we leave you, the audience,
to ponder their sad and sorry fate. Thank you all for coming, and we hope you
enjoyed the show.