Midnight. The torches were all extinguished after the first, brief but bloody battle. Orcs filled the dike, but now the surviving riders fled from their first line of defence back to the stronghold. Darkness was the White Hands enemy, for what they could not see they could not shoot at.
To the far left of the valley side, while the gates were being battered open by Uruk and Orc, the dunlendings were clambering up the steep sloped sides, using only the sharpness of their eyes to guide them over rock and root. Their hide shields were resting over their shoulders, their warpaint deep and threatening on their mostly exposed skin. Their voices were hushed, like the sounds of birds and beasts to those who did not understand it.
Leading this mighty host of Wildmen were a few men. The burnt Tân Brenin, with his shimmering worm skin cloak now dull in the growing storm. Others such as Lheu Brenin, the pot bellied strong leader, and other decorated men. One of these was the Warlord, Pren, his bear head high upon his own as he climbed strongly. Each push of his leg against the ground was driven by the adrenaline that burnt through his veins like wildfire. They reached the top and descended down the other, the dark stream fanning out into a lake of shadows, hidden by the darkness the clouds above covered.
The wind picked up, and the rain came down with a flash of lightning! The host of the White Hand that began to flood the valley were illuminated briefly, and more still yet come.
“Nawr, rydyn ni’n ymladd! Byddan nhw cael eu lladd gan ein cleddyf ac echelin!”, the bear headed warlord spoke to his men, his axe held tight in his grip while he looked upon his men. Anger was deep in his tone, and each word was spoke with the desire of revenge of an insult centuries ago.
“SAETHAU!”
The hunters of the Hillmen, and even those that were not the most skilled, lifted their bows and knocked their arrows, and in unison with those black-feathered arrows of death that the orcs used, they were released into the night sky as lightning flashed brightly.
Now the battle had come! Dunlendings and orcs ran up the causeway, shields high above their head as they slammed what once was a great tree into the doorways, though it was here they met the first resistance. Rocks and arrows crushed and stung them, though the numbers were vast enough to replace them.
The storm was now clearing, the wind blew, the stars and moon were revealed and the voices of the Wildmen were shouting out for the death of their foes as loud as they could:
“Y Brenin, y Brenin! Byddwn ni cymryd eu brenin! Marwolaeth i’r forgoil! Marwolaeth i’r ben gwellt! Marwolaeth i’r lladron y Gogledd!”
Ropes and ladders were flung against the walls, and every part of the dark host clambered up, including Pren and his close friend Tân Brenin, their axes drawn and swinging into the closest blonde haired man they could find. The arrows had now gone from the archers, and they were swift to die against the hill mens wrath.
While the Wildmen and the Uruk’s fought on top of the wall, some had managed to sneak through and tarry the host from the other side. They were failing. Now, the hammer struck while the iron was hot.
A large thundering explosion, lighting up the night in orange flames, and the wall burst at its weakest spot: the culvert. Debris rained down, and Pren could feel the heat even where he stood at the far end of the wall. The shouts of the White Hand were loud as they poured in, and Pren and Tân Brenin joined the front of the charge to the rest of the weak forgoil, cutting down those that tried to flee to safety.
Translations
Nawr, rydyn ni’n ymladd! Byddan nhw cael eu lladd gan ein cleddyf ac echelin! - Now, we fight! They will die from our swords and axes!"
SAETHAU!” - ARROWS!
“Y Brenin, y Brenin! Byddwn ni cymryd eu brenin! Marwolaeth i’r forgoil! Marwolaeth i’r ben gwellt! Marwolaeth i’r lladron y Gogledd!" - The King, the King! We will take their king! Death to the forgoil! Death to the straw heads! Death to the robbers of the North!"
