The battle for Helm’s Deep was going well, in the favour of the host of the White Hand. The Wildmen in their bright warpaint and furs were running through the broken wall with their axes and daggers tight in their hands, leaping on to any poor man or boy that was too close to them. The riders were being pushed further and further back, each step the mixture of Orcs and Hill men took forward, the Forgoil would take another step back.
The entrance to the deep caves were looming behind them, and they trickled in as they desperately tried to keep their defence. Some fled off to the side, up a long set of stairs and at the bottom stood a tall man with a sword that looked as if it was burning, and above him a crouched blonde figure with a shining arrow pointing right at them. Despite the harsh courage of the Uruk Hai, and the fierce hatred of the Dunlendings, no one wanted to take the first step forward, though when they turned to speed into the keep the host were quick on his heel, but a falling rock soon put a halt to their chasing.
The weakened Eorlingas were cowering in their caves and keeps, and the orcs were keeping them tight within. The Wild men wandered around, including the warlord Pren, alongside an injured Tân Brenin, his face practically torn open from the bludgeoning it had received from the flat of a shield. Pren also was not without injuries, for he stood breathing harshly, a sword stroke along his ribs that cut through his thick leather armour. Bruises and a swollen eye were amongst other smaller things, his bear-hood resting now on his shoulder.
“Roedden ni ennill, Pren! Yn olaf, ni tir cartref ydy ein… efallai, byddan ni cael ein canu gan y beirdd yn arwrgerdd! Y Cryfderau o'r Tân Brenin a'r Rhyfelwr Pren!”*, Tân Brenin exclaimed with a bloody grin, bending down to steal a ring that was clutched in a dead hand.
“Hrm. Rydyn ni’n agos, ond dydyn ni ddim yn wedi ennill eto. Cyhyd â mae Brenin o Forgoil yn fyw, rydyn ni ymladd.”** Pren grumbled out through his breaths, pushing a spear through a dying Eorling to finish him off so he’d quit his whining.
In the distance, the Uruk Hai were harassing the figure with the flaming sword who stood on the wall, speaking down to them, with a voice that dampened the fire that burned in the Wild Mens heart, and made those in earshot uneasy.
However, the gate suddenly crumbled from what appeared to be from the machinery of Isengard, and the fire was renewed as they prepared to charge again. Though as they were clambering the rocks a great sound rang out. The Horn of Helm Hammerhand, and this was enough to stop both Tân Brenin and Pren in their tracks. They could feel the vibrations of it beneath their feet, and the orcs around were reeling like beaten dogs. The booming of the horn bounced all about them, as if it was coming from every direction, and then a voice cried out something that Pren could not understand.
Though soon the King appeared, on a snow white horse, with the man with the flaming sword besides him, and a host of other riders. The men pushed from the caves, and now Tân Brenin dragged Pren by the arm to join him in retreat. They ran, with the warband of Dunlendings soon focussing around them, out into the open of the Dike, pushing over Uruk and Orcs who ran as well. The riding King was coming from the left, and fear was ripe amongst the Wildmen.
A shining bright white light shone from the right, and made the Dunlendings band together tighter. Their exit was blocked, as a forest had suddenly sprouted blocking their way. They were stuck.
They circled together, and Pren shouted and swiped his axe at any horse that would come close to him, though the bottom of a spear smote him across the head right along his eye and the bridge of his nose. He roared out in pain and stumbled back into the arms of his warband. There one of his only friends lay on the floor, Tân Brenin had been run through with a sword and his body recovered to the centre.
Anger fought against fear in his mind, and eventually the host of Dunlendings set off again, in the direction of the host of riders that appeared from over the hill with a bright white light, though as this White Old Man joined the swirling mixture of the host of the White hand, another flash of white was released and most of the Wild Men jumped to the ground to cover their eyes before starting to run, including Pren who was following them at the behind.
A sharp pain tore into his back and the force of the blow knocked him off his feet into the mud, a heat took over his body and all went black for the Warrior, Pren Rhyfelwr.
* "We have won, Pren! Finally, our home land is ours.. perhaps we will be sung about by the bards in an epic poem! The Strengths of the Fire Chief and the Warrior Pren!"
**"Hrm. We are close, but we do not win yet. As long as the King of the Forgoil is alive, we fight."
