The Guardian of the Iant Fain
Óllondun gave Êlbereth with his gauntlet a friendly and rattling slap on the shoulder. "That was the last buckle."
Êlbereth stood a up a little clumsy. The armor was lighter than he had expected and yet would it hinder his movements drastically. Óllondun, the captain of the gathered force, walked up and down the line of the armored Elves. They counted twenty and all of them they wore polished harnishes, masterly crafted armors from which rounded plates, any spear thrust would be deflected.
"Do not forget to lower the heads, when we attack!", Óllondun instructed them. "Our weakest spot is the gap in the helmet through which we see them. The Orcs know that. Therefor lower the heads!"
"Do they come with cavalry?", asked an Elf who stood next to Êlbereth. His voice sounded metallic through the visor of the helmet.
"I will be honest. Since yesterday's midday none of our scouts have returned. We fight too long already against these creatures. They begin to learn our tactics and evolve moves to counter us." The warrior felt how the fine hair in his neck were set upright. The air had become cooler since the last few hours. He had the oppressing feeling that something lay beyond his sight.
Here, in the mountains of Mirkwood, lay a deep gorge before them, that looked like as if a powerful being would have cleaved the land into two. A narrow, from the stone of the gorge formed path led down to the bridge that stretched itself valiantly over the ravine. The Iant Fain, the white bridge was only two steps broad and to its middle slightly arched. There was no handrail.
"Remember to hold safe distance to each other," suggested Óllondun finally. "We do not want to slay one another." He took up his large two handed sword. "Ready!", he called out and turned once more to the Elves in their armors. "Forget everything what ye have learned about an honorably battle. Our enemies know no mercy. They will not make captives. So kill as many of them as ye are able to. And be ware the halberd troops."
The small Elven company marched ordered over the bridge and up the cliff to the right flank, past the burned out remains of the wooden watch-towers. The day before yesterday the Elves had wrought the position before the bridge out of the hands of the Orcs. And they had paid for it with floods of blood.
The number of soldiers that they could rally in order to defend the Iant Fain was ridiculously small. Two hundred Elves and less than fifty archers. The small fortification on their side of the bridge was only manned with those who were wounded or not able to engage the enemy in close combat. This was the last exertion!
"The Orcs will be terribly surprised when we attack them", said Óllondun in a apparently good mood. The guardian had let himself fall back to Êlbereth and marched now on his side.
"I myself am surprised that I march with a team of twenty maniacs against a battle line of hundreds of orcs. Could it be that thou hast given something into my wine last night, when thou spoke of thy plan and I was enthralled by it?"
Óllondun pushed up the visor of his helmet and displayed a broad grin. "About the thing with the wine I actually thought of, Êlbereth. But then I thought: Who is crazy enough to attack with only a man on the side an outpost full of trolls, will also be fascinated by the today's battle plan."
They passed the entrance to the way that led down the bridge. It was secured by sharpened stakes there brought at an angle into the ground. It would provide excellent safety against possible cavalry attacks but it would not stop any troops on foot.
"Get down!", ordered Óllondun.
The Elves obliged. When they crouched, they were less clearly to be seen by the orcs. It was important that they succeeded to surprise them.
A bit more than the quarter of a mile, the warriors of Mordor came up the mountainside. Dense like a forest protruded the long pikes over their heads. The spear-bearers marched in the same tact towards the bridge. They wore dark and stinking armor that they had covered in rancid tallow what would let blades slip from their protection. The smell was intolerable.
Óllondun's mouth had become all dry. Spellbound he watched the advancing Orcs. Like a rising flood their battle line was parted by the few large rocks that were in their way, only to be closed again. There were hundreds of them!
Sharp orders were bellowed along the spear-bearers. Some of them disappeared. The archers of the Elves began their deadly work. The air was filled with the buzzing of the arrows and the sharp clicking of the tendons. Dozens of Orcs were brought down. Immediately those from the back lines took in the positions of their fallen brethren.
Already was the enemy only hundred steps away. Óllondun could observe how the arrows stamped round, bloody holes into the armor of those who were hit.
Only eighty steps. The marching of the Orcs became quicker.
"Assault!", sounded up Óllondun's voice. The blond Elf closed his visor, suddenly broke free from the undergrowth to fall into the enemy flank.
Óllondun's hands were shaking. He raised his two handed sword high above his head and bend forward like an attacking bull. It was complete madness! In front of them stood hundreds of Orcs and they commenced attack with twenty Elves.
Forty steps!
Óllondun began to ran even faster. The spears of the first row reached now six steps against them. Behind that were waiting four more rows of sharpened spear-tips. The Elf saw how uneasyness began to make its way into the enemy lines. The tips of their weapons began to concentrate on single points. There, where the attackers would hit their lines.
The impact happened with a lot less power than Óllondun had expected. Gnashing was steel scraping over steel. The tips of the spears were deflected to the side. Óllondun held further his head down. Again he met the a row with an hard impact. The second line he had passed. Shrill screams sounded up. The guardian let his sword circulate. Cracking it broke the wooden shafts of the Orcs.
Óllondun felt how something hit him at the armored neck and was as well deflected. Just now he dared to raise his head. He looked directly into the horrified faces of the Orcs. Three more steps and he was at them. A spear-tip glanced off his helmet. The world appeared so small. The narrow slits in the visor let him see only what lay directly in front of him. Some of the Orcs had let go off their spears and tried now with knives and short swords to fight against the Elves. Óllondun's heavy weapon cut through armor, flesh and bone. One and half steps was the deadly blade long and nothing that the Orcs possessed could withstand the Elvensteel. As terrible a unit of spear-bearers on the march was, so vulnerable were them if one could make it past the dangerous tips. Both hands were needed to wield the heavy and cumbersome weapon. Who let go off his spear and drew the short sword had no space left in the narrow lines to actually strike a blow. The thrusts and hits however were deflected by the form of Óllondun's armor. Like a reaper midst a field, so hit the Elf with his two-hander through the rows of the Orcs. Blood found its way through the slits of his helmet and ran down warm his cheek. He was caught in the middle of desperate screams, tearing metal and dumb splintering bones.
In front Óllondun could see now the gleaming blades of the halberds. With their long, three-edged thorn and the hook on the back, were these weapons only made for the purpose to teach heavy armored units fear. The three-edged thorn could penetrate the even strongest armors, if it hit the surface in a ninety degree angle. The cutting edge was heavy enough to cleave every helmet or shoulder armor and with the hook, one could fish after the ankle of one's enemy and bring him to fall and to thrust the thorn finally through the visor.
His sword tore an Orc the head from its shoulders. Óllondun did not attack single foes. He let the weapon constantly circulate and in this crowd was it hard to evade death through his sword.
Someone took grasp of his leg and tried to get him down to the ground. The Elf looked shortly down, without stopping his furious attacks. A wounded Orc held his left leg. Óllondun rammed his gauntlet into the creature's face. He could feel its teeth break. The Orc let go and rolled to the side.
Something gleaming shot down on Óllondun. Close the cutting edge of a halberd had missed him. A group of halberd-bearers had made its way to the front. The half of these Orcs held the weapons lowered and aimed with them for his legs. Óllondun lowered his head. Something hit his shoulder, his arm became numb. The Elf made a jump forward. The heavy sword cleaved a helm and buried itself deeply into the chest of the next foe.
Óllondun felt how a hook had found its way behind his left ankle. He tried to lift the foot, as several thrusts hit his chest. The blades were deflected, but the impact had robbed him off his balance. He slumped down. The sword left his hands. The Elf tried to roll away to the side, but a heavy foot sat down on his chest plate and pressed him down to the ground.
Over Óllondun sailed the shadow of a falcon over the cloudless, violet blue evening sky of once Greenwood the Great. Then a three-edged thorn glistened dark silver in the remaining sunlight and plunged down.
♦
As the crude scissor of iron cut the even as crude and rough brown hair, Wengalf let out a sight that he would regret. Drawing air, the finger thick remains of his beard did not fly down unto the ground but were sucked into his nostrils. Heavy snorting and a loud sneeze, followed by an ugly curse were the consequences. The Dwarf stroke over his nose with his big hand, blowing once or twice. It was a nuisance, but a necessary one to keep his beard in shape.
Seven braids, three to each side and a long one in the middle made the picture. They were beautifully woven, like an interlacing muster, that one would not have expected from creature like him. Also the hair growing from the top of his head was woven into braids. He wore them with pride.
"Art thee well?"
The sudden question from behind his back made Wengalf almost fall off the rock he sat on. The scissor left his grasp.
"Hm... Yea, Ah'll be alrait", he answered as Gaomee walked past him, then turned. For a short moment he looked at her eyes, smiled at her. Then Wengalf immediately remembered that she could not see him anyway. Damn it to the deep, he thought. He felt silly often enough conversing with the blind one. Wengalf was a Dwarf of action and so was his body language often telling more than in his words. But they remained silent to the Elf.
Gaomee smiles as if she would return it. On her arm sat a falcon with a white belly. A fine specimen. "Good. I heard thee... choking on something?"
Wengalf took up the scissor from the ground, let it fall back into his backpack. "Ah be fine", he merely repeated. The Elf did not need to know the reason for his sound making. Breathing in one's own beard was well worth a ridiculous laughter.
The Dwarf looked up, eyeing Gaomee and the bird for a moment. She wore one of those thick gloves out of brown leather. A leather strip connected the falcon's leg to the gauntlet and protected her skin to the same time from the sharp claws.
She sat down, continued to smile without saying another word.
For that, Wengalf liked her. He had always liked her, even when they met first and he saw her as wiry, tall knife-ear.
Gaomee was unlike the other Elves he had met or imagined to meet. Farodin was a perfect example of the highness and vanity the Firstborn were often clothing them in. They knew everything better, carried hardly ever coin, but instead always tried to bring a honest tradesman to exchange objects. They were a sure strange and especially mistrusting people.
Unlike Gaomee. He enjoyed her company. She was more dwarf than any other Elf he had met before, probably because she had lived a long time among the folk of the Iron Mountains, he guessed. Wengalf observed her for a little more as she began to pat the bird and stroke over its head. And pretty she is too...
"Dost thou think thou couldst talk to thy brethren at the Erebor?", asked Gaomee him out of the blue. He knew how very worried she was about how the war had escalated. The woodland kin had been driven back into the north of Mirkwood, where they now defended the borders. Thranduil's soldiers were terribly outnumbered and the Dwarves from the Erebor could surely turn the tide and give the Elves some time to recover and to rally their forces a new, should they come to aid.
"Tis ye know," the dwarf scratched his chin. He did not want to promise something what he could not hold. "Ah'll talk tae 'em. But ah'm not the one who decides."
Gaomee nodded. "Of course. But thou art one of Ógodr's line. Thy word weighs surely much."
"Who wuld ah be, if ah not oblige to ye wishes, Gaomee. Ye have helped my ancestors all aloong." Wengalf got up. The dwarves of the Erebor had no good relation with Thranduil at all.
"Give me one moar day. Then ah be tellin' ye my plan.''
