Ithilien: Struggle at the East Bank

Night reigns supreme over the Anduin River, its murky waters gurgling slowly by the great ship-isle of Cair Andros. So loud is the churning of the waters that the splashing of three dark figures emerging onto the eastern bank of the isle can hardly be heard, even by the foul creatures creating the disturbance. Black of skin and bow-legged of build, the uruk-hai creep into the tall shore-line grass and huddle closely together beneath the cloudy sky.

\" This island reeks of tark.\" the smallest grunts before he is slapped across the face by the largest of the small company.

\" Quiet, snaga. We don\'t need them aware of us already - there is a serious mission to accomplish for the dread master tonight.\" the largest and most likely chieftain of the company replies, checking that he has not lost any equipment in the crossing.

Lights shine in the tower that is the fort to the west on this island, but that is the only light--and the rush of the river the only noise. Still seem the tall reeds just off the river\'s waters, and further in, the trees form a seemingly impenetrable black wall.

But all is not deserted nor quiet here. The men of Gondor keep watch. Tonight, a small company led by a Master Scout peers into the darkness, watching and waiting.

With a light woolen cloak of sooty grey swathed about his lanky form like a sooty summer shadow, Bronvellon plucks idly at the taut string of his longbow. The soft, rhythmic strumming can scarcely be heard above the din of the river.

\"\'Tis overcast,\" he observes quietly into the night.

Leaning against a tree, a scout peers across the water. A small splash echoes across the open river. Baraguil\'s head snaps to its direction. \"Did you hear that?\" he whispers.

Satisfied that he lost nothing in the waters, the Orc Chieftain Guznuul murmurs a command to his fellow uruk-scouts and, crouching low, they slowly proceed up the steep bank of grass towards the tree line. They are careful to make little if any noise over the sound of the water, leaving the chance that they might be spotted to sight alone.

\"Hear what, boy?\" the Master Scout Aldorin hisses in disgust. \"The wind in the trees? the river against the rocks?\" Still, he tilts his head toward the river bank, then squints into the darkness. \"Light is what we need, but light would betray us, too.\"

\"Ever do the Nameless One\'s hordes move under cover of darkness,\" Bronvellon suggests in his gravelly voice, \"But ever do we defend our shores so shall it be tonight! Come, shall we not take a small company to sweep the shoreline?\"

Baraguil grits his teeth at the Master Scout\'s admonishment but continues to scan the horizon, squinting at the shapeless grey form of dark night. He could have sworn he heard... No. \"Perhaps if we were to move closer?\" he asks.

The uruk trio reaches the edge of the tall grass where bush begins, a mere stone throw from the tree-line. Still crouching low, they have yet to spot the humans that lurk within. \" It\'s time...\"

Guznuul hisses, \"The dread-master\'s orders are clear. We are to reach the fortress undetected and find out what we may of its make, and spot any weaknesses.\"

Aldorin frowns, considering the darkness for a moment. \"I don\'t like it. My skin crawls.\" He frowns again, then points to the two scouts. \"You, Bronvellon and Baraguil. Move forward toward the shore. Carefully. I\'ll watch your backs.\" He takes his strung bow from his back and quietly pulls an arrow out from his quiver.

Bronvellon nods and slings his longbow over his shoulder, his rangy form now moving forward with surprising stealth as he draws out his sword with the faintest of metallic rings. His grey eyes glint keenly as he turns back to glance at Baraguil, and then step out towards the shore-grass.

Baraguil heads left, moving diagonally from one tree to another as he approaches the bank. Stopping, he crouches down into the grass, his hand moving to his own bow.

The uruk-hai freeze and stare as movement ahead breaks the stillness of the night. Watching as two tall figures emerge from the tree-line, Guznuul silently draws his hand up to the corner of his mouth to wipe away the drool that has begun to collect there. Turning then to one of the snaga, he hisses, \" At least one of us must reach the fortress, you two stay here and kill them as silently as you can.\" before slipping off to the side and attempting to scurry around the approaching men. The two snaga crouch frozen in fear, looking at their departing chieftain and then each other in surprise before turning back to the approaching figures - terror overcomes their faces.

Arrow and bow held ready still, Aldorin watches into the darkness as the two scouts slip ahead. His eyes move restlessly across the riverbank, but they do not yet note the approach of the orc chieftain.

Like a wraith\'s fingers do the clinging mists of the Anduin rise up along the riverbank in the warm summer\'s eve. Bronvellon narrows his eyes as if to penetrate the fog, ever moving forward and coming ever closer to the orcs hidden in the grass.

Even as the chill fogs hide the shapes of both friend and foe on the bank about him, do they envelop him as well. He lets out a low whistle that may be a signal to his companions uncannily of the nightingale does it sound, though none live on this island.

Shifting slightly in the grass, Baraguil returns the low call, scanning for movement, for life, for anything. He takes a deep breath, the fog penetrating his lungs, leaving him with cold and eerie uncertainty.

The one snaga says to the other under his breath, \" Why is tark chirping like a little birdy, eh?\" but the joke falls dry upon the terror still overtaking his companion. The two fumble nervously for their scimitars as the humans draw close to their low position.

\" How we supposed to the kill them again?\" the frightened one finally asks before his the other snaga slaps him with the butt of his blade, \" With -this- of course!\"

Guznuul peers sideways at the two humans now level with him moving down the hill towards his snaga, and shakes his head in frustration as ever he now can hear the squabbling of his scouts over the gurgle of the river. Nevertheless, he continues up the slope and reaches the tree-line, hoping that the two scouts are all that were present.

\"Ai!\" Bronvellon cries as the foul sound of orc-speech reach his ears.

\"Ai, here!\" he yells again as he plunges towards the snaga, the cold steel of his sword leading the way.

A sound of noise unlike that of the river...subtle movement in the grasslands, perhaps something on the bank? Aldorin tilts his head, straining to listen and see--and then, at Bronvellon\'s cry, he launches an arrow high in the air. Pray it does not hit his own men.

Baraguil remains crouched at the sound of an arrow flying overhead, but springs up and forward in its wake, raising his sword above his head as he rushes towards the noise.

So busy are the two uruk-hai in squabbling with each other, they hardly notice that the men have begun to rush them. It\'s only the whizzing of an arrow between their gruesome faces that brings them back to their predicament, choking on their words as they raise their scimitars to defend themselves.

Meanwhile, Guznuul has reached the tree-line seemingly unnoticed and has spotted the lone archer. A smile crests his lips as he begins to crawl through the brush towards the side of the man.

\"Come forth! I will rid this island of your wretched bodies,\" Bronvellon challenges as he reaches the orcs, easily found as their weapons are drawn. Tall and fell is this battle scarred Gondorian as he moves to engage the Mordain with laconic ease.

\"There are but two here,\" he yells.

With the shout of the scouts, Aldorin slings his bow to his back, knowing too well that to loose further arrows will be to risk hitting his own men. \"Search the banks for more!\" he yells back to Bronvellon--and to any scouts nearby patrolling the banks--while pulling his own sword from its sheath. He starts to run toward the two scouts--still not seeing Guznuul.

Baraguil follows the glint of the orc weapons, joining the fellow scout at the bush, ready to engage. \"Ai!\" He yells, striking at the enemy, crashing through the bushes.

Barring their fangs now in what they must think is a frightening challenge, yet more likely appears as a cowardly desperation as their fleeting eyes betray them, the uruk-hai hold their scimitar high to attempt and parry any attacks. As Baraguil\'s sword flashes through the air towards one of them, it lands firmly on his curved black blade and knocks it from the uruk\'s hand. Now weaponless, he springs forward at the man with both hands extended, attempting to grasp him around the neck. His companion, scimitar still held tight waits to fend off the other charging Gondorian.

Guznuul silently watches Aldorin draw his sword and moves to sneak around behind him, his hammer grasped firmly in his right hand.

There is a sharp whistle as Bronvellon\'s sword swings a wide arc through the haze at the scimitar of the orc closest to him.

Finally, it seems, some movement or noise or flash of weapon metal in the dark catches Aldorin\'s attention, for he whirls about toward Guznuul\'s general direction, bringing his sword slashing down through the darkness.

Meanwhile, Baraguil struggles from the orc\'s outstretched hands, clawing at his uniform. With a quick thrust, he brings the base of his sword upon the enemy\'s head, trying to create a suitable distance for another strike of the blade.

As blade flashes through the air towards him, the orc that stands before Bronvellon braces the hilt of his scimitar with both hands. Through some stroke of luck or perhaps some devilry of their dark lord, he is able to catch the blade upon his own. Surprised, the uruk attempts to throw off the Gondorian\'s longsword and slice at the man in one swift motion.

The orc with a firm grasp on the neck of Baraguil is caught off guard as a sword hilt strikes his head and releases the man, stumbling backwards a few feet down the slope.

Further up the slope, Guznuul is prepared for Aldorin\'s swipe and leaps over the man\'s sword with a might swing of his war-hammer at the scout\'s head.

With a loud cry of alarm, Aldorin falls back, tripping, even, over a tree root in the ground and landing flat on his back. Guznuul\'s hammer has missed his head, and he now swings wildly with his sword at the orc.

But Guznuul holds the upper ground now, and the man\'s blade only collides with his metallic stub of a left fore-arm. The noise rings shrill through the night and is quickly followed with Guznuul attempting to bring his hammer down upon the face of the human.

Bronvellon looses a fearsome yell as the orc\'s sword catches, slicing deep through his leather jerkin and even into the pale skin below. No cry of pain is this, though, nay, it is more akin to a yell of glee, for in sooth does this man take pleasure in battle.

\"Bold little orc,\" he laughs as his body is gathered up and another massive blow is aimed at the creature.

Baraguil shakes his head. His neck stinging from the marks of the orc\'s claws but he is undeterred in his attack. Raising his sword to his waist, he charges the orc, stabbing forward and down.

There\'s a cry from Aldorin that cuts off abruptly, but with his last dying effort, the Master Scout thrusts his blade upward toward the orc\'s groin--that being the closest target he can reach. He does not live to see if the orc lives or dies.

So excited is he with his success in slicing into the flesh of the human, the orc facing Bronvellon can do little but squirm in delight before a mighty longsword hews off his left hand. Blood spurts out like a fountain directly at the face of Bronvellon.

The snaga facing Baraguil staggers back to his feet but only just in time to meet a cold blade, directly through the center of his chest. His face contorting into a mixture of pain and confusion, he brings his hands to clasp at the blade and try to draw it from his chest - but it is the last things he does before he collapses backwards, dead.

Even as his hammer crushes the skull of the human in a sick thwump followed by blood spattering his face. Guznuul feels a curious sensation in his groin and looks down to see the blade of the now dead scout sticking through the muscle of his inner thigh. The orc chieftain wrenches himself free but damages his leg beyond ability to walk in the process, falling to the ground.

Slick and black the orc\'s blood sprays across Bronvellon\'s hood and mask taking up a defensive stance the man slowly and deliberately wipes the sticky mess from his eyes. The distinct hollow thunk of a hammer on skull draws his attention and he chances a quick glance to Aldorin\'s position.

The commotion of the skirmish at the Anduin does not go unnoticed. Around the area is yet another small patrol of soldiers - a March Warden with a number of Scouts. They stop, the March Warden giving a signal to hide, while he whistles two birdsong signals that the Company uses. The first - Ithilien? The second - reinforcements needed?

Reeling backwards from the fell swoop of his sword, Baraguil stumbles, panicked, confused. He freezes at the sound of the whistle, blank at first, but then regains his color, returning the call.

Staring the bleeding stump where his left hand used to be, the uruk facing Bronvellon falls to his knees, feebly extending his scimitar towards the legs of the human in what could only hope to be a poke.

\"Oh ho, little worm,\" Bronvellon utters with a mirthless smile as he brushes aside the scimitar with little more effort than might be needed to wave a scythe through the waving wheat on the Pelennor. He counters with a quick riposte of his own, jabbing swiftly towards the orc\'s face.

The orc opens his mouth to speak but the words never issue forth, for it is at this moment that the human\'s longsword penetrates straight between his teeth and into the soft tissue at the back of his throat. With a blade protruding from the back of his skull, the snaga slumps lifelessly forward upon the blade of his doom.

With a detached but satisfied smile cold upon his face, Bronvellon kicks the orc\'s head off of his sword and turns to run towards Aldorin\'s position and whatever else awaits.

The March Warden sighs, just a bit. He rises just a little from his crouching position and moves towards the scene, still crouching, while signaling his Scouts to follow him discreetly. As he nears the area the battle sounds quiet, but he still nocks his bow towards the most threatening orc - the one that is still alive, as he surveys the mess.

\"You,\" he orders to the nearest soldier, Baraguil. \"Report.\" The handful of Scouts behind him move towards Guznuul to capture him, except for one who runs towards Aldorin.

Guznuul lies motionless upon the ground, though still conscious. He breathes heavily and grips his hammer loosely in his right hand. He stares blankly up at the leaves above, hatred overbearing in his tortured little heart.

Still bewildered, Baraguil speaks, \"March Warden... Sir...\" He stumbles upon his words. \"We... engaged a small party on the bank on Master Scout Aldorin\'s orders.\" He straightens, his voice clearer. \"Two orcs, dead. This one crept up here unseen.\"

Bronvellon reaches Aldorin and Guznuul, for indeed not more than one of a man\'s paces separate the twain, even as the March Warden\'s scout does. He nods grimly to the man, his sword still sickly black with orc blood, and the pale, bloodied flesh of his stomach tracing a pale arc in the wan moonlight where his jerkin\'s been rent.

\"Anything else?\" the March Warden asks, his eyes observing the scene. Obviously there\'s something else - a dead soldier. But Daerthor does not comment on the obvious omission.

Bronvellon speaks softly to the scout for a moment as they stand over what was once Aldorin then, he nods and takes off into the night at an easy lope.

\"Sir...\" Baraguil trails off. \"The Master Scout was caught off guard by this Orc. He... has fallen.\" His eyes bore into Guznuul, anger replacing his mix of emotions.

Though he is breathing with difficulty, Guznuul has much life left in him still. Suddenly, his hands spurs out to catch one of the scouts that stands beside him by the ankle. Through clenched teeth he growls in a fowl rending of the common tongue, \"The one I killed.... Was he a -friend-?\" Hoarse laughter follows this remark as he twitches upon the ground.

Daerthor sighs. \"Yes. He is, regrettably. And in future--\" But he is suddenly cut off by the flurry of movement around Guznuul -- \"Move!\" he shouts, sharply, and the Scouts scatter, and Daerthor pulls and releases the arrow that has been waiting with his bow. The arrow flies straight towards Guznuul in the space that the Scouts have cleared.

Baraguil, though nowhere near Guznuul and obviously still shaken by combat, flies backwards faster than the nearby scouts.

Yet Guznuul still has a firm hold on the ankle of one Gondorian, who stares down at him after his heartless comment. As the arrow is loosed, Guznuul yanks at the man\'s leg, causing him to fall over right in the path of the arrow. With a sick thud the missile lodges itself into the throat of the scout. He falls motionless to the ground besides the orc as Guznuul pounds the ground with his metallic arm, chortling in a wicked laughter.

\"Stupid, stupid!\" curses Daerthor as he nocks another arrow and looses it at the shaking orc. Meanwhile, another Scout seems to have gotten the idea and shoots at Guznuul as well.

Croaking in laughter still, Guznuul is suddenly struck by an arrow pinning his left foot to the ground as the other passes inches above his face. \"You often slaughter your own kind like livestock in a butchery, tark?\" Guznuul hisses at the archer.

Regaining his wits, Baraguil draws his sword, rushing behind the archer Scout, awaiting an arrow free path if needed.

\"Hold,\" says Daerthor, and the rest of the Scouts hold their arrows. \"You with the sword, come. The other side. Be wary.\" He stalks up to Guznuul on the side of his unpinned foot, giving him a wide berth.

\"Shut up,\" the March-Warden spits, and swiftly stabs at Guznuul\'s arm with his sword.

Jerking his arm out of the way of the sword thrust at him, Guznuul ceases his laughing and tosses his hammer to the side and away from him. \"Play nice tark, it wasn\'t I that shot your slave.\"

Baraguil paces to the other side of the Orc, his sword pointed to his pinned body. He lunges forward, quickly, deftly japping the weapon into Guznuul\'s shoulder, and then jumping back to two arms lengths, glaring.

As the blade penetrates his shoulder briefly, Guznuul hisses in pain.

Stony-faced, Daerthor takes advantage of the distraction and drives his own blade towards Guznuul\'s upper arm, just below his other shoulder. \"Shut up,\" he again hisses.

The blade slices into his left bicep, only this time there are words to accompany Guznuul\'s howls of pain: \"Having a good time losing all your friends in the forest looking for our camp? You\'ll never find it. Not until we knock down your doors and take the fortress for our own.\"

Darting forward, Baraguil swings his sword towards the Orc\'s head, clapping the foible over the top of his skull with a dull blow. He quickly jumps back, returning to his pace.

Guznuul blacks out.

Daerthor frowns. \"Get your ropes again and tie this creature up. And be alert,\" he orders to the remaining Scouts, his words clipped. \"Get the limbs first. And if any of you need to vomit, do it quickly and help, or block it out and help.\" Meanwhile, he remains with his hand on the hilt of his sword, studying the orc intensely.

The scouts on the edge of the scene scramble to follow his orders.

As most of the scouts work on the orc, Daerthor calls to Baraguil again. \"You,\" he says. \"Come here. Your name?\"

At the sound of the March Warden\'s voice, Baraguil looks up. \"Bara...\" he begins softly, stopping to clear his throat. He stands, straightens. \"Sir. Baraguil.\"

\"Baraguil,\" repeats Daerthor. He looks at the soldier, occasionally flickering up to watch the trussing up of the orc. \"Hesitation has no place in a combat situation. Before the disaster with the orc--\" he looks at the corpse of the Scout, and then back at Baraguil-- \"I asked for information. I was not satisfied with your answer. Why?\"

\"Sir.\" Baraguil takes a breath, and exhales slowly. \"My report lacked the full details of the engagement. I was remiss. My errors resulted in an inaccurate understanding of the situation and likely the deaths of more men.\" He is shamed, but does not lower his eyes.

\"You are right that you should have reported all information at once. Concise and accurate, that is what is needed in the field.\" Daerthor nods as he speaks. The scouts behind are done now. \"Look at me.\"

\"Sir.\" Baraguil nods, raising his eyes to the March Warden\'s face. \"I was... No. There will be no excuses made. I will take those deaths as my lesson and will heed your words.\" He stands straight, focused.

Daerthor sighs. \"I think, Baraguil, that the deaths cannot be blamed entirely on you. There was no way you would be sure that the orc was out of the scene. For all we know, he was out, and came back, or he had been pretending all along. But still, \'tis a reminder to everyone.\"

The March Warden turns his head slightly, calling out to the rest of the Scouts. \"Let this be a lesson to you all. You do not know your enemy\'s health! Unless you have chopped its head clean off, or stabbed it in its heart, it is not dead. This soldier died because of his /inaction/. You must always be on the move. You must always be alert. You must not be fumbling with your swords and ropes in the field.\" A pause.

He looks at Baraguil again. \"You tried your best,\" he says, voice softer. \"We all make mistakes. Learn from them.\"

\"Sir,\" Baraguil returns. \"Thank you.\" He nods, remaining at attention. Today, the eve of his first engagement is a day he will not forget, for many reasons.

\"Go and help your fellow Scouts,\" says Daerthor, dismissing Baraguil, his face tight, his arms folded.