For Gondor by Franey_rules
2nd Place Winner
The sun was just peeking over the horizon and fog lingered around the Gondorian camp. Thorongil was already awake and pacing around his tent. Soon he would be called to Denethor’s tent for one last briefing before marching against another horde of Orcs. Thorongil had been fighting under Denethor’s command against the Orcs of Mordor for three years. The war against Mordor was a long, gruelling, brutal affair, and it was far from over. Many battles had been won by Gondor, yet many more were still to be fought before the bloody and ferocious war would be over.
Thorongil had joined the army when he was eighteen, searching for glory and riches through battle. He had grown tired of being poor, living in the farm lands of Gondor, barely surviving. Three years of service had brought Thorongil honour, glory and of course, money. Thorongil had also climbed the ranks to become Captain of his own battalion, a great honour for one as young as Thorongil. So far he had found what he was looking for when he first joined the army. Thorongil was respected among his men and he had more money than he had ever hoped.
“Sir, Denethor is ready for you,” called a messenger from the entrance of the tent. Thorongil checked his appearance once more. His silver armour shone in the lamp light and his blue cloak was draped over his shoulders flapping in the light breeze coming through the tent. Checking his mirror, his long brown hair was neatly combed and his stern face was hidden behind a well groomed beard. Pleased with his appearance, Thorongil exited his tent with his sword sheathed and his helmet under his arm. The camp was already bustling with activity. Horses were being saddled, swords sharpened and armour polished. Servants were bundling extra arms and strapping them to pack horses. The air was filled with anxiety and tension. One could sense battle was near. Thorongil walked through the rows of tents acknowledging the many greetings he received. Finally he came to Denethor’s tent. Denethor’s tent was a grand structure, probably bigger than the hovel where Thorongil once lived as a child. It was made from the finest materials and adorned with grand images of past kings of Gondor.
Upon entry Thorongil noticed that he was the last officer to arrive. “Ah Thorongil,” exclaimed Denethor, “now we can begin!” It was an awkward moment for Thorongil, for he had just recently learned of a terrible secret of Denethor’s. One night in Minas Tirith, Denethor admitted to Thorongil to have used the Palantir. Thorongil was shocked by the revelation. Everyone knew what a dangerous tool the Palantir could be, and the fact that Denethor had lost the sense not to use it greatly worried Thorongil. Thorongil greatly respected Denethor. After all, it was Denethor who gave him his rank, wealth and a brand new life. Thorongil would have no problem following this man into the depths of the abyss. At least he was before he learned of Denethor and the Palantir. Now Thorongil was worried about the fate of the man he loved as his own father, as well as the country he loved. Without a capable leader Gondor and its people were doomed to feel the wrath of Sauron.
“Now, the Orcs have amassed in great numbers to the south of our position. We will use a head on assault by our infantry, led by you Thorongil,” Caesar explained. There was a murmur of confusion throughout the room. “Why such a reckless plan my lord?” asked one officer. “The battle trolls will rip them apart like nothing!”
“Oh, I have complete faith that this will work. Now if you will let me finish, we will use our heavy cavalry to flank the opposition and win the battle,” continued Denethor. “Yes, but at what cost?” demanded Thorongil. “My men will be slaughtered. Are you willing to sacrifice them just to destroy some worthless Orcs and their trolls?”
“Yes” replied Denethor venomously, “now leave me.”
Thorongil could not believe what he had heard. Why Denethor was using such a reckless and foolhardy strategy was a mystery that only Denethor himself knew the answer to. Denethor knew the strength of the Orcs and their trolls and he knew that his infantry would be destroyed. Still, Thorongil could not disobey Denethor’s orders. He would have to go through with it regardless of what he thought. Thorongil walked back through the camp looking for his friend, Lieutenant Ambon. He soon found him sitting outside his tent, sharpening his sword. Ambon, seeing the sour look on his face, asked, “What is wrong, Captain?”
“Then you have not heard of our orders?” replied Thorongil.
“No, no I have not. Why do you ask?”
“I’m afraid Caesar has ordered us to commit suicide,” whispered Thorongil. He then continued to explain the occurrences of the meeting. “What madness. It is indeed suicide to do such a thing. But you must do as Denethor orders. It would be treason not to,” stammered Ambon.
“Yes, I know. I would not betray Denethor to save a thousand lives. He is the first man I have trusted in many years.” Ambon stared at the ground, ashen-faced. “I- I think I know why Denethor is doing this,” explained Thorongil, “He told me one night, before we left that he had used the Palantir. When I did not agree with his decision and I told him what a reckless and idiotic thing it was to do, he told me that I was no more to him than a pile of dung. Then he commanded me to leave his sight. He means to kill me because I betrayed him!”
“No!” exclaimed Ambon.
“Shhhh! don’t bring attention to us my good friend.”
“What are you going to do then, milord?”
“I am going to meet my death with my head held high and my sword in hand,” stated Thorongil coolly.
“You are more of a man than I could ever hope to be. My hopes are with you that you survive this ordeal and show Denethor you will not succumb to his treachery.”
*
A horn sounded in the distance. The sound of the horn heralded the call to battle. Soldiers began to file out of the camp in the forest to the plains where they were to form their ranks. Men mounted horses while others gathered their arrows. Thorongil’s men formed behind as he marched to the front lines. A million thoughts were racing through Thorongil’s head. Was he going to die today? How many of his men were about to be killed needlessly? If he were to survive, what would he do next? These were all questions Thorongil could not answer and he could not let them get between him and the job he had to do. Once on the plains, the army would have to march the ten miles to where the Orcs were located, and Thorongil had to conserve his energy
The march went by in silence. Thorongil surveyed his surroundings. The ashen faced soldiers around him looked straight ahead and marched. It was a clear, summer day and a light breeze blew through the air. The leaves and twigs crunched underneath the feet of the soldiers. Birds chirped from the trees and the occasional cough or clearing of the throat could be heard from the soldiers. Everyone was tense as they marched on towards their enemy. Thorongil spotted an eagle soaring overhead; a portent or just a coincidence wondered Thorongil. As the march went on Thorongil sensed the tension growing in the air. A sense of foreboding and doom had engulfed the army as they made their silent trek across the plains.
The Orcs were waiting for them. Obviously, their scouts were better woodsmen than the Gondorians. Thorongil guessed that there were about two thousand Orcs and twenty trolls that he could count. They would have the advantage of numbers but the Gondorians were a more disciplined and tactful fighting force. “Hail Denethor, Steward of Gondor,” cried the soldiers as Denethor made his way to the front. “Good men of Gondor!” cried Denethor, “today we are faced with a foe so foul, so vile, that they do not deserve to share the same air as us. I have never lost a battle to these creatures and I do not see why today should be any different. We may be outnumbered but our will shall not break. Our determination shall bring Gondor another great victory!” Denethor finished his speech to tumultuous cheering and banging of shields. With a few words, Caesar prepared his men to die for the greatness of their homeland. Once again, the horn sounded and Thorongil ordered his troops forward.
The Orcs were poised for the oncoming charge. Thorongil had broken into a run with his sword held high, poised for combat. The screams of his men behind him were barely audible to Thorongil as he made towards the enemy. It was at this point that the Trolls were released. The ground shook as the behemoths charged towards their prey, their blood thirsty eyes gleaming at the prospect of killing. Some were instantly killed as hammers crashed down on their heads or they were trampled beneath the trolls while many more fell to the ground with crushed legs, or ribs. By now, Thorongil was in a blind rage. He swung his sword savagely, cutting down one Orc after another and avoiding the savage trolls as they bowled through the ranks of Gondorians. Eventually the Gondorian spearmen were able to fell all of the trolls but it was all in vein. Around him, the carnage was unbearable and soon the fields were stained with blood and littered with bodies. “Where are the blasted cavalry?” screamed Thorongil to no one in particular. A feeling of abandonment and hopelessness fell over him.
Finally, the stampede of horses could be heard barrelling down the flank. Orcs were trampled underneath the hooves of the galloping steeds. Screams of pain echoed as the Orcs were struck down by the Gondorian cavalry. Thorongil kept fighting but his arms were stiff and his legs were sore. He fought through the pain as best he could. Thorongil raised his shield to block the strike of an enemy but all of his energy was spent. Thorongil could not parry the blow effectively and his arms fell to his side. The Orc struck him across the head and all went black…
*
Thorongil slowly became aware of the world. The sun beat down on him and the smell of rotten flesh filled the air. Memories came flooding back to him; the meeting with Denethor at the camp, the march to battle, and finally being knocked unconscious. Thorongil picked himself up off the ground and brushed all the dirt and grime off of him that he could. Thorongil spotted his sword among the bodies and picked it up and sheathed it. Next for Thorongil was deciding where to go. He decided he could not return to Gondor for many reasons. Mirkwood was where he would go; he had met the Elven king Thranduil many years ago and knew he would be welcome there. So Thorongil scourged through the battlefield looking for any supplies. He found a canteen of water and some bread. He would have to rely on hunting until he got to Mirkwood, so he found himself a bow and quiver of arrows and set off north towards the Elven haven of Mirkwood.
It was a long, lonely journey to Mirkwood. It passed by slowly for Thorongil, the lack of human contact left him as alone as ever. However after a long trek across plains, over rivers, and through forests Thorongil finally neared his destination. Mirkwood was just a day’s journey ahead of him and Thorongil could not wait. He settled for the night beneath a large oak tree. Thorongil thought of the great food and warm bedding he would soon enjoy when he arrived in Mirkwood; and slowly those thoughts turned into dreams as he slipped away into sleep.
Thorongil rose early the next morning, eager to finish the exhausting journey. It was another day of silent marching but it was worth it for Thorongil. At midday he spotted the forest of Mirkwood on the horizon, he would reach it with a few hours to spare before nightfall. However as he walked along he could sense something was amiss. Something unseen was following him, something hostile. Thorongil’s hand went to his sword and he gripped the handle as he walked.
Suddenly, out of nowhere popped up a group of Orcs. They all brandished crude swords and bore the same type of ugly iron armour. They snarled and jeered as they enclosed around Thorongil. If this was going to be the end, Thorongil would go down fighting. He drew his sword and thrust it at the nearest Orc, impaling his chest. He quickly turned and kicked the feet out of the Orc behind him while slicing the Orc to his left across the throat. But they were too numerous and soon Thorongil became overwhelmed. When he thought all hope was lost he heard the twang of many bowstrings and arrows flying through the air soon after. All around him Orcs fell with arrows sticking out of them. Thorongil collapsed to the ground with exhaustion. All around him he heard talking, but it was not in the common tongue. They were speaking Elvish! Thorongil then knew he was safe and let unconsciousness take him.
*
That night Thorongil was welcomed as a hero to the halls of the Elves. He was given brand new robes to replace his blood soaked armour and tunic. And that night he dined under the stars at the right hand of King Thranduil. Long into the night they played the most beautiful music Thorongil had ever heard. It was a nice reprieve from the ordeal he had suffered since that fateful meeting with Denethor and the other officers.
“Thorongil, I suppose you would like to go to bed now,” Said Thranduil, “I will have someone escort you to your quarters. But in the morning I wish to no everything that transpired and led you to be here now amongst us.”
“Yes of course your majesty. I have many things to say and many things that you will be interested to know.”
“Then I will see you in the morning,” replied Thranduil. And with that Thorongil was dismissed and led to his quarters by a female elf. There he quickly fell asleep and let his dreams take him away from his worries.