The Sack of Calth: Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty: The last stand. Once more, Calth was ablaze. Trolls has stormed though all defences that were erected, using fist, hammer or sword to rip apart anything that got in their way. Lifting men from the ground and squeezing the life from them, throwing their plump remains into their brothers in arms, stamping on leaders and biting whole men in half. Howls of wargs came like lightening after the thunderous trolls, darting into the defences and scattering men in their wake, least their fall to the wargs jaws or the riders spears. Many carried torches in their grasp, lighting anything aflame as they rode, whooping and cheering in the sheer joy of their carnage they have brought. The tide of orcs came later; those who had yet to spill blood and were now given rein to vent their bloodlust at long last were unleashed. The men of Calth fought bravely, but against such numbers and raw savagely they were forced back, street by street, house by house. Fires were breaking out everywhere, fire teams kept the fire at bay for as long as they could, but the orcs were not in the mood to let any men live. Throwing themselves at the fire teams or pushing them into the flames the fire spread even quicker. Everywhere, tales of heroism were being enacted, from common men to mighty soldiers from the Legions, fighting heart in their hearts and loved ones on their lips. The gardens of Calth slowly burned, A few of the 13th Legion were holding there as they fought in a firestorm, orcs everywhere yet still they stood and fought, for what else could they do? The gain towers were crawling with archers firing arrow after arrow into the orc hordes, bodies piled high and formed a wall for orc archers to fire from, each arrow that was fired from one side was returned from the other. The forge complexes were handing out weapons and armour to everyone who was at their call to defend. Men threw buckets of red hot coals down onto the orcs, forge tools picked up when swords had broken or fell away from their owners to be used to bash in orc skulls or simply to hold back far greater numbers before dying. The bath houses to the south became castles in their own right, arrows whizzing out of windows and wounded tended to only to be sent a few steps forward to join the defence. Spearmen held the doors in a wall of wood and metal against hundreds of orcs, the clear water turning thick and red with blood. Many of the trolls had died, but still some roamed the city, smashing whatever they wished and slaying anyone who was foolish enough to try and stop them. Wargs running riot, drawing the archers fire with great punishment only to have the orcs find were the archers were hiding and attack. Standing in the middle of the city was the keep. Its defenders looked on at the battle with silence and dread, knowing it was only a matter of time before the keep came under fire. Archers checked their bows and whispered that they’re war gear stay faithful to them just a hour longer, soldiers manning the walls drew their swords idly and looked over them time and time again, checking sharpness. The Lords of Calth and their bodyguards fortified the Lords Camber, ready to fight and die in the defence of their city. The women and children under the keep in small vaults waited for their salvation or their doom, waiting for the word of one man. Isilordil placed his hands on the battlements of the keeps walls, from the smoke and battle; he could hardly see the north side of the city, let alone beyond the walls. Sighing heavily, he lowered his head towards the courtyard, three troll bodies and dozens of warg and rider bodies lay bloody and broken. The keep had four trebuchets, one on each coroner on the walls, along with the archers of the 13th; they reaped a terrible told on the attackers. But Isilordil knew it was foolish to think that the archers and trebuchets would hold back single-handed the orcs. But he was willing to fire every last arrow and stone into the horde before they came close to the gate. Casting his eye over the keep, his heart fell at the site of the men. They had missed out on the whole battle until now; they had seen the worst of it and not been able to take part. Isilordil placed himself in their boots, and he too felt his heart lower, but his thoughts of doom and dread flew away at the sound of four sets of footsteps. Turning, Isilordil saw the last captains of the 13th Legion. Captains of the Second, Third, Sixth and Eighth Companies, the fifth captain of the Ninth Company had set his men in the gardens, and if they lived or not, none knew. They saluted Isilordil smartly, standing in a neat line and at attention. “Gentlemen,” Isilordil began. “It is only a matter of time before the orcs arrive and breach the gate. We must hold the four areas of most importance, and not let a single orc past us while we draw breath.” Isilorbor turned to each captain in turn and gave them his orders. “Captain Arthron. You and your Second Company shall hold the Tactical Command and Eagle’s tower. Captain Felamir, Third Company are to hold the main gate house. Captain Vintorlin, Sixth Company are to move at once to the vaults, the women and child must be protected. Captain Kalien and Eighth Company will spread themselves on this wall and fight a fighting withdrawal into the keep, then into the Lords Chambers.” He paused to see the captains nodding their approval and saluted as one. “Yes, sir!” They barked loudly. Isilordil waved them away with a flick of his hand, hearing the sound of hundreds of feet on stone coming from the north. He could see the orcs were charging right towards the keep, running though a street with fire on all sides. Isilordil was reminded of a nightmare made manifest, the monsters of death emerging from the fire to kill anyone in their path. The orcs were coming from all sides now; archers drew arrows from their quivers with shaking hands and trebuchets crews locked down their gears and loading shots into the swinging arm. Standing next to Isilordil was a young man, an archer of the 13th with his hands on his long bow and looking into the orc hoards with fear. The man looked fresh from boyhood, maybe just in his twenties, Isilordil mused. Looking around, he could see that all the men, recruits to veterans were all fearful and Isilordil swallowed deeply, the moral had to be boosted, but how? Isilordil drew a deep breath, turning to the man beside him. “Can you sing archer?” He asked gently as a father might as a son. The archer frowned slightly, but nodded. “I can, my lord.” He answered with a thick voice. “Tell me…Do you know the song ‘Men of Calth’?” Isilordil questioned. “I do, my lord. All soldiers in the Legion are taught it before they past as full soldiers, lord.” The archers trembling voice croaked. Isilordil lowered his head, taking a deep breath and raising it slowly as he began to sing. Men of Calth stop your dreaming Can’t you see their spear points gleaming See their warrior's pendants streaming To this battle field. The men of the 13th Legion turned their heads towards their commander’s singing, a few voices joining in as the orcs whooped and jeered their way towards the keep, swinging their bloody weapons over head. Men of Calth stand ye steady It cannot be ever said ye For the battle were not ready Stand and never yield. The whole keep defenders were now singing proudly and loudly, their fears dissolving away like mist before the wind. Resolve steeled their hearts, weapons raised in salute towards the Legate, fists pounding on their hearts in tune to their singing. Through the hills surrounding Let this war cry sounding Summon all to Elendil's call The mighty force surrounding. Soon, the trebuchets unleashed their shots, the small heavy stone weights crashing into the stone, sending razor sharp splinters of stone into the orcs and felling a great many of them. The archers raised their bows and let fly their arrows, scores of orcs fell screaming arrows lodged into their bodies, but soon the arrows were firing at will. Men of Calth onto glory This shall ever be your story Keep this fighting words before ye Gondorians will not yield! Isilordil drew his long sword from his side, rasing it to the sky and roared with all his defiance and might as the orcs crashed into the keep gate and started to bring up battering rams. “For Calth!” The cry was taken up by five-hundred throats, and the battle for the keep began in earnest.