(follows from: https://www.laurelinarchives.org/node/58914)
At the change of the gatehouse guard, The captains of the two shifts saluted one another briskly as the two companies of men marched past one another. The company which had stood highest in the favor of Lord Eriall had been posted for the moment of Prince Demasjyt's entry to be sure his stewardship would appear unassailable in its discipline. This company was to join Eriall in the reviewing stand for the coronation. Another company, conscripts considered not much better than militia would relieve them. A pair of Uruks of the troops who had marched with Demsjyt all the way from Barad Dur stood in each tower flanking the gatehouse while the remainder remained in their encampment just outside the city walls.
The coronation of the new King went to the gate guard largely unnoticed, their attention to their duty, though it seemed absurd anyone would attempt entry into the city under the nose of a hundred armored orcs of the new, fierce breed. Strange things were whispered about these orcs but none of that mattered now. And so the bored guards in their leather corselets stared and day-dreamt out at the southeastern horizon while they waited for their first meal to be delivered.
As the crowd gathered in the plaza applauded the lowering of the old gem studded circlet of Dakat upon the head of Demsjyt, a dozen of figures cloaked against the cool autumn air hauled long coffin shaped boxes on a wheeled sledge toward the gate house, which was set somewhat apart from the nearest city buildings as precaution against fires from enemy siege engines.
When they reached the bottom of the stair, one of their number conferred quietly with the captain of the guard company and began fixing the long crates of cooked food for the guards to a platform, whereupon guards above began laboriously winching their dinner up to the level of the parapet between the two circular towers.
The two uruks stood in their heavy black mail coats, tabards emblazoned with a stylized red eye, holding deadly long spears, regarding the guards with the jaundiced eye professional soldiers reserve or militia. They had not interacted with the locals at all after initial pleasantries were attempted by the shift captain, but stood looking inward toward the central plaza, which could be discerned down the main avenue through the city.
As a cheer went up from the plaza throng and the guards began taking their turns eating, one turned to the to the gate captain. “Look there,”
“What?” the officer frowned following the uruk's gesture down the length of wall north of them.
Where a guard stood by a flaming torch on the wall there came a flicker of light. Very faint and fast.
“A reflection of something.” the orc said, suspicion coloring his growling tone.
“You're being paranoid,” assured the gate captain, looking back out toward the hills to the east beyond the gate.
“And you're being stupid. That was some kind of signal.”
The orc reached to take up the horn from his belt, but as he unwound the leather cord, the captain whispered “And you're being dead.” as he thrust a dagger upward into the uruk's neck, catching its fall as he did. He looked one way then the other. He felt a strange sensation of prickles down his back and a a pit of foreboding in his gut but he put this down to apprehension. If this plot went awry, he'd have much to answer for under the castle.
His spirit rose, though when he saw the burst of color in the sky above the two high castle towers. Quickly he raced toward the gate house as the answering signal went up. Within moments, the mass of Eriall's guard tromped and clattered down the wide market street toward the gate. And into a murderous storm of arrows as they got close. The few who survived fled back toward the plaza. As he gained the fortified gate house, he saw the elf Ahmo in her grimy black armor, her cloak thrown off. Another elf lady was with her. Both were alike arrayed with spear and shield.
“You'll have to retire to the theatre, Mravic. You played your part to perfection. Those orcs out there are stirred up but they have no ladders. Your people shot a score down as they tried to rush the portcullis. You hold the walls with your men and we'll take care of the rest. Kill as many of them as you can but don't leave the city for anything. They'll try to draw you out by running away.”
Captain Mravic nodded curtly as the two elves sprang away. A third, a tall lanky man with a great axe stayed with them, shooting gamely at orcs at distances most could not accurately hit a mark.
Ahmo and Nelledal of Edhellond dashed toward the plaza. As they did, small knots of other figures joined them from the dark doorways of the taverns and shops of the main avenue. By the time they reached the plaza, approaching from behind the platform with its depraved spectacle of torture and execution. But he who had been honored by such had fled. A pitched melee could be seen. Troops loyal to Demsjyt and those adhering to Prince Eniran strove in a swirling mealstrom of savage combat. Eniran's men, having seized the castle and dispatched Lord Eriall, held aloft the Chamberlain's head on a long pike as a standard. They were being sorely pressed though, taking much the worse of the battle as the hardened knights of Umbar cut down the hayseed conscripts of Dakat's army. The line had centered on giant Grimhearth who stood above a heap of enemies, Jeasper the minstrel-spy and Prince Eniran himself who fought with a practiced grace with the sword his father had once carried.
Nelledal and Ahmo pitched into the storm with a single husky yell, their gathered cohort of mercenaries following close on their heels. Ahmo hit the ranks of Black Numenoreans with a crash, leaving her spear in a man's back as her sword swept into her left hand. Nelledal had cast her spear to pick off a man in crimson priestly robes who had fled up onto the platform and was already at work with steel in hand, relieving two of Eriall's men of their misspent lives before the enemy had a chance to realize they were now beset on both sides.
Ahmo took advantage of their surprise and took stock quickly. A pair of her people had run up onto the platform where Demasjyt's empty throne sat. She ran up the steps and looked out at the pulsing chaos of battle. Demasjyt clearly had decided that cutting his way to the gate and the safety of the orc camp was preferable now that the tide was suddenly against him. Encouraged, the partisans of Eniran had rallied. Old Stanich the dwarf had appeared out of nowhere with a roar and a swinging longaxe. Ahmo's two men had released those few victims of Demasjyt's coronation festivies who still lived and she kicked over braziers of hot coals and boiling pitch used for more exquisite torment. The platform began to blaze in an instant as Ahmo leapt away.
Demasjyt bullrushed his way past the conflageration. Winded as he was, he and a cluster of Eriall's men as well as the last half dozen of Mordor's elite remaining pushed their way onto the avenue toward the gate. The prince caught sight of a lone figure standing in the path to the gate and safety. Demasjyt's mind reeled at the thought of his reception at the Morannon with this news. But now he spied one he could wreak his vengeance upon and thereby recover at least something of his esteem in the Lugburz.
“You! He shouted at Ahmo who cast aside her shield and drew out a long parrying dagger.
“Me?” she asked with maddening insouciance. "Surely you've mistaken me for someone else."
“You can't win, she-elf,” he spat, pulling a sword from a corpse and making a quick lunging feint. Now both fought with blade in either hand. Demasjyt's remaining dark paladins formed a wall behind him but it was clear that, with Eriall's men all down, the contest for Dakat had been decided. Nonetheless, these men would not willingly yield while strength animated their limbs.
“I do believe I already have won,” she smirked impishly, turning aside a more serious thrust with an echoing ring of steel on steel.
The two circled warily like wolves contesting pack leadership. “Lay down your sword, surrender your men and I shall ask the rightful king of Dakat to send you into an comfortable exile further north where a man of your capabilities can win both riches and renown.
“I am the rightful king of Dakat you miserable elf sow!” he shouted, making a calculated thrust which Ahmo sidestepped with a cheery laugh.
“You'll never be king Demasjyt,but I'll give you a crown of good steel!” she spat back, blade flashing like diamond as time seemed to freeze save for the onlookers and the duellists. The exertions of their swordplay left no breath for further taunts, though each would admit a grunt as one or the other would slip past the opponent's guard and inflict some slight cut.
Demsjyt had trained against left handed opponents before but the elf's dazzling speed was slowly sapping his strength. He knew even if he won, he'd never make the gate alive.
Desperately deciding on an all or nothing attack, Demasjyt threw all his force into a ringing series of blows.
Ahmo knew a man would always have the advantage over a woman in swordplay if it came down to simple test of upper body strength. But the greater physique of her people and skill earned through centuries of endless fighting usually made up for it. But Demasjyt was attacking as one possessed with a berzerk fury. Trying a counterstroke after a furious hammer-blow, she missed the man's second wild and uncalculated thrust and felt Demasjyt's dirk pierce into her thigh through the mail hauberk and leather trousers. Her own riposte sliced a bloody trail up Demasyt's right arm and buried her glittering broadsword, Viper into his cheek and out the back of his neck. With a last bloody cough, Dakat was shed of a second king in a fortnight's time.
Within seconds after, the men of Mordor were cut down and a lusty cheer went up, echoed from the walls as the men keeping the gate realized that fortune was with them.
But before the celebrations could begin, a sudden pall fell over the victors. A figure like a knight in sable armor wearing a golden serpentine crown and cloaked in beggars rags strode into the plaza. All who were near cast themselves onto their faces in terror as the Nazgul bore aloft his sword and walked with grim purpose toward Ahmo who had sunk to one knee from loss of blood. Nelledal the Last Guardian of Edhellond stood in the thing's path, golden armor reflecting the unchecked bonfire of the platform.
“Get thee gone, filth of Mordor. Your puppet is beyond your use.”
But the wraith turned its baleful stare upon her and answered in a gelatinous rumble that sounded like an echoe from the tomb, “Don't imagine you've won anything here. I will bring an army and kill every living thing.” With that, the Nazgul's sword swept round. As Nell brought up her own, it exploded into a thousand shimmering shards. The elf flew back with the impact.
As Ahmo looked up at her advancing executioner, her vision grew blurry as she felt the slick lifeblood seeping into her boot. Did that bastard hit her artery?. Her iron will only remained when strength failed at last. She fell backward, her slack hand letting go Viper which rang futilely upon the cobblestones as the vast shadow of death raised its sword for the reaping blow.
The last thing she saw before oblivion overtook her senses was the explosion of the Nazgul's breastplate as a massive spike blew it apart with a mind rattling shriek. There was a rush of wind and a swirl of acrid black smoke blowing southward.
And at the top of the tower Hrangach, known in Dale as Medlinor of Mirkwood, surveyed the scene below, puffed twice on his cigar and patted the ballista. “There's the money shot. Third time's the charm.”
------
And I turn at last to thank you, gentle reader, for your patience as I, fool that I be, try thy patience yet further with such tuneless lines as these and directing them to yourselves when this very tale is merely the recounting of a land of eastern salvages and how they did, in fact redeem themselves in some measure from inflicting plague and war upon thy storied kingdommes.
--Inwis, the Minstrel, in this hall of fire, being uponne the third age of Midgeard three thousand and twenty.
