A storm was brewing in the nightly skies over the hills leading to Angmar , the only light cast, was that from the occasional bolt of lightning that seemed to rip the skies asunder each time. The sound of thunder rolling through the clouds followed the relentless cleft of light at an increasingly more rapid pace, indicating the storm was getting closer. It wouldn’t be long now, until rain would descend upon the ground beneath, the air was thick with its promise.
Darting from shadow to shadow below, on the ground, was a figure of a humanoid, clad in armour marked with the signs of battle. Dents, scratches and the occasional dried bloodstain. Still, it was not mismatched, the suit of armour marked its wearer as a member of its unit, an infantry unit stationed near the Angmar borders, with as a primary goal to push the threat back as best it could. A fierce unit indeed, famed for its stalwart members both in spirit and in physique. Certainly, it was not a unit that had amongst it names such as Strider or even Elrond or his sons, but amongst the local enemy, it was a thorn in the foot, or any other given appendage of one’s choosing. Noticeable about the figure was mostly, the fact it carried strapped upon its left arm, a large, embossed shield and a fierce-looking axe, strapped to its left hip. Both items had seen better days, but such is the result of war.
The figure was soon followed by a second, slightly bulkier figure, clad in the same type of armour and surely, anyone remarking the two would instantly deem them brothers in arms, as determining the sex of these individuals would be impossible in their raiment. And in battle, it mattered little. The second person too, wore a shield, though not as fancy as the first, perhaps indicating the first to be higher ranked? The weapon of choice of the second, was a sword, its blade glittering crimson in every flash of light.
Visors were drawn, and although carrying with them a considerable weight, they moved with grace from shadow to shadow. Behind them, more footsteps followed, which carried with them the unmistakable, albeit occasional clink of armour. For anyone with even the slightest knowledge of military strategy, or common sense, it was clear they were taking a risk, the electricity of the thunderstorm being naturally drawn to armour, but equally important, the loud thunder could easily mask any sound the unit made from enemy ears.
It wasn’t long before rain set it, just before the troops reached the mouth of the valley, and with water riveting down along both the outside as well as the inside of the soldiers’ armour, they came to a halt under the protective shadow of a small cluster of trees.
“Remember, boyscout… no heroics, this time. I am not going to cover for you again…”, hissed the figure carrying the embossed shield, the voice, though lowered in tone for whatever purpose its owner saw fit, carried feminism. There was no mistaking it, the voice’s owner was a woman.
The second figure grunted, a dissatisfied sound at the predicament, but agreeing to it nonetheless. “Wish you’d stop calling me that. I am no rookie, y’know…”
“Then stop acting like one…”, came the reply. “I will not tolerate this mission to go awry, nor the needless deaths of any of the men because of the actions of one careless soul. Am I clear?” Though the latter was formulated as a question, the tone of voice indicated it was anything but that. It was an order. “No heroics.”
Under the visor, the man rolled his eyes defiantly, but in the cover of darkness, it was impossible to tell.
From the other side of the field, to be precise from another cluster of trees, came the sound of a hooting owl. Twice. The female shield bearer nodded once to herself, then motioned with her free, right hand, for the others present, to follow her. Under the cloak of darkness, both units began streaming into the passage, as vigilant eyes kept watch over hundreds of brothers and sisters-in-arms. Thus far, the operation was a success, but the most difficult part was yet to come.
“Keep the shield-wall tight and fall back when you get too worn out… That is why we brought reinforcements after all. I am not dragging you back if you take unnecessary risks.” The female hissed as they trotted along, nudging with her head to indicate the troops following, amongst which were a number of other shield-bearers. Clearly, they were instructed to keep from underfoot and to the side, enabling them to take over at very little notice.
The man indicated prior as ‘boy-scout’ grunted, either unimpressed or not entirely in agreement with the orders given. Nonetheless, he was a trained, disciplined Gondorian soldier, and knew better than to argue, even if the superior –was- but a woman.
Tactics were simple but proven to be effective in passes such as this one before. The main shield-bearers set up their minimal shieldwall, four-man wide. Enough to let the enemy pass, but in controlled numbers. Hand-to-hand combattants prepared behind them. A deathtrap.
Another flash of lightning revealed row upon row of soldier, their faces set with grim determination. It also revealed a small scouting party dressed in Angmarim tenue, heading into the pass. The dance was about to begin. There was another roll of thunder, the storm approaching rapidly through the roiling clouds overhead. It drowned out the sound of leather shield straps creaking as the Woman tightened her hold on the large shield behind which she had set up. Her right foot set sideways against the bottom of her shield, on the ground, offering additional support.
In that perfect moment of soundless nothing between two thunderclaps, the unmistaken outcry came that spoke louder than words of the fact the scouts had discovered what was waiting at the mouth of the valley.
