An old woman walked the walls of Helm’s Deep, her once blonde braid was being wrung in her hand as worry. It felt like she had eaten boulders from the weight that was in her stomach, and certainly most others on the Deeping Wall felt the same as they looked into the distance. The horizon was orange, as if the sun was rising, though it was the dead of night. The wind that night brought a foul smell to the fortress: the reek of smoke and death.
To the north of the stronghold, carnage was being let loose. The Eorling village of Marton was burning, the timber palisades glowing white as the thatched roofing of the buildings went up in smoke. The few men left were trying their best to put off against the oncoming horde but there were too many for them this night.
Not just the Wildmen were attacking, but with them their newfound allies the Uruk Hai, and their allies the wargs, goblins and orcs in service of the Old Man in his Stone Tower, promising the Dunlendings that the land they attack will be theirs once the battle is over.
The defensive line of men fell and the Wildman Warband pushed through, chasing down the fleeing women with arrows and axes, while wargs chased down the elderly. These stubborn fools would pay for not retreating to the Hornburg when they had the chance, yet they insisted to remain to face their death by the hand of the enemy.
A roof collapsed and embers flew up into the sky, lighting up the grim scenes of blood and bodies littered about. The last time the blood of the Horse Lords had been spilled in such a way must have been when Wulf himself invaded the land all those years ago, sitting in the golden hall of Meduseld as King of the Land as it rightfully should be. This alone gave enough encouragement to the Dunlendings as they pushed on, spreading out in one half while the tall Uruk-Hai ravaged the other.
Throughout the screams and shouts, and crackling of the fire, the deep voices of the battle bards, said to be descended from Meillionydd the Loud, singing words of encouragement and bravery to deliver strength to the Wildmans arm as he pulled back on his bowstring to shoot at the oaken-gates of the mead hall, the arrowheads sinking deep within.
Eventually the sun rose, though by this point the host of the White Hand had left the carcass of the village for the carrion to pick at. An ugly black burn was on the fertile lands of the Mark, and this delivered a warning to those who were grieving inside the Hornburg, that soon they too shall become ash.
