The hour was late and the weather was foul: thunder shouted from the heavens as lightning punched the earth below. The smoldering wreckage of the destroyed settlement of Marton gave off its dying light as the embers were extinguished.
The stronghold of Helm’s Deep was preparing for battle, all those who could bear arms were practicing in the weak moonlight. There were elderly men, whose aching knuckles had not held a sword hilt since their hair was bright. They were teaching the younger ones, boys who had always dreamt of fighting in battles worthy of songs though now the moment was near, their courage was sinking deeper and deeper as more unfamiliar armour was placed onto their young brows.
A mead-maid, now turned amateur fletcher, sat besides her father as they worked to make as many arrows as they could. She sang, as sweet as one could in such a situation, though the strength in her voice began to fail her.
“Where now the horse and rider?
Where is the horn that was blowing?”
On marched the host of death, leaving the proud greenlands wasted behind them. Horses. The once proud symbol of the Eorlingas were now left rotting in the earth, being picked at by old crows. Some of their proud heads were still in the ash, while others were now mounted upon spear points, being waved above the warband of wildmen in torment. Warhorns of the Rohirrim were being blown by them, alongside their own and their shouting insults, taunting their cornered prey.
“Where is the helm and the hauberk,
and the bright hair flowing?”
Green-painted shields and magnificent horse-tailed helms were a sharp contrast to the thick fur and dull leather which the hillmen wore, though the proud heads they were once on no longer had a need for them. Instead, these heads were being held by their long golden braids, thrown and swung around as if it was a game.
“Where is the hand on the harp-string,
And the red fire glowing?”
Battle bards sung their own songs in the marching swarm, recalling the tales of Wulf the Great, and how he once held the throne of the Mark, and pushed the northern invaders to this very stronghold. Torches were lit all along the line, burning brightly like a wave of flame as the force reached Helm’s Dike.
The song was cut short, the mead-maid ushered off to safety as the moment had finally arrived. Battle was here.
