LordofUzkulak’s fanfics

Blaiddyn crouched low, waiting, watching.  Down below in the valley sat the small hamlet, the burnt remains of its outer huts still smouldering, sending wisps of black smoke lazily into the air.  The palisade encircling the settlement was still mostly intact, though in many places great rents had been hewn into its planks and the gates at both ends had been splintered open.  A little stream cascaded down the cliff at the hamlet’s rear, collecting at a small pool near the Headman’s hut, then running through the settlement via a capped gully it emerged into the valley near the East Gate, whence it followed the road out of the valley and thence onwards to meet the Isen.  To the north of the walls was a broad shallow slope, a spur of the hill that made the valley’s northern side.  Along this hill’s southern flank, that which was in the valley, were steep slopes, many covered in scree, though none shear enough to form a cliff; these slopes were shallow enough that a man could scramble down them or up them without injury, but too steep for horses to traverse and thus were a barrier to cavalry.

A bank of fog lay across the valley to the west, obscuring what little of the road could be seen beyond a dyke there, though Blaiddyn knew that it was from there that his prey would come.  He was not disappointed, for presently he heard the whiney of horses as a troop of horsemen came up the road.  Signalling for his men to remain still and quiet, Blaiddyn grinned.  The Forgoil had fallen for his trap.  All that was required now was for them to pass the Dunlendings’ position and head towards the hamlet.  The East Gate had been blocked by logs the Dunlendings had felled after they’d sacked the settlement and on the spur, the only way around the walls of the hamlet for mounted men, the Dunlendings had erected a ghost fence.  Blaiddyn shuddered as his thoughts turned to the ghost fence – spears staked in the ground with skulls impaled upon them and weeds and sprigs of strong smelling flowers bound about the brows on which the Wiseman had cast charms and weaved enchantments.

Presently, the horsemen emerged from the fog and trotted towards the hamlet, their pace slowing with caution as they approached.  Blaiddyn held up an arm ringed with torcs taken from fallen foes to still his men.  He waited and when the rearmost rider had passed brought his arm down swiftly and rose to his feet.  Roaring a battle cry he lunged forwards, scrambling down the slope, followed closely by his men.  Cries of surprise went up from the riders as they turned to meet the new threat and their horses snorted, frightened by the noise.

Blaiddyn slid to a halt at the bottom of the slope and ran forwards, spear in hand.  Snarling with anger, he thrust it at a rider.  The rider raised his shield, but too slowly, and the iron spearhead glanced off the rim and struck the man in his shoulder, the force of the blow knocking him off balance and causing him to fall.  Distressed at the death of its master, his horse bolted, turning hither and thither as it wove its way through the battle.

A second rider charged towards the Dunlending chieftain, and Blaiddyn braced himself, thrusting his spear forwards.  The horse baulked at the spike of iron and wood and veered to one side.  Twisting his grip, Blaiddyn swung the spear around and with a roar of anger put all his strength into a thrusting blow that pierced the rider’s side through his leather corslet.  The spear was wrenched from Blaiddyn’s hands and the dark haired Dunlending drew his swords.  Blaiddyn favoured fighting with a blade in each hand, and to compensate for his lack of shield, he wore all his victory torcs on his left arm and on his left hand he wore a sturdy leather glove with iron bands encasing the fingers.

A dismounted rider ran towards Blaiddyn, axe held high and the Dunlending chieftain turned to face him.  He block the first blow with the shortsword held in his left hand and lashed out with the longer broadsword held in his right, carving a chunk of wood from the Forgoil’s shield.  Snarling, the straw-haired warrior sung his shield, battering aside Blaiddyn’s main weapon.  The man grinned in joy, thinking his foe defeated, but he did not know that the Dunlending had trained himself to be as deadly with his offhand as with his strong hand, and the shortsword shot out at the man’s exposed body.  The blade struck true, slicing into the rider’s bare neck and spilling his blood on the ground.  Shocked, the man dropped his shield and axe and clutched his throat as he fell to his knees, his lifeblood ebbing away.

The low sonorous blow of a horn echoed through the valley, and the captain leading the riders cried out to his men, calling for the retreat and regrouping.  Tugging on their reins, the riders turned and dashed towards the hamlet, hoping to take refuge within its walls, but the Dunlendings had another trick awaiting them.  As the first rider galloped across the beaten earth before the gate his horse gave a cry of pain and toppled over.  The following riders drew up short and gazed at the ground in amazement.  Scattered around the gates were caltrops, insidious devices that Blaiddyn’s smiths had been taught to make by a stranger who had come to them in secret.  The old man, clad in a grey cloak and hood had instructed the smiths on how to fashion four iron nails together in such a way that one point always faced up before he had departed back into the wilderness of Dunland.  The Dunlendings knew not who he was, or from whence he came, but they were glad of his help all the same – anything that would bring victory against the hated Forgoil was welcome in their eyes.

“Shieldwall!” cried Blaiddyn, sheathing his swords and unslinging the shield he’d been carrying on his back.  His men drew up around him, the front rank locking their shields together and hefting their spears.  Crouching low they advanced.  The second rank also locked shields and raised them above the men in front to protect them from blows from on high.  The riders wheeled to face their attackers again, and those with bows notched arrows.

The Dunlendings advanced slowly, ducking behind their shields as a few pitiful arrows rained down on them.  Though the archers were few, they were not whole ineffective and some found their mark.  Blaiddyn winced as Llyn and Morgan ap Morgan fell with arrows in their neck or in an eye.  But those few casualties were not enough to stop the Dunlending advance.  Spooked by the advancing thicket of spears, the Rohirim’s horses shied away, refusing to advance.  One back stepped into the field of caltrops and gave a scream of pain as it trod on one of the spikes.  Already jittery, some of the horses bolted at the sound of the scream, either throwing their riders or carrying them away.  Knowing that they could not fight like this, the riders’ captain called for his men to dismount and form a shieldwall of their own.

The two shieldwalls advanced, one bearing the white horse and green field of the Eorlingas, the other the snarling wolf and red field of Blaiddyn’s household.  With a clash, the two sides met, both shoving against the other.  Insults and curses were hurled across the scrum, and shield clattered as over and over they struck against each other.  The Dunlendings had discarded their spears in favour of shortswords and long knives and similarly the Forgoil had dropped their spears for their own blades.  So close was the press that Blaiddyn could smell the breath of the man in front of him and he lashed out with his sword, thrusting the blade into the Forgoil’s screaming mouth.  The man went down, biting down hard on the sword in his death throws and Blaiddyn let the sword be drawn from his hand, unsheathing his spare.

Though they fought valiantly, the Forgoil were doomed, the greater numbers of the Dunlendings overwhelming them.  Abruptly the Rohirim’s shieldwall broke, and the Dunlendings surged forwards in a tide of steel and leather, forcing their way amongst their hated foes.  Blaiddyn saw Gwyn the Gaunt take down two foes with one blow from his longsword, plundered from some barrow in the far north, and he chuckled and Daffydd the Grim cast off his shield and swung his two handed axe in a flurry of blows that brought red ruin to his foes;  Rhyddion the nimble darted into the wavering mass, his sword glinting in the dim sunlight as it weaved a tapestry of death through the wavering Forgoil and Bran the Bull battered men down with his shield and stamped down on the necks of the fallen to break them.

Blaiddyn stepped forwards, his sword adding to the tally of the dead, searching for a worthy foe.  All around Forgoil broke and fled, only to find cold steel biting into their backs.  Some stood their ground or backed off gradually, but all were of broken moral.  All save one.  Their captain, Eoghan the Tall stepped forwards, blowing his horn and around him his men took heart.  He carried no shield and instead he wielded a sword of quality workmanship, a gift from far off Gondor of which the Dunlendings knew only as story.  The blade was nearly the height of a short man and its grip was long enough to be held with both hands with room to spare.  Spying Blaiddyn, and recognising him as chieftain, Eoghan advanced, sword held high ready to strike.  Blaiddyn raised his sword in salute and called his men to back off.  Both sides drew back as their leaders advanced to meet.

Eoghan brought his sword down quick as lightning and Blaiddyn barely had time to raise his shield.  The sword bit deeply, splinting the shield.  As the Forgoil drew back for another blow, Blaiddyn darted forwards and barrelled into him.  Of balanced, Eoghan fell to his knees and rolled aside, Blaiddyn’s sword biting deeply into the trampled ground.  The Forgoil leapt to his feet and swung low.  Once more, Blaiddyn was able to parry with his shield, though this time the blow broke it asunder.  Growling with anger, the Dunlending gripped his sword with both hands and lunged at his foe, dealing a flurry of blows.  Eoghan’s left hand gripped his sword by the blade while his right remained at the hilt and he parried the Dunlending’s attacks, using the longsword as a quarterstaff to deflect each blow.  The onslaught of Blaiddyn’s flurries drove Eoghan back and he slipped in a pool of blood, landing hard on his back and dropping his sword.

Seizing the opportunity, Blaiddyn lashed out with his left foot, planting it on Eoghan’s stomach as he leant forwards to deal the deathblow.  Reversing his grip, Blaiddyn thrust downwards with the sword.  The blade arced down and clove through the shirt of iron rings that the Forgoil captain wore, piercing the man’s breast and spilling crimson blood down his front.  Blaiddyn stared down at his foe, but instead of seeing fear in his eyes he saw grim determination and spite.  The Dunlending looked down and let out a gasp of outrage.  Though he had lost his prized position, the captain had not been disarmed.  He’d drawn a long knife from his belt and as Blaiddyn had dealt the deathblow, the Forgoil had thrust up, under Blaiddyn’s own mail shirt, mortally wounding him.

His vision growing dark, Blaiddyn tossed back his head and cried “Victory!”  The cry was taken up by his men and at last the Forgoil’s resolve broke.  They scattered, the Dunlendings in hot pursuit and all were cut down.

“Victory,” Blaiddyn mumbled once more, then fell, face down next to his foe, their blood staining the earth beneath them.