At sunset, when the red light lay low on the world, a dark mass rose on the horizon, like a tide of ink creeping over the land.
The Orc-host of the Misty Mountains had come. Their skins were a filthy grey-green, their rusted blades flashed as they waved them in the air, and their howls cracked like thunder beneath the walls.
"They are here," Anrod said softly, fingers tightening around his sword-hilt. "All hands to arms!"
Along the battlements the Elven archers drew and held. Crews at the stone-throwers checked their slings and triggers. The wizards' staves burned with many-coloured lights.
The Light-elves were mighty indeed, but the Trolls and war-beasts of the enemy had also been strengthened by the foul power of Morgoth.
A low horn blared from the darkness. The enemy did not waste breath on speech; they came on at once.
The war was joined.
When the Orcs came within bowshot, Anrod shouted: "Loose!"
A storm of arrows leapt from the walls in a golden rain, leaving streaks of light in their wake. The shafts struck the foremost ranks of Orcs with deadly accuracy, cutting them down by the score.
Great stones, etched with explosive runes, hurled from the engines with a roar and crashed into the massed ranks below, bursting in fire. Black blood spattered the earth, hissing and steaming wherever it fell.
Yet the Orcs were too many. When those in front died, those behind climbed over their corpses without slowing, pressing on until they battered against the base of the walls themselves.
"Raise the ladders!" roared a huge Orc-chieftain. His skin was a dark, ugly red, and in his hands he swung a monstrous battle-axe. He was stronger, larger, and more disciplined than the rest: a war-leader.
Dozens of siege-ladders were hauled forward and slammed against the walls, and the hordes swarmed up them like ants.
"Throw them down!" Denethor shouted, leading the Elven warriors at that sector. They thrust with long poles, heaving at the ladders, trying to cast them backwards into the press of Orcs below.
Gimli and the Dwarves waited where the fighting grew thickest. The Dwarf's iron axe whirled like a windmill; every stroke cleaved an Orc who had made it to the parapet in two. The light from the blue star-gem in the axe-head flared so fiercely that the creatures shrank back from him in fear.
Aragorn's sword moved like a reaper's scythe, cutting death wherever it went along the wall. With each stroke he struck for the heart or throat, striking down any Orc that threatened the Elven line around him.
On the highest tower-top Gandalf stood, his staff sweeping in wide arcs. Great fireballs rained from the sky at his word, consuming whole knots of Orcs in blazing ruin; flashes of lightning split the ranks, casting bodies and broken shields in all directions.
Corthalion and the Sindar heroes turned their bows upon the most dangerous of the foe, picking off sappers and shamanic leaders, their silver arrows driving straight through breastplates and hearts.
The battle was brutal beyond measure. The Orcs flung themselves at the walls without fear of death, clawing and scrambling to reach the parapets.
Elven warriors fell, their white armour stained red; Orc blood darkened every stone and seeped into the earth.
Anariel ran ceaselessly along the defenders' lines, pouring healing magic into burned and broken bodies. Sweat beaded her brow, and her face went pale with effort, but the resolve in her eyes never dimmed.
When night fell, the Orcish assault did not falter; it grew more frenzied still.
The wards outside the wall shattered one after another under the ceaseless pounding. Fire-arrows arced over the battlements and set the city alight in many places.
Elven warriors fought on amid the blaze, some already badly burned, yet still refusing to yield their posts.
Anrod fought in the forefront. Light burned around him; his blade was a lamp in the dark. With each sweep he carved a bloody path, slaying Orcs by the handful. Black blood soaked his armour, but he moved as though he bore no weight at all.
No one yielded. Every elf that fell had dragged down five or six foes with him, and only then did he sink into the blood and fire.
When at last the grey light of dawn crept over the eastern sky, the Orc-host drew back. The walls and the killing ground below them were piled with bodies; more than thirty thousand of the enemy lay dead. For a time, the surviving Orcs retreated to their camp beyond bowshot, to rest and gather their strength.
For the Elves the cost had been dire. Of ten thousand defenders, more than half had fallen.
On the ramparts, the Elves sagged where they stood and sat, chests heaving, some slumping into sleep where exhaustion and pain finally overmastered them.
Anrod looked out toward the dark mass of the Orc encampment and spoke hoarsely. "We have held the first day. But they are too many, and their Trolls and great beasts have yet to move. We cannot endure for long."
Gandalf leaned on his staff, his face grey with weariness, though the light at its tip still burned. "Aid should not be far now," he said. "The horsemen of Elarothiel at Swanfleet ride swiftly, and though the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm march slowly, their strength in battle is great indeed."