Sakaban was enraged.
As the Mountain Chieftain of all the hillfolk of northern Eriador, he had never suffered such humiliation. His forebears had once marched beneath the Witch-king of Angmar, broken through the gates of Rhudaur, slaughtered the Dúnedain, and ground the glory of Arnor into dust.
Across these lands shrouded by the shadow of the Misty Mountains, the very name Sakaban had long been a synonym for terror. Wherever his black staff pointed, none dared disobey.
But now — a twenty-year-old Dúnadan youth had dared to shoot an arrow at him before five thousand warriors.
This was not provocation. It was desecration — the tearing of his pride, the trampling of the hillfolk's ancestral honor.
"Attack! Attack them all!" Sakaban roared, pointing toward the Minas-Elion Fortress. His voice boomed so fiercely that even his guards winced in pain. "Bring me that whelp's skull — I'll drink from it!"
"Wuuu—!"
Boom, boom, boom!
The horns bellowed again, long and deep; war drums thundered across the open plain like rolling stormclouds. The five thousand hillfolk stirred as though a great wave had struck them.
A thousand warriors were sent forth first — bare-chested, their torsos daubed in the dark red blood of beasts. The dried scabs cracked along the grain of their muscles. They brandished rusty axes and stone hammers, the air heavy with the stench of blood and madness.
These were the tribe's fiercest expendables — men who had chewed hallucinogenic herbs before battle. Their gazes were vacant yet wild, their throats grinding out ancient war-chants coarse as grindstones. With ladders slung across their backs, they charged the fortress.
Behind them, hundreds of archers took formation. Bows bent into full moons, they loosed their shafts in dense volleys that darkened the sky, raining toward the walls to cover their charging kin.
Upon the ramparts Ryan and his companions ducked behind shields as arrows shrieked past. Many were struck before they could react — iron heads pierced the gaps between boards and bit deep into throats and chests.
When at last the storm of arrows slackened, the screaming tide of hillfolk was already within a hundred paces of the moat.
"Archers, ready!" Ryan's black hair whipped in the wind. He drew his bow, voice sharp as steel. "Loose!"
At his command, three hundred longbows thrummed in unison. A storm of arrows crossed the plain, weaving in the air a shimmering web of death.
The foremost berserkers fell as one. Arrows punched through necks and ribs; blood spattered upon the yellow grass, darkening it with spreading stains.
But those behind came on still — possessed beyond pain.
One took a shaft through the shoulder, snapped it off, and ran on with his axe.
Another had his thigh pierced, dropped to one knee, and clawed at the earth to crawl forward, leaving two dark trails of blood behind him.
They were close enough now that the defenders could see the tight lines of their jaws.
But Ryan had long prepared for this.
For weeks he had ordered arrows piled high behind the walls — enough to reap every foe who dared the moat. Wiping a streak of blood from his cheek, he shouted again, "Keep your pace! Aim for the torso!"
The storm of arrows continued without pause. The charging hillfolk reached the moat at last, set their ladders with fumbling hands, and clambered onto the swaying wood to cross.
But what greeted them was the fortress's cunning design.
Minas-Elion had been built as a bastion fort, five-pointed in shape; at every angle stood a tower of archers, and from whichever side the enemy approached, threefold fire awaited them — from front, and the flanks alike.
The main gate rose three metres above the moat. When the ladders were pulled down, there was no path left for climbing.
Within moments more than a third of the attackers lay dead or dying, tumbling back into the water in panic.
"Cursed vermin!" Sakaban bellowed when he saw it. "Launch the second assault! Whoever reaches the wall first shall be made a captain — and rewarded with a hundred head of cattle!"
A murmur surged through the ranks.
Greed flickered in the eyes of those who had hidden behind the lines. A hundred beasts — enough to feed families through the winter. The promise of such wealth burned away their fear of death.
Another thousand surged forward with fresh ladders and shields covered in hide. They trampled their fallen comrades beneath the bloodied moat, pressed the ladders tight against the wall, and began their climb once more.
"Boiling oil!" Ryan's voice rang out.
The waiting soldiers sprang into motion. Lifting the lids of their barrels, they poured the seething liquid down. The smell was acrid and sharp; the screams that followed tore through the night.
Where the oil struck bare flesh, blisters bloomed and burst. Some, in blind panic, tried to wipe it away — and pulled their skin off with their fingers, exposing the bone beneath.
Stones and arrows rained from above. Hillfolk tumbled from the ladders like dumplings cast into a pot.
The enemy's losses were dreadful, yet the defenders fared little better.
On the far bank the hillfolk archers had formed a deadly line, trading volleys with the bowmen upon the wall. They were hunters born — every one of them could strike a hare at a hundred paces in the mountain woods — and their skill far outmatched Ryan's newly trained soldiers.
Men fell one after another upon the battlements. Medics hurried with stretchers, weaving among the fallen, carrying the wounded to the rear for aid.
Ryan watched faces he knew fall lifeless beside him. His fingernails cut deep into his palm, yet he kept his calm, shouting orders through clenched teeth.
At last, under the ceaseless assault, one hillman managed to reach the parapet. But before he could draw his weapon, Erken— who had lain in wait — swung his sword. The blade cleaved through helm and skull alike, and the body slid down the wall into the moat.
Sakaban's eyes bulged with fury. "A third assault!" he bellowed. "Over the walls! Tear them down!"
Another thousand men surged forward. Amid a storm of blades and stones, they reached the walls and clashed in hand-to-hand combat with the heavy infantry of Minas-Elion.
Steel rang upon steel. Shouts, screams, the sound of death — all mingled into one endless roar that filled the field.
None could tell how long the struggle lasted. At last, when neither side could draw bow nor raise sword, the fighting waned beneath the dimming sky of dusk.
Below the walls lay a heap of more than a thousand hillfolk dead, their corpses stacked in layers, the moat running dark with blood.
The defenders, too, had paid dearly — over three hundred fallen or maimed. The weary survivors slumped where they stood, armour spattered with gore and dust.
The fortress was surrounded still, the enemy campfires burning like fallen stars beyond the reach of the walls.
Ryan rose slowly, leaning on his sword. His mail was soaked red, his face caked with dried blood that cracked when he moved. Then — a shimmer of light flickered before his eyes:
Enemies slain: Hillfolk ×52
Experience gained: +104
Current EXP: 174 / 200
So near to rising again in strength.
He tightened his grip upon his bow and turned his gaze southward, toward the valley of arms. "It's in your hands now," he murmured.
Night wind swept the wall, carrying the reek of iron and death. The banners flapped and groaned above the ramparts.
Tomorrow — tomorrow would be the day of reckoning.
Ryan knew well: Minas-Elion alone could not stand forever. Their only hope lay in Idhrion and Elger, down in the Vale — that they would come, when the hour was most dire.