Chapter 8 - Bree 

Shakash peered around the thick bole of an ancient oak to look up at the city.  Bree’s wooden palisade, which scouts had reported to be in poor condition on this side of the city, certainly seemed stout enough.  Some portions of the wall did not seem to be as weathered as others, and numerous stumps along the treeline showed why.  The citizens of the city had chosen an inopportune time to repair their defensive fortifications.

                He gripped his axe in frustration.  Agosh had assigned the northern section of the city for Shakash’s attack, but what they had expected to be a mere matter of squeezing through openings in the palisade now seemed impossible.  Shakash’s band had nothing in the way of siege equipment, since they hadn’t anticipated a need.  Now, unless he wanted to order his orcs to scale the wall, an attack from this direction seemed impossible.  If they attempted to chop through the wall with axe and sword the city would be taken by the other forces and the looting well underway before they gained access.

                Shakash called one of his warg-riders over and ordered him to carry word to Agosh about the situation.  By now, though, the main strike force Agosh commanded was already arraying itself to attack the city, and the chieftain wouldn’t be disposed to answer Shakash.

                Harsh, blaring horns began sounding from the opposite side of the hill, signaling that  Agosh’s army had begun its attack.  There was little chance Shakash’s messenger would find him in the fray now, let alone receive a reply.

                Growling, Shakash backed away from the tree and stomped deeper into the woods.  He considered leading his two hundred warriors to the west to join the warriors deployed there.  But those orcs were placed at the city’s western gate mainly to prevent the escape of the inhabitants,  and the shaman Grannh who led them would already be ill-tempered over not being able to join the attack himself and not in the mood for company.

                Angrily screaming out orders, he commanded his men to begin felling some of the smaller trees.  Stripped of their foliage, the trunks could be notched for use as crude ladders.  Other orcs were set to gathering the limited supply of ropes available as well, to help them climb the wall.  With any luck, they would be able to enter the city not long after Agosh’s charge broke the southern gate.

****

                Signaled by the orcish horns, two dozen trolls started forward, carrying between them two massive tree trunks to be used as rams against the gates.  Behind them, spread out to either side, marched Agosh’s force of more than five hundred orcs. 

                Agosh eyed the walls of the city carefully.  They seemed to be recently repaired, but only a small number of figures could be seen moving on the walkways behind them.  It wouldn’t matter how many men tried to defend those walls, however, since trolls were practically unaffected by arrows.  Even if they managed to stop the trolls from breaching the gate or the walls, there was always fire.  Wooden walls were no defense at all against that traditional tool of orcish conquest.  However, a burnt city wasn’t nearly as fun or fruitful to loot, so that would be used only as a last resort.

                The attack was carefully planned, as far as massacres went.  Agosh was leading the main attack on the southern gate while his shaman Grannh prevented escape from the western exit of the city.  Shakash was charged with leading his smaller army into the city from the wooded north side of the hill, but Agosh didn’t know how feasible that would be if they had repaired that section of the wall as well.  Yet another group of orcs stood by just east of the city, placed in the unenvied position of acting as reserves.  Likely they would miss out on much of the looting when the city was taken, but that was the price of joining his army too late.

                Looking up at the city’s only tower, he noted that they had changed the flag flying above it, made visible in the dim light by some light source below it.  Rather than the deep red that had flown when they approached, the wind now floated a bright yellow flag with diagonal stripes of white.  No doubt it was some kind of distress flag, begging for help.

                Thanks to the trolls’ enormous strides, they soon came within bowshot of the walls.  A dozen or so men began loosing arrows, but the projectiles were ineffective: the trolls continued to approach the gate despite arrows sticking from their thick skins in some places.  If anything, the missiles seemed only to aggravate them and a few howled in rage.  The only thing harder to face in battle than a troll was an angry troll.

                Agosh’s army picked up its pace, attempting to keep within a reasonable distance of the trolls.  Agosh himself, with a half-dozen Black Numenoreans at his side in addition to his messengers, waited patiently.  As soon as the gate was broken he would join the assault, but until then he did not want to risk a lucky arrow ruining his fun.

                With the trolls almost to the gates, and his army not too far behind, another flag was raised over Bree’s tower.  This one was the sickening blue color of a sunlit sky.  As soon as that flag was visible, dozens more archers appeared on the walls and began letting arrows fly at the approaching orcs.  Despite the starless darkness provided by the menacing clouds above, the massed orcs were easy targets for the defenders and numerous warriors fell to the ground, wounded or dying.

                From one section of the wall, just east of the gate, lightning seemed to reach out toward the approaching trolls.  It struck one full in the chest, dropping it to the ground.  However, the mighty creature regained his footing and joined its fellows lugging one of the crude rams to the gate, wounded but far from out of the battle.

                Other bolts of magical lightning struck out at the trolls from a few places along the wall, but only one of the fearsome attackers was slain.  Agosh was concerned that the town had users of magic available, but he doubted they would be able to stop the trolls.  Eventually they would tire from casting their spells, and killing them would be so much the easier.

                A scout, mounted on a foul-smelling brown wolf, rode up from behind.  “Pukes.  Lots of them!”

                Agosh turned to face the orc.  “What pukes?  Where?”

                “To the south, coming up the road.”

                If the magicians in the town concerned Agosh, this news alarmed him.  If the whiteskins had somehow learned of his attack in advance, they would have been able to prepare a significant army.  Probably not large enough to defeat his own, but large enough to cause some problems.  “How many?”

                “Tons!” the scout whimpered. 

                “How many is tons!?” screamed Agosh.  “A hundred?  Two?”

                The orc only shrugged his shoulders, cringing so low from Agosh’s anger that the standing orc actually towered above the warg-rider.

                Agosh thought quickly.  If it was a sizable army, his own would be vulnerable as they attacked the city.  However, it would be impossible for the men to have gathered a large force in the week or so at most they would have had warning.  Probably it was just peasants gathered from the farms along the road going south, and not worth postponing the attack to deal with them.

                The chieftain called one of his aides over to his side.  “Call the reserves.”

                The aide brought a huge horn made of black wood and covered with obscene runes to his lips and blew.  The deep sound, low and raspy like the death of a mountain, reverberated off the hill.  Agosh motioned the orc away and called for one of his messengers.  He ordered this orc off to meet the reserve force with orders for them to march south to meet the approaching men.

                “Stupid sunlovers should have marched the other way.”

****

                Grannh paced impatiently back and forth across the intersection of the two roads.  From this location, out of range of the city’s defenders, his forces could prevent escape from Bree.  Also, he held the intersection against any reinforcement from the fortress of Fornost, two days’ travel to the north.  Not that any such reinforcement was likely: for the last week scouts had been posted far to the north along the Fornost road.  If a force emerged from the gates there, the orcish army would know about it half a day before the help could arrive.

                In his opinion, fifty orcs could hold the intersection well enough to prevent the city dwellers’ escape.  He would rather be watching the battle at Agosh’s side, but the chieftain’s command was given.  Grannh didn’t even think of disobeying it, though he didn’t like it at all.  He hoped Agosh remembered to have his warriors open the western gate once they were in the city, though, or his force wouldn’t be able to join the looting before it was done.  Attacking even a poorly defended city was not without risk, and he cared little for the heat of battle, but his warriors would likely become aggressive and nearly uncontrollable if they weren’t able to take their share of the city’s spoils.  Personally, Grannh didn’t care much about the looting, as long as a few captives were left undamaged for his pleasure.  It had been a long time since last he was able to enjoy putting his skill with a knife to work on human flesh.  Agosh had promised him at least a handful of prisoners, and he ached for the feel of his carefully sharpened blade slicing through tender man-flesh.  He hadn’t even brought along the jagged-edged scimitar he usually wielded, not planning to participate in any swordplay.

                As far as Grannh could tell, the only action the citizens of Bree had taken since the orcs had made their presence known was to change the flags flying from their tower.  Other than that, all he had heard were screams and battle cries from the orcs and trolls attacking the south side of the city.  None of the trapped inhabitants had even tried to escape yet, as far as he could tell.  This fact was disappointing as well, since he had ordered his followers to bring anyone seen fleeing the city to him alive. 

                The shaman stood in the middle of the intersection, glaring eastward at the besieged city as though he could tear town the walls with his eyes alone.  Even though taking the city should be accomplished in under an hour, he was not a patient orc.  He listened to the sounds of the attack, blocked from view by the city’s curving palisade.  The war cries and screams of pain and rage from the attacking orcs were occasionally overwhelmed by the deeper, louder exclamations from the trolls.  At irregular intervals, sharp blasts from horns crawled through the air like the screams of dying beasts.  During the few intervals the horns and voices were relatively silent, the steady pounding of war drums was audible as well.

                Grannh started with surprise when he realized that the sound of some of the horns appeared to be coming from behind.  He turned, and realized with surprise that the horns had a sickly musical quality that betrayed them as belonging to humans.

                Cresting a rise to the west, a wave of polished metal came into view.  The fast-approaching sound of horns was joined by the thunder of hoof beats.  Horsemen, riding at a charge.

                Grannh, an edge of panic in his voice, shouted out orders for his orcs to turn to meet the charge.

****

                Finglorn watched Jerolas as his companion chanted, the elf’s half-lidded eyes the only sign on a smooth face of the intense concentration his spell required.  Thrusting one arm forward, a head-sized ball of fire shot out into the darkness.  Finglorn followed the projectile’s path downward toward the barely visible trolls nearing the gate.

                With a flash of yellow light, the ball of fire exploded in the face of one of the leading trolls, killing it instantly.  The creature fell where it stood, and the partially charred corpse caused the trolls behind to stumble.  The entire group of trolls lost their momentum and came to a complete stop as they tried to find balance on the massive trunk they carried.

                “Nice one, elf.  Fifty more of those and we’ve got them.”  Despite the success of the mage’s fireball, the trolls were making impressive progress toward the gate. 

                “I don’t see you doing anything better,” Jerolas whispered as he prepared himself for another spell.  “Maybe you could go meet them at the gate and introduce yourself.  Your breath should drop them in their tracks.”

                Finglorn laughed, acknowledging his friend’s victory in their ongoing duel of wits.  “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting trolls.  That makes things a bit harder.”

                “No kidding.”  Jerolas began new incantations, preparing another magical blast for the trolls.

                The battle had begun only a few minutes earlier.  Only a handful of the two dozen or so trolls had been brought down by arrows and magic, and they would soon reach the gates.  However, the archers along the walls of Bree were having much better luck against the army of orcs behind the trolls, and dozens of them lay motionless on the field.  The orcs had even slowed their advance, waiting for the trolls to break down the gate before they charged into better range of the defenders.

                In the small open space just behind the gates, most of the remaining defenders waited.  Their nervousness was visible in the way they shifted their feet and switched their weapons back and forth between their hands as they wiped sweat on cloaks and leggings.

                Finglorn understood their apprehension.  Orcs were fierce enough in battle, and  men stood a fair chance against them in single combat.  However, trolls were capable of killing several foes with ease, and it could take a dozen men to bring down a single troll.  With fewer than a hundred men set to guard the gate, the trolls would most likely slaughter them with ease if they gained entry to the city.

                Jerolas’s next fireball blew a hand and a good portion of an arm from one troll, but it ignored the missing limb and continued its march alongside its brethren.  The elf cursed under his breath.  The trolls, and the massive rams they carried, would be at the gate in moments.

                “I think it’s time, elf.”  Finglorn’s voice was low and quiet, barely discernible over the constant twang of bowstrings and hiss of arrows passing over the wall in both directions.

                The elf nodded, perspiration visible on his forehead.  The strain of his spellcasting was great if he actually broke a sweat.  Jerolas began making his way toward the gate along the walkway ringing the interior of the palisade.  His human companion followed, ducking low to minimize the chance of being hit by an arrow.

                The pair reached the gate as the trolls began to prepare to charge it with their massive rams, side by side.  As the warrior and mage arrived, a young captain leading a dozen veteran archers ordered them to target the trolls in an attempt to stop them.  The flight of arrows, other than a single shaft that pierced the eye of a troll towards the rear, failed to have a significant effect.

                “Ready?” Finglorn asked the weary mage.

                The elf was already chanting out another incantation, slowly and methodically.  He nodded between syllables.

                With a howl of rage, the trolls thudded their way toward the gate.  Made of wood, the gates were less thick than the walls of the city and were unlikely to withstand even a single blow from the massive trunks being used as rams.

                Only twenty feet from the gate, a few strides by troll measure, Jerolas finished his spell and a single missile of fire, smaller than his previous balls of fire and dart-like in appearance, shot from his hand.  Rather than aiming at the trolls, however, he directed the magic bolt of fire to the ground in front of them.  There was a ring of blue light that flashed around the impact site, then the ground exploded in flame.

                The fortress of Fornost was, since its reestablishment after its destruction many years previously, unerringly kept well-stocked with food and supplies to withstand even months’ of siege.  Among those provisions was a large amount of oil, used to fill both lanterns and the huge cauldrons that perched above the gates into the stronghold.  These cauldrons could be heated by fire pits carved into the stone below them, then poured onto attackers.  The boiling oil would cause immense pain and damage to anyone unfortunate enough to be doused.

                Bree had no such cauldrons, and those in Fornost were far too large to move, but the oil had been shipped easily enough in casks.  Trenches inches wide and deep had been filled with the oil when the approach of the orcs was announced, and now Jerolas had ignited it with a spell.  Although the oil had originally been planned for use against orcs, it proved equally effective against the stampeding trolls.

                Unable to stop their momentum, the massive trolls plowed straight into the expanding wall of flame.  Trolls possessed no innate fear or hatred of fire; they even used it to cook meals as often as not.  However, the flames that met them were as tall as themselves, and burning hotter and stronger than any cook fire.  Their stone-like flesh, nearly impervious to arrows and difficult to pierce with a sharp blade, was no match for the inferno that rose around them.  The bearers of one of the rams disappeared entirely in the blaze, and a full half of the trolls carrying the other ram were coated in flaming oil.  The few trolls that managed to avoid the flames looked at their suffering companions for only a moment before they turned and fled from the gate.

                From westward along the palisade, another magician sent a bolt of lightning after them.

                “I guess that worked,” Finglorn simply stated.

                Jerolas, exhausted, slumped to a seat on the walkway and leaned his head against the palisade behind him.

****

                The leather-armored Quindin, true to his word, rode beside Tellison in his highly shined and polished metal armor as they charged the orcs guarding the meeting of the Greenway and the Old East Road.  When the signal flag in Bree’s tower, lit by numerous mirrored lanterns aimed at it from the battlements of the tower, had given them the order to attack, they had mounted their horses and rode at a slow trot until the enemy had come into view.  The orcs’ attention had all been toward Bree, and they had caught them almost completely off-guard.  If a pair of fools hadn’t decided to start blowing horns as they charged, they most likely would have slain many of them before they had been seen.

                Even so, as they galloped down the road, Quindin knew that it would be impossible for the orcs to stop them.  The goblins were spread out far too much, probably trying to keep anyone from slipping out of the city.

                The column of riders spread out somewhat as the ground flattened, and the men struck the orcs at full speed.  Most of the enemies were mountless and easy targets for the lances and swords of the riders.  Some of the orcs were even still unaware of their charge, and were alerted only by the screams of pain and fear behind them.

                The surprise was complete.  On both flanks, the orcs died by the score.  Many broke and fled, to be chased down by pursuing horsemen.  Only in the center were the orcs able to mount a significant defense to the charge.  There, some of the orcs had managed to gather into a formation to blunt the assault.  However, with the orcs scattered across the whole approach to Bree, there weren’t enough of them to resist the wave of cavalry for long.  Soon enough, only a pocket of a dozen orcs remained, surrounded by men.

                Quindin rode beside Tellison as they joined a group of men to charge the remaining orcs.  With battle cries and wordless screams, they stormed forward.  A flash of light briefly brightened the darkness and streaked past Quindin.  A grunt beside him, followed momentarily by the thud of something impacting the ground, told the Ranger that Tellison had been hit by the magic burst of energy.

                Closer to the orcs, Quindin noticed that one of their number was standing in the middle, gesturing with its hands and seeming to mutter to itself.  He also noted that the orc seemed to be staring directly at him.  Instinctively, Quindin wheeled his mount to the side.

                Immediately, his mount screamed and the smell of burnt horse hair entered his nostrils, then he felt himself falling toward the ground with his steed.  Disengaging his feet from his stirrups, he rolled free as his horse crashed to the ground, dead.

                Rising to his feet, he saw that most of the orcs were now dead.  The shaman now stood alone, but was again glaring at him and mumbling out another spell.  Panicking, Quindin realized he had lost his sword in the fall from his horse, and was unarmed.  He reached behind his back in an attempt to free his greatsword from its bindings.

                The shaman took a step forward, and in its guttural language spoke a single syllable: “Pare.”

                As soon as the strange word left the shaman’s lips, Quindin felt his body seized in a vice-like grip and was unable to move, just as he freed his sword.  He was unable even to breathe.  The shaman stepped forward again, drawing a dagger from its belt.

                The orc spoke again, this time in the language of Men.  “Human, you will pay for this.”

                Quindin prayed mentally for a rider to come to his rescue, but realized that the battle had swept far past him and the oncoming shaman.  Straining, he found that he still had no control over his body.

                “I will kill you before I escape.  I wish I could take the time to enjoy it more!”

                Spots of white flashed in Quindin’s eyes, and his vision blurred.  He was having trouble staying conscious, desperately in need of air.

                “Die.”  The shaman lunged at Quindin, its dagger pointed at the Ranger’s chest.

                The shaman’s spell wore off at that moment, and Quindin’s hands swung downward.  The shaman’s close-set eyes widened in surprise just in time to be split apart by the massive sword passing through its skull.  The dagger fell from the orc’s grasp, inches short of its target.

                Gasping for breath, Quindin wrenched his sword free, causing half of the orc’s head to fall to the hard-packed earth of the road.  He dropped to his knees for a moment as his vision returned to normal, wiped the gore from his blade on his cloak, then removed that garment and let it fall to the ground. 

                He searched the scattered bodies until he found Tellison, lying prone on his back.  His bright armor was scorched in the chest where he had been hit by the shaman’s magic.  “Telly?”

                Tellison opened his eyes and looked up at the Ranger.  “Ouch.”

                “ I could use some help taking my armor off.  It’s still hot.  This must be what it would feel like if I put on a breastplate right out of a forge.”

                Quindin chuckled as he unclasped the straps that held Tellison’s breastplate to his body.  He burnt his fingers as he lifted the sheet of metal from his friend and tossed it to the side.  “You weren’t joking.”  He quickly examined Tellison’s torso and found that although somewhat burnt by the bolt of magic, his friend would survive the injury.

                “Didn’t I tell you all that shining would just make you a better target?  Next time maybe you won’t polish it so much.”

                “Did I tell you how much I liked your new boots?  Before, I mean.”

                Quindin scowled down at his footwear and noticed for the first time the blood and brain matter that covered them.  “I knew it,” he scowled.

                Tellison’s laughter sounded odd amid the moans of dying men, horses, and orcs.

****

                Agosh thought furiously.  Impossibly, the weak men had managed to learn of his army’s march and prepared for the attack.  Hundreds of men, trained soldiers rather than the peasants and farmers he predicted, had torn apart his reserve force and were now closing on his own army in numbers nearly equal to his own.

                He had gathered his army back to him, breaking off the attack.  He was certain that he could organize enough of his forces to defeat this new army, but he didn’t have the time to accomplish the task.  Grannh’s position to the west of the city had been overrun by mounted men, and many of the survivors had fled to join his warriors.  His reserve force, if he had used it in concert with his own army instead of sending them separately to meet the men coming from the south, would have been enough to guarantee victory, but that force was now decimated and scattered.  Shakash’s force was on the opposite side of the city and would be unable to arrive in time, even if he got a message to him.

                Calling his lieutenants to his side, he growled out his orders quickly and confidently.  He couldn’t afford to appear weak or uncertain now.

                Following his commands, his army formed up and began to march: not south to engage the oncoming force with his demoralized army, nor east in a retreat.  Rather, he led his force northeast, along the edge of the hill upon which the city perched, and into the wooded area there.

                In the woods, dim as they were by the combination of night, dense foliage, and the clouds overhead, the orcs would have a great advantage against the humans, who lacked the orcish ability to see in the dark.  The torches the men carried would make them easy victims for his own warriors, who would be practically invisible among the trees.

                Additionally, he planned to meet with Shakash and join their forces together.  That would bring his numbers back to nearly six hundred orcs.  Perhaps that would not be enough to conquer Bree, but even though it pained him to think of the vast spoils they would leave behind, there were still plenty of villages and small towns to the north, places impossible to defend but still with enough wealth in captives and goods between them to satisfy his army.

    It was too bad, really.  He had always wanted to watch an entire city burn to the ground.