The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

The Assault on Hithlum - Part 1

Morgoth moves to attack Hithlum with an army of orcs and trolls.  The Noldor move to stop him.

11)   The Assault on Hithlum – Year of the Sun 155 Quellë (Fading)

Moran

“You are the son of the chosen one.  You are the son of a god.  Never forget that,” his mother, Ardana, told him.  She tightened the straps of his polished black plate armor with loving hands.  It was light and well-fitting, giving him great freedom of movement.  “You will do great things, my son.  Glory is yours.  This armor, forged in the fires of Thangorodrim, will guard you and make you immune to fire.”

Moran inhaled deeply, drinking in his mother’s words.  He was nearly one hundred years of the sun, still young in the reckoning of elves, but he was ready to fulfil his destiny.  He was already a full head taller than his mother.  The forces of his father, the King of the Earth, had gathered in great numbers and were ready to assault the hated Noldor and break the Siege of Angband.  He gazed into a large mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling in his chamber.  He saw an inhumanly handsome man with raven-black hair, chiseled features, a square jaw and a strong chin, the product of his Vala blood.  He was heavily muscled from years of training under Suldȗn, one of Ardana’s masters of arms. At his mother’s urging, Morgoth had granted him a command.  “When our victory is complete, mother, will you take me to the south where I can rule my own kingdom?”

“Of course.  That land is there for our taking.  We will wipe the enemy from the face of the land and then bring fire and steel to the Guild.  All will bend the knee to us.  All will know our strength.”  She placed his crimson and gold tabard over his armor and then an octagonal brooch around his neck.  “Through this you can channel energy from your father.  You are a priest of his order.  That comes with great power.”

He held the brooch with one hand and made a fist with the other and it crackled with energy, sparks emanating from his hand.  “I feel his presence.  I feel his will.  I will rule our kingdom as my father does, with an iron hand.  He will be the one god upon this world and I shall be his instrument for good and unity.  Now, what is father’s plan?”

Ardana waved her hand through the air and a glowing map appeared, floating before them.  “See here.  This is Hithlum, part of the realm of the hated Fingon.  Never forget that we are the force for good and that they are the evil ones, who seek to control and destroy us.  We will strike here and wipe him from the face of the world.  Our lord deeply desires retribution against him and his father.  They humiliated us in the last battle, but we have gathered our forces, and I am scrying the stars for guidance.  Our lord has honored you with a command and you will go forth and lead part of the victory. Morfuin will be your personal guard.”

“I am ready,” Moran said with youthful confidence.  He had long studied the chants and incantations of power of a priest of Morgoth. He had excelled and learned faster than any of his cohort.  He was truly a son of the Elder King with talent and intelligence far beyond the norm.

Ardana held up his longsword, a thin weapon made from enchanted volcanic glass, a material called laen.  She examined the blade which was a translucent ice blue.  She placed it in a scabbard and buckled it to his hip. “This is Icime, an enchanted blade that will protect you and smite our foes.  It was forged by our lord’s greatest smiths and has been imbued with his might and radiates the cold of the frozen north.  I treasure the day that you will plunge it into Fingon’s heart.”

“I will bring you that treasure, mother.”  He took his black visored helmet under his arm and bowed to her.  “I go now to victory.  By our might, we will bring peace and prosperity to this land.”  He strode away to the entrance of his chamber, where Morfuin was waiting.  The demon was in his smaller form, bald with red skin and catlike eyes.

Ardana beckoned the demon to her and then pointed to Moran.  “Go now, my son.  Your lieutenants are waiting.  I wish to give Morfuin some private instructions.”

Moran looked back to see her hand the demon a scroll.  He paused for a moment and was amazed that he could hear her words from such a distance even though she spoke in a low whisper.  “You will keep my son from engaging in any personal combat.  His future is far too important.  We cannot risk him,” she said.

The demon nodded.  “I understand, Ardana.”

Moran snorted and gritted his teeth.  Why did his mother lack faith in him?  She told him straight to his face how powerful he was.  He then shook it off and turned to continue down the hall to where his lieutenants had gathered, orc chiefs and one elf.  Like his father, he knew that he had to approach them with strength and could not show any weakness.  “You have gathered at my command,” he said loudly.  “Good.  Let us begin.”  He looked around to see the orc tribal leaders that would command his force.  He had never worked with orcs before, but he knew that he had to establish dominance.  There was a map of Beleriand on a solid stone table in front of him and he pointed to the land of Hithlum.  “This is our target, the lands of the hated Fingon.  He resides in the west of Hithlum in the land of Dor Lómin.  We will be the scouting force that flanks around the west along the coast of Beleriand.  The main force will strike from the north through the passes.  Numbers will be on our side.  It will be a pincer attack that will overwhelm the enemy.”

The tribal leaders snuffed and grunted.  Moran would have preferred an army of elves.  These beings were clearly inferior and not worth his valuable time.  However, they were what he had to deal with so he would succeed with what he had.  He could not let his father down.  He had hoped that the King of the Earth would see him off, but the Vala was nowhere to be seen.  “He has much more important things to do,” he said to himself.

He looked back to the tribal leaders of his army, which would number five thousand strong, a conglomeration of different orc tribes.  Surely such a massive force could not be withstood.  For some reason, the leaders had not moved at all.  Moran snorted and then gestured off in the distance. “Well, what are you all waiting for? Gather your forces and begin the march.”

The orcs bowed while grunting and squealing.  “Yes, my lord,” they said and then shuffled off to their tribes.

Moran looked up at Morfuin. “My father needs better troops than this.  Still, our numbers are strong, and we will move at speed.”

The demon remained expressionless.  “I will drive them with fear and fire, my lord.”

“Very good.  Now, where is my horse?”

“This way, my lord.”

Morfuin led him to the stables where a Sindarin man stood, holding the reins of a large black horse. The man had sandy brown hair in a bowl cut.  His skin was fair, and he appeared to be in excellent condition, his muscles rippling under his tunic.  The man bowed and handed the reins to Moran.  “Your steed, sir.  I am Sȗlherok the Messenger.  I will serve as your herald in battle.”  Over his tunic he wore a shirt of silver chainmail under a surcoat of sky blue with symbols of fire, lightning and water embroidered on its fabric.  A broadsword was in a scabbard at his hip and a crossbow was slung behind his back.

Moran took the reins with a nod and Morfuin helped him into the saddle.  This is what he had expected.  As the son of the king, he was special.  Lesser beings would hold his warhorse and help him to mount it.  His steed was large and well trained, holding still while he swung his leg over.  His saddle was made from the finest leather and crafted just for him with images of mountains and lava carved into the surface.  It had a high cantle and metal stirrups designed for battle to help the rider keep his seat.  He looked up into the overcast sky with fumes from the peaks of Thangorodrim obscuring the hated sun.

He pointed to his herald. “Sȗlherok, issue the order to march.”

The Messenger raised one of the banners of Morgoth, a black flag with a grinning skull that wore a crown of three jewels.  He sounded his horn, loud and clear and the army began to shuffle out from the gates of Angband.  It would be a long march of many days, but orcs were nothing if not tough and resilient. They carried their food and supplies with them on the march.  The ground thrummed with the sound of boots striking the ground and the air filled with the beat of drums.  At the rear of the army marched a group of trolls, huge and deformed, their bodies and faces looking as if a blind man put them together with clay.  Moran looked upon them with both admiration for their power and contempt for their disgusting appearance.

“These trolls will prove decisive in the coming struggle, eh Sȗlherok,” Moran said, rising up in his stirrups to get a better view.

As the last of the army departed, Moran spurred his horse and he rode to the front of the line, Sȗlherok riding besides him.  The main force of nearly fifty thousand would march in a few days, allowing them to sneak around the flank of the Fingon’s forces.  The young elf felt confident and sure of himself.  He would prove himself to his father and his father would be proud of him.  It would be a battle to remember.

Chapter End Notes

Introducing Moran and Sulherok.  A battle is brewing.