The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Assault on Hithlum - Part 3

Back to Moran's POV as the battle begins.

13) The Assault on Hithlum Part 3 – Year of the Sun 155 Quellë (Fading)

Moran

The army had marched for more than a week at a breakneck pace to be in position when the main force would strike the Noldor from the front and they would attack from the rear. It was a sound plan, one based on speed and stealth. The orc tribes were fast and had incredible endurance, but their discipline was lacking, and the column was strung out all along the road. Moran huffed as he rode alongside Sȗlherok, the Messenger and Morfuin, the Lord Demon. Try as he might he could not instill the orcs with any real sense of discipline. Morfuin walked with the orcs, tireless and expressionless, almost golem like, occasionally snapping his flaming whip at them. The night sky was beginning to turn purple, and Moran got a cold, prickly feeling in his gut and began to look around.

Like his father, Moran was gifted with far sight, and he could see greater distances than anyone in his army. Such a gift would normally be considered a huge advantage, but it was to prove no more than a torment this day. As light slowly filtered into the predawn sky Moran rose in his saddle and scanned the tree line along the coastal road from Lammoth, the path that they would take to flank Fingon in Dor-Lómin. At a great distance he could see Noldor Elves shielded by the trees, setting up pavises or mobile shields. They were clad in silver armor and bore the sigil of Fingon, rays of light emanating from the Sun and surrounded by stars. This did not bode well. They were supposed to achieve complete surprise. "Don't you see them?" he shouted down to one of his orc chieftains. "They're right there in the forest."

The orc shook his misshapen head. "No, my lord. I do not have your sight."

Moran grunted in frustration and then slapped Sȗlherok in the chest with the back of his hand. "What about you? Don't you see them?"

The Messenger nodded. "I do my lord, but not as clearly as you."

"At least I have one competent person in this army," Moran said aloud and then pointed back to the orc chieftain. "Form ranks and prepare to charge. We will drive them from the woods." He stood tall in his saddle to give the order when two orcs in the front of the column shrieked and then fell with arrows in their chest. Moran stopped, his mouth agape. Nothing had prepared him for this. All of the training he had received in sword and sorcery fell short of actual battle. By the time he had recovered a full volley was overhead. An arrow glanced off of his breastplate with a loud ping. His armor had deflected it, but the force of the impact nearly threw him from the saddle. His horse bucked in fear, and he held onto the pommel just to keep from being flung to the ground. Through the eye slits in his helmet, he could see orcs falling all around him.

"Return fire!" he shouted over the din and orc archers loosed shafts that fell far short of their mark. He had regained control of his mount and he pointed at one orc chief. "Charge! I order you to charge!" He yelled, his voice an almost high-pitched squeal. At his word, a thousand orcs rushed forward, screaming and wailing, ready for battle. If there was one thing Moran had learned it was that orcs lived to fight.

He felt someone take hold of his arm and he started to break free, but it was Sȗlherok. "That is too far to charge over open ground! They don't stand a chance. We need to break contact and reassess our position!" the Messenger shouted over the din.

Moran growled. "Nonsense! There are only a few hundred. We outnumber them."

He saw another volley from the elves fall upon the charging horde and dozens fell, howling and shrieking. The horde wavered and then surged forward again. Moran pointed to another orc chief. "Second wave! Forward!" he called, more strongly this time and another thousand orcs charged. Arrows were now falling continuously upon the first tribe and their charge became a confused mess of orcs stumbling around and tripping over the fallen. Moran saw that they had lost nearly half their number, and the charge slowed to a walk. "They're faltering! I'll go and rally them."

Morfuin grabbed him forcefully by the arm. Even in his lesser form the Lord Demon stood as tall as Moran in the saddle. "No," he said plainly and without emotion. "You are not to engage in direct combat."

Moran tried to break free, but the demon's grip was far too strong. "Unhand me. Mother had no business controlling me!"

"The Astrologer's orders were specific. You are not going anywhere," Morfuin answered, only the slightest edge to his voice.

A lump formed in Moran's throat. His own mother didn't trust him to fight. He made a grunt of frustration just as he noticed the lead tribe breaking and survivors rushing back into the second tribe, creating more confusion as arrows rained down upon all of them.

Sȗlherok unholstered his crossbow. "My lord, we must fall back to cover. We are completely exposed out here," he said and then pointed a finger at Morfuin. "Get him to the rear and find shelter. I'm going to cover your retreat. Go!" he shouted with an uncharacteristic edge of panic in his voice.

Moran started to speak, but Sȗlherok spurred his horse and took off at a gallop. The Messenger rallied the third tribe, and they began to move forward as wounded orcs streamed back to the main force. Moran searched around and found some wooded hills. "Fall back! Fall back to the hills. We will shelter there! Fall back!" The two remaining tribes began to move in a ragged mass with Morfuin marching beside Moran, shielding him from any attack.

Sȗlherok had his orcs pepper the Noldor with arrows to allow the first two waves to withdraw. They didn't even make it close to the enemy before they were shattered with volleys. The Messenger fired several crossbow bolts, a few of them finding marks. As the main force neared the hills, Sȗlherok ordered the orcs to fall back and rejoin. Moran was filled with shame, but also relief. The bulk of his army would remain intact, and he could still complete his task and show his father that he was worthy. There was still time to turn this around.

Then, another sight appeared that chilled him to the bone and shattered his hope. Fingon's cavalry had emerged from the woods. They were mounted on white horses and clad in silver armor. One rider carried the banner of Fingon proudly. Moran pointed towards them. "There! Their cavalry is forming. I see maybe two-hundred riders, mounted archers and lancers." He shouted to one chief, "Prepare your archers! They will be coming!"

The Noldorin riders started off at gallop and soon, arrows were falling upon Sȗlherok's force from two sides and the orcs were starting to waver. Lancers picked off stragglers, finishing any group that dared stray from the larger force. Moran turned his horse about, ready to charge into the fray to save his troops and his pride, but Morfuin held him fast, just shaking his head. Shame and anger filled Moran's heart.

The three tribes that had moved forward were disintegrating now, individual orcs and small groups fleeing from the group, only to be cut down by swift riders. Moran lost sight of Sȗlherok, but he now had bigger problems to contend with. The Noldorin infantry had emerged from the woods, their glaives and spears glittering in the morning sun and the cavalry wheeled to ride towards him. As the riders picked up speed he called out, "Pick up the pace! Prepare to fire!" He could see the front rank of riders and noted a woman with straight black hair flowing from the back of her helmet, aiming her blue recurve bow directly at him.

With supernatural reflexes, he dodged to the side as the arrow flew by him. He grunted and his eyes opened wide in shock. This was no training exercise with his sword master. He could really be killed here. The woman fired two more arrows in quick succession, each one burying itself deep into orcs next to him. Moran righted himself in the saddle as orc archers loosed shafts, most of which glanced off of armor or overshot their targets. Panic was forming in the ranks. He could feel himself losing control of the force. Some of the orcs in the horde began to run and Noldorin lancers peeled off from the main line to chase them down. The mounted archers veered right to continue to pummel his army with arrows. A cold feeling slid down Moran's throat into his stomach. His breathing came in deep gulps as he fought to maintain control. Gone were the thoughts of victory and glory. He just wanted to survive now.

Morfuin drew his huge two-handed sword with one hand and crouched down, ready to receive an attack. Several arrows plunged deep into his chest, but he barely flinched. Another volley from the horse archers rained down upon them and orcs fell in droves. More orcs peeled away from the main force, panicking, throwing down their weapons as they ran. Lancers galloped into the fleeing orcs, spears thrusting and slicing, leaving the ground littered with bodies and black blood.

In pure frustration Moran cried out and spurred his steed, heedless of Morfuin's calls to return. He steered his horse towards the archers, the bane of his army thus far. He singled out the woman who had fired on him and the golden-haired man in leather armor riding besides her. He saw the man put out the palm of his hand and suddenly, he began to feel lightheaded and confused. Where was he? Where was his army? He grit his teeth and drove his spurs deeper into the horse's flanks, drawing blood. His head felt heavy, and he could barely see through the slits in his helmet. He saw the woman loose another arrow and he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder, and he was thrown backwards in the saddle from the impact. His mouth fell open when he saw the long gray shaft protruding from the gap in his pauldron. As he pulled himself up, two more arrows sank into his horse's neck and the animal collapsed sideways, pinning his leg.

The woman dismounted from her white horse and drew her sword, a curved, single-edged weapon and walked towards him. "Traitor!" she called out and drew the sword back to plunge into his face.

Lying on the ground, he put his hand out to stop her with a spell, but he couldn't recall the incantation as his mind was fuzzy. His chest froze and his throat closed and only a gasp escaped his lips. He could only force out, "No! Please!" She hesitated for a moment, and he found his voice. "Why are you fighting me? We are both elves. We bring peace and order to the world under the chosen one!"

The woman snarled. "That's ridiculous! You serve a monster! Yield and I will show you mercy!" she shouted and brandished her blade in front of his eyes.

He was about to scream when he remembered the brooch his mother gave him. He grasped it and cried out, "Father! I need your power!" In a moment he felt full of raw energy. He put his hand out and flung the woman backwards, knocking her silver helmet clean off. He closed his fist and woman cried out in pain as if being crushed. He would finish her now, she who dared to defy a god.

The golden-haired elf stepped between them and raised up his arms. "Begone, blackguard!" he shouted and the tendril of energy crushing the woman evaporated. The woman rose, seemingly dazed and the elf rushed to her side.

Moran began to shove his dead horse off of his leg and he received some help. Morfuin, now in full balrog form, lifted the horse with one hand and flung it at some of the elves, knocking them over. He roared, flames spouting from his mouth as he brandished his flaming sword. With his other clawed hand, he grasped Moran and leapt into the air, his batlike wings flapping hard.

"My army!" Moran cried. "We must go back!"

"Leave them. They're all dead. Sȗlherok escaped with a small force. We will rejoin him and make for Angband. Our part has been played."

"But…but how do I explain this? How will my father take it?"

"You are his son and the son of the Astrologer. Orcs are nothing. They breed like rats in the sewers. The Dark Lord will have another army soon and many more…horrible creatures. Greater things await us. We will head south and establish a bastion there in the name of the Elder King Morgoth."

Moran's mind raced, replaying all of the events of the day. What went wrong? How could he fix it? How would he never make the same mistakes again? Then, his mind went to the woman who almost killed him. It seemed that she genuinely believed that she was on the side of good. How could that be? His father was the true lord of light. Anyone who opposed him was evil. He tried to reconcile this, but fatigue was overtaking him, and his eyes closed in exhaustion as Morfuin flew on.

Chapter End Notes

Moran is still young and rash and lives in his mother's shadow.  I want to portray him as sort of a momma's boy.  His power will grow though.

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