The camp was lazily sprawled across a clearing, with a large pile of wood and ashes in the centre and tents arranged around it in a standard Rohan pattern. The guards, some eight or so, were patrolling lazily around the perimeter, some of them sitting down and taking naps in between.
Moridin’s lip sneered at their unprofessional actions. In his company, no matter how friendly the territory they were in, any man who slacked off guard duty the first time was given a harsh punishment. The second time, they were executed. Most of the veterans with him had been party to enough ambushes to know that it was better to lose a slacker than risk being taken unawares in the dead of night.
Moridin did not intend to let any of the Rohirrim before him escape to learn that lesson.
He gave a covert signal with his hands, and the company began creeping forward. Above them, their archers in the trees readied themselves to take out the guards and signal the beginning of the attack.
Suddenly, one of the sleeping guards jerked awake. He snorted and looked up, then shook his head and looked around warily. Moridin raised his left hand, and the company with him stopped. He watched with bated breath as the guard stood up, turned this way and that, looking for something, but sighed when the man simply grunted and ambled over to another spot and resumed his nap.
Moridin jerked his left hand. A second later, arrows flew.
The guards never stood a chance. They dropped immediately, taken in the throat or the eye. Not one of them even had the chance to cry a warning. Perfect.
He, and the men with him, slowly and silently entered the camp. All around the clearing, other bands of his men were doing the same. Slowly, silently, they moved into the camp, entering the tents and slitting the throats of the sleeping soldiers.
As Moridin moved from one tent to another, the wind changed direction, and he cursed. Sure enough, the silence of the night was suddenly split by the sounds of neighing and whinnying, as the horses were woken by the scent of blood and strange men. All around them, the Rohirrim were waking, leaping to arms to repel the intruders.
They were too late, however. They had just woken, and were disparate and disorganized, while Moridin’s men were armed, vigilant and with a clear line of command visible. All around him, the pigs were being slaughtered even as they woke, and Moridin danced through the camp, blade flashing again and again wherever he found one of them to kill.
They had the advantage in numbers, however, and the situation soon turned to a more even fight. Moridin found himself set upon by three of them at once, wielding short swords. One of them snarled angrily at him. “We know you, foul murderer! Today, you will pay the price for all those you have killed!”
Moridin laughed. “Many have said the same, oddly enough. I wonder what makes it such a popular turn of phrase.” He parried the incensed warrior’s thrust, sidestepped, and looked at him thoughtfully. “Have we met before? Your face looks oddly familiar… Oh, I remember now! Didn’t I kill your father?” He snickered. “The man squealed like the pig he was.”
The enraged warrior gave a yell, part anguish and part anger, and charged at Moridin, despite his allies’ pleas to keep his mind. Moridin calmly parried his thrust, stepped forward, and caught the man’s hand in an iron grip. While the man stumbled and tried to regain his footing, Moridin twisted his arm and sank his own blade into the base of his neck, before he or his friends could react.
Moridin looked down at the dying warrior, and laughed. “You know,” he said, “I don’t even know who he is. I’ve killed enough of you pigs, though, that saying I’ve killed your father usually works out pretty nicely.”
The two remaining soldiers started angrily towards him, but then one of them gave a shocked gurgle and looked down at the sword protruding from his chest. He slid off it and collapsed, to reveal a man in a dark red cloak standing behind him. The other turned and made to attack him, but Moridin calmly strode forward and slid Callandor through the man’s ribs, ending his pathetic existence.
All around him, the battle was dying down as the Rohirrim fell to the onslaught of his soldiers. He turned to the man who had intervened in his fight. “Khrom, it is good to see you are well. Did you enjoy yourself?” That was a given, of course. Khrom was one of Mordor’s best spymasters, and had been sent to aid Moridin in spreading chaos and death, as well as in his… special task. The man was naturally predisposed towards causing pain, and loved battle and slaughter.
Khrom gave an eerie grin. “Of course, Ser Tedronai. It is always a pleasure to end filth in the service of the Dark Lord. Come, I believe it will soon be time for us to celebrate this victory. However, I must speak to you on some important matters later, away from curious ears.” Moridin nodded thoughtfully. While he didn’t trust the man fully, he knew that Khrom was very good at his job, and anything that he considered important was likely to be so. He idly wondered if this was regarding developments that he had not heard about regarding Osgiliath – Khrom, along with the others Mordor had sent, seemed to be able to learn information faster than his best scouts, likely because the Dark Lord himself had worked some form of magick to allow them to communicate with Mordor. If they had truly received additional information on that front, it would be useful to know when determining his plans.
Moridin’s lip sneered at their unprofessional actions. In his company, no matter how friendly the territory they were in, any man who slacked off guard duty the first time was given a harsh punishment. The second time, they were executed. Most of the veterans with him had been party to enough ambushes to know that it was better to lose a slacker than risk being taken unawares in the dead of night.
Moridin did not intend to let any of the Rohirrim before him escape to learn that lesson.
He gave a covert signal with his hands, and the company began creeping forward. Above them, their archers in the trees readied themselves to take out the guards and signal the beginning of the attack.
Suddenly, one of the sleeping guards jerked awake. He snorted and looked up, then shook his head and looked around warily. Moridin raised his left hand, and the company with him stopped. He watched with bated breath as the guard stood up, turned this way and that, looking for something, but sighed when the man simply grunted and ambled over to another spot and resumed his nap.
Moridin jerked his left hand. A second later, arrows flew.
The guards never stood a chance. They dropped immediately, taken in the throat or the eye. Not one of them even had the chance to cry a warning. Perfect.
He, and the men with him, slowly and silently entered the camp. All around the clearing, other bands of his men were doing the same. Slowly, silently, they moved into the camp, entering the tents and slitting the throats of the sleeping soldiers.
As Moridin moved from one tent to another, the wind changed direction, and he cursed. Sure enough, the silence of the night was suddenly split by the sounds of neighing and whinnying, as the horses were woken by the scent of blood and strange men. All around them, the Rohirrim were waking, leaping to arms to repel the intruders.
They were too late, however. They had just woken, and were disparate and disorganized, while Moridin’s men were armed, vigilant and with a clear line of command visible. All around him, the pigs were being slaughtered even as they woke, and Moridin danced through the camp, blade flashing again and again wherever he found one of them to kill.
They had the advantage in numbers, however, and the situation soon turned to a more even fight. Moridin found himself set upon by three of them at once, wielding short swords. One of them snarled angrily at him. “We know you, foul murderer! Today, you will pay the price for all those you have killed!”
Moridin laughed. “Many have said the same, oddly enough. I wonder what makes it such a popular turn of phrase.” He parried the incensed warrior’s thrust, sidestepped, and looked at him thoughtfully. “Have we met before? Your face looks oddly familiar… Oh, I remember now! Didn’t I kill your father?” He snickered. “The man squealed like the pig he was.”
The enraged warrior gave a yell, part anguish and part anger, and charged at Moridin, despite his allies’ pleas to keep his mind. Moridin calmly parried his thrust, stepped forward, and caught the man’s hand in an iron grip. While the man stumbled and tried to regain his footing, Moridin twisted his arm and sank his own blade into the base of his neck, before he or his friends could react.
Moridin looked down at the dying warrior, and laughed. “You know,” he said, “I don’t even know who he is. I’ve killed enough of you pigs, though, that saying I’ve killed your father usually works out pretty nicely.”
The two remaining soldiers started angrily towards him, but then one of them gave a shocked gurgle and looked down at the sword protruding from his chest. He slid off it and collapsed, to reveal a man in a dark red cloak standing behind him. The other turned and made to attack him, but Moridin calmly strode forward and slid Callandor through the man’s ribs, ending his pathetic existence.
All around him, the battle was dying down as the Rohirrim fell to the onslaught of his soldiers. He turned to the man who had intervened in his fight. “Khrom, it is good to see you are well. Did you enjoy yourself?” That was a given, of course. Khrom was one of Mordor’s best spymasters, and had been sent to aid Moridin in spreading chaos and death, as well as in his… special task. The man was naturally predisposed towards causing pain, and loved battle and slaughter.
Khrom gave an eerie grin. “Of course, Ser Tedronai. It is always a pleasure to end filth in the service of the Dark Lord. Come, I believe it will soon be time for us to celebrate this victory. However, I must speak to you on some important matters later, away from curious ears.” Moridin nodded thoughtfully. While he didn’t trust the man fully, he knew that Khrom was very good at his job, and anything that he considered important was likely to be so. He idly wondered if this was regarding developments that he had not heard about regarding Osgiliath – Khrom, along with the others Mordor had sent, seemed to be able to learn information faster than his best scouts, likely because the Dark Lord himself had worked some form of magick to allow them to communicate with Mordor. If they had truly received additional information on that front, it would be useful to know when determining his plans.