HARROWDALE VALLEY IN FLAMES
By Wraith
Edoras
2:00 in the morning, June 13
Mautor Ufang is awakened from his sleep and is not pleased at the disruptions. Throwing a cloak around himself, he arises from his bed and goes to the Golden Hall. He sits at his great table, and by the light of the torches on the wall and a candle beside him, he reads the reports from the valley patrols. At first he looked at them in amazement and shock, and then unable to restrain himself, he shouts, "TWENTY DEAD, WOUNDED, MISSING, OR UNACCOUNTED FOR! NAZGUL SPYING ON THE PATROLS! THE GREAT LORD, SHAKH GAKH, SLAYING ORCS AT RANDOM!"
The members of his staff tremble in fear as they see his fury, but Mautor Ufang is not finished yet. "WHAT MADNESS IS THIS!" he screeches. "SIX-ARMED DEMONS ON UNDEAD HORSES! EASTERLING SPIES!" He pauses for breath and then goes on. "THE VALLEY IS FILLED WITH MADNESS! HOW DARE YOU BRING ME REPORTS LIKE THIS!" he screams. "URK! URK! URK! These Mordor orcs will say anything to hide the fact that they shirk their work and go forth into the woods to drink and gamble! They send me reports like this to try to hide the fact that they fight amongst themelves and slay each other in drunken brawls!
"My orders - let the backs of all those who try to deceive me this way feel the lash!
"These orders are from above! Burn both sides of the Snowbourn. Let all vegetation be consumed in flames! Press back the Rohirrim to Dunharrow and leave not a man, woman or child living when you are through! Let all the Rohirrim valley patrols be consumed in fire! Let not one tree or blade of grass be standing when you have finished!"
His commanders bow to him and then still bowing, back all the way from the table to the door, then turn and go out to carry out their tasks.
Ufang commands one of his slaves, "Bring me parchment, ink and quill! I must send messages!" and as an afterthought, he adds, "And bring me a bottle of the best wine from Nurn and a goblet!"
Before nightfall that day, barrels of oil are used to ignite the trees and grass, yellowing now from a week of little rain and no sun. Soon, the vegetation of the valley is in flames, and the glow can be seen for miles.
Battle for the Harrowdale Valley
Writing by Eowyn; concept idea, story guidelines and reviews by
Wraith
June 13
A deadly silence falls upon the northern
Harrowdale Valley, stilling the cheerful singing of birds, frogs
and insects. No woodland creature now dares make a sound this
dark morning, and the sound of the rushing river echoes painfully
in the ears of the Rohirrim out-riders patrolling both sides of
the river in the northern march. A fell wind blows from the north.
The horses are uneasy; they paw the ground, ever looking in that
direction. The riders are ready, their faces grim, hands upon
sword hilts, staring out into the darkness, every muscle tense,
bracing themselves for whatever might come next.
And then they come. The orcs. Creeping through the darkness, a
horde of evil spreads through the valley, coming from the north,
like in the old days when their masses poured out of Angband over
the plain of Anfauglith. They come now from Edoras though and
not from the Hells of Iron. Never before had they come in such
numbers. What was happening? Were they attacking? Panicked riders
break away from the out-riders, set spur to their horses and fly
upon the road, alerting the patrolling eoreds as they ride south.
The third eored, the northernmost guard, rides forward to aid
the out-riders. The stillness of the valley is broken as swords
clash, metal upon metal, and men and orc cry out in agony as their
flesh is riven by sword or pierced by arrow. The riders swing
their swords and black blood flies into the sky and gruesome heads
fall to the ground. Yet the orcs keep coming, on both sides of
the river. There are not enough men to stay their bloody course.
The Rohirrim fight fiercely but waves of enemies crash and flood
over them. The commander of the third eored calls a retreat, but
an arrow pierces his throat and his horn drops from his hand.
The retreat becomes a rout, and panicked men spur their horses
into reckless gallops as they flee.
Rally cries to battle begin to ring out through the valley on
both sides of the river. The messengers reach the second eored
in the middle part of the valley, and then the first in the southern
part of the valley. A great force of orcs is coming! They are
attacking! They are rushing in through the upper march, trying
to break through to the last leagues before Dunharrow!
Men on foot leap upon horses; riders are assembled in orderly
fashions. Horns rent the heavy air, and the riders prepare to
go to battle. The second and first eoreds advance forward, making
haste to come to the aid of their comrades. The horses' hooves
sound like thunder pounding upon the road, and the men cry out
with dreadful yells of war and battle. "Forth Eorlingas!"
they cry, shields to their sides, spears and swords ready.
The orcs have breached the northern march and hundreds of iron-shod
footsteps trample the dry, yellow grass as they advance into the
last leagues before Dunharrow. The Rohirrim upon the road charge
the advancing orcs, fell looks upon their faces, their spears
drawn. They break the line with an impact of spear and galloping
horse, and orcs scatter from the strawheads. The riders in the
trees along both sides of the river fight with swords, slaying
fleeing orcs that have the misfortune of running into their lines
by mistake. The routed men from the third eored fall in with the
other riders and join the fight once again.
However, the orcs quickly rally together and wild fighting ensues;
the riders desperately trying to hold their ground and drive the
black horde back, the orcs pressing the riders back towards Dunharrow
with a fierce fury. The two groups collide and become one seething
mass of fighting and bloodshed. Strong arms swing swords, scimitars
and halberds feverishly, meeting the metal of their enemies and
the flesh of man, horse and orc.
The fighting of the Rohirrim is intense and furious, but the orcs
come upon them like an evil torrent of black water. Men are pulled
off their horses with cruel hooks upon fell halberds. Men and
horses scream as they tumble downward, but cleaving strokes of
the halberd's cutting blade silences their voices forever. The
orcs rush upon the fallen, savagely hewing their bodies as they
lie struggling upon the ground.
The withering grass becomes covered with blood, the black and
red mingling in large splatters, in murky puddles upon the valley
floor. The orcs keep coming, pressing in on the Rohirrim, forcing
them to fall back southward. The riders do not give up ground
without a fight, and each span of the valley gained by the orcs
is dearly bought. But even the victory of a mere fathom spurs
the orcs on to a vicious passion, and they fall upon the Rohirrim
with even greater fury.
At last the horde overpowers the remaining members of the eoreds,
and they fall back to the last league before Dunharrow, preparing
themselves for a desperate stand against the orcs at the very
feet of the Stair of the Hold. But the orcs do not pursue as strongly,
and seem to break off in smaller groups. Fire breaks out on the
edges of the valley on both sides of the river, and the riders
realize what is happening: the orcs are dousing the ground with
oil and setting fire to dried grass and shrubs.
The Rohirrim on both sides of the river quickly regroup and charge
the orcs, seeking to slay as many as they can before the fire
becomes too intense and they must retreat completely. Once again
sword meets sword, and flesh is cut and ripped asunder. Horses
dance madly in circles at their masters' commands, their riders
deflecting blows with shields and striking back at the attackers
that hew at both man and beast. Trails of fire upon the ground
light the night with a fell amber glow, as riders and orcs careen
in and out of burning thickets of shrubs. Flames illuminate the
faces of orcs and men, making both look like evil demons from
the pits of Utumno, like the Valaruakar, the balrogs of old.
Fire spreads upward, withering and consuming the leaves of trees.
Soon whole sections of the forest are aflame, and riders narrowly
escape being crushed under falling, burning trees. Riders whose
garments have caught on fire throw themselves in the river in
desperation, and soon the waters are filled with men and horses
seeking sanctuary from the flames on both sides of the river.
Horses whose masters have either died or been thrown off run riderless
through the blazing forest, mad with terror. Soldiers are separated
from comrades by the fires, finding themselves suddenly among
enemies who fall on them with killing fury and lust for blood.
Both men and orcs become trapped in rings of fire, their comrades
unable to rescue them as the ever-growing walls of flames close
in about them.
The orcs fall back, but the riders cannot pursue, for now an overpowering
wall of fire separates them from the retreating horde. A wind
from the east fans the flames on both sides of the river, and
soon the southern half of the valley is aflame. The fire spreads
northward as the orcs flee back to Edoras, and the remaining riders
of the three eoreds retreat towards Dunharrow to avoid dying in
one massive pyre. The men on the west side of the river cross
the ford and converge with the other riders as they begin to ride
up the Stair of the Hold. The fires may whip against barren stone
cliff, but there is little vegetation growing upon its sheer sides
to fuel the fire. Civilians rush forward to the edges of the Firien-field,
horrified to see their once-proud men scurrying up the Stair in
defeat, the valley ablaze behind them. Darkness has fallen; yet
the valley glows with amber fury in the night.
CASUALTIES
at a 40% rate.... dead, wounded, missing
Mordor - force 800 strong - 320 dead - now 480
Rohirrim - force 390 strong - 156 dead - now 234
Both the first and second eoreds sustained heavy losses; third
eored almost decimated
First eored patrolled southern part of valley nearest Dunharrow
(first part of the 10 miles); second eored patrolled second part
of the 10 miles; third patrolled northern march (5 mile contested
zone)
The Battle of the Harrowdale Valley was a VICTORY for Mordor
JUNE 12 - JUNE 13 - (partial) SERIES OF
EVENTS
June 12 - 6:00 - 9:00 - night - Dunharrow - Funeral feast
June 12 - 10:00 - night - Eowyn and Pippin leave Dunharrow
June 12 - 11:00 - night - Siege of Helm's Deep begins
June 13 - 2:00 - night - Eowyn and Pippin escape Harrowdale Valley
and head west, then north, making haste and covering as much ground
as possible
June 13 - 2:00 - early morning - Reports go back to Ufang
June 13 - 5:00 - before dawn - Eowyn and Pippin stop to rest and
eat
June 13 - mid-morning - Eowyn and Pippin resume search for the
army of Rohan
June 13 - all day - battle for the Harrowdale Valley
June 13 - before nightfall - entire Harrowdale Valley in flames
June 13 - nightfall - Rohirrim eoreds wait out the fire in the
Firien-Field; orcs retreat to Edoras
"The Aftermath of Harrowdale"
By Eowyn
June 14
Dunharrow
Morning comes to Dunharrow, and most of
the fires in the valley have subsided, though all the land below
smokes and smoulders and is aglow with fiery embers. The healers'
pavilion is filled with wounded men who fought valiantly to keep
the valley below.
One hundred fifty-six men are counted as dead, for none could
survive the blaze, save by some strange miracle of fate. Among
them are counted two who disappeared the day before, and it is
with a heavy heart that the news is told to the people. Eowyn,
daughter of Eomund, sister to the King, and Peregrin Took, son
of Paladin, of the Shire, apparently disguised themselves as Riders
and joined the eoreds in the valley, and subsequently perished
in the battle.
All those in Dunharrow mourn and grieve for great are their sorrows,
and many are the tears that are shed for the men who have fallen
in battle at the hands of the merciless enemy and the beloved
Lady of Rohan who shall never be seen again within the circles
of the world.