THE SURPRISE ATTACK
Morning of September 3, 3020
Written by Angmar
Frodo heard Alwan behind him exclaim, "Damn! There is a great force of cavalry with infantry behind. There are many of them and they are galloping as though demons were chasing them!"
Dirar's voice was strained as he replied, "And we are fewer and the wains do burden us."
Then an order came quickly from Guntha, and the forward cavalry wheeled to the right and rode to face the pursuers. Frodo heard orders shouted. He looked over his shoulder and saw the line of pursuing horsemen behind them breaking apart and forming two groups. The smaller of the number moved towards the wains far behind in the line. He heard the voice of Guntha shouting, "Shakh, flee!" and that was all he could remember hearing as Alwan and Dirar moved their horses beside his pony.
"We must run for our lives, shakh!" Alwan shouted, and he and Dirar pressed their trotting horses to move into run and then into a gallop. The buckskin pony was no match for the horses and began to lag behind their fast-moving hooves.
Alwan and Dirar slowed their horses and allowed the pony to catch up with them. "Can that beast not go faster!" Alwan exclaimed to Frodo. He slowed his horse and waited until the pony went ahead of him. Taking his quirt, lashed the pony fiercely across its rump The pony jumped ahead with a start and bounded into a gallop. Behind them came the sounds of fierce battle as the two bodies of horsemen, pursuer and pursued, came together, the clash of sword meeting sword, steel upon steel, and screams as blades were driven home.
Guntha's horsemen were greatly outnumbered and many fell by the blade and the spear. The smaller band of the attackers fell upon the wains and Guntha's rear guard was no match for them. Soon all was pandemonium as many of Guntha's horsemen lashed their horses and fled away in panic. Frodo heard far behind him screams of women. Then his pony, its short legs pounding frantically, faltered as one foreleg struck a hole unseen in the rapid escape. The pony fell to its knees, sending Frodo plummeting into the air, landing hard on his face and stomach.
The pony struggled to its feet, whinnying piteously, one foreleg dangling, useless, as he stood on three legs. Alwan and Dirar's horses had raced far ahead, but they wheeled them back. Dirar came up behind Frodo and halted his horse. "Get to your feet, you little dog," he hissed. Then Dirar bent down over the side, angling precariously. His mighty arm grasped Frodo roughly by the neck of his tunic, hauling him up unceremoniously and plopping Frodo down in front of him on the saddle. They sped on again, the forest of Mirkwood on their right and far away the Anduin on their left.
The orcs, though they were stout for their kind, still were lessened by the sun. First forming a shieldwall, their strength was soon broken by the might of the enemy and they were forced to withdraw. Coming nigh unto the woods, they sought its sanctuary, and silently the forest absorbed them, their attackers satisfied simply that they were gone.
Behind them on the plain was a writhing mass of horse and rider locked in deadly combat. Upon seeing it was useless, Guntha's horsemen hacked their way as best they could and the survivors fled in all directions. Alwan and Dirar raced on far ahead of the tumult behind. A swift breeze blew from the west and the smell of smoke was upon the air. The unknown attackers had torched some of the wagons and wains.
Finduilas was caught when the wain in which she was riding was pushed over, and she was crushed beneath its weight, her skull smashed in bloody fragments into the ground. Her two sons, Anborn and Targon, were dragged screaming from their mother's still-writhing body when the door was forced opened. They were pulled from the interior by the rough hands of the attackers.
So perished Finduilas, the first of Frodo's slaves which were bought from the marketplace of Thagûrzgoi. Never again would she return to Lebennin near the River Anduin where she was born and lived all her life ere she was captured. Her sons were now orphans, fatherless for over two years and now motherless as well.
The wain of Haleth and Firiel was still intact, but the drivers were dead, both slain by the darts of the enemy's mounted archers. Death lay all around them as Haleth and her daughter and the two sons of Finduilas were bound and taken away. Frodo, mounted in front of Dirar, did not look back to see what had happened, for his eyes could not have borne it if he had dared to look.
All the enclosed wains were plundered of everything of value and then set to the torch. The horses drawing the six wagons with Frodo's great store gold were led away to the east by the attackers.
Those of Guntha's troops who were still alive and who had stayed to fight were bested, force to surrender. Then they were rounded up, bound, herded like cattle, and marched in front of the column. A command was given from by the leader of the marauders and fifty horsemen streaked away from the others and went after Frodo, screaming curses in some tongue unknown to Frodo. The horsemen narrowed the distance between Frodo and his protectors when an arrow fired by a mounted archer struck Alwan from behind, piercing through armor and flesh, the blood spewing out, and Alwan was dead before he hit the ground.
With its extra burden, Dirar's horse could not keep ahead of the pursuers, and soon they were upon them, surrounding them, engulfing them. Dirar drew his sword and Frodo ducked low over the pommel as Dirar struck at his attackers. A swift stroke from an enemy sent Dirar's head hurling from his shoulders. Frodo's cloak was drenched by the spray of blood as the headless body sagged and lurched to the ground. The little lantern in Frodo's hand crashed to the earth, spilling the sweet-smelling oil onto the dirt.
A lean, tawny skinned hand reached out and grasped the bridle of Dirar's runaway horse, slowly bringing it to a halt. Frodo sat, trembling in the saddle, looking into the glittering eyes beneath the mask and headdress of his captor.
"At last, shakh, we meet once again," came a familiar voice, slightly muffled by the cloth. "Your baggage wagons should yield a great store of wine, and you know how I have always found the wine of your cellars to be of the best quality."
Frodo portrayed by Hobbitness
Guntha portrayed by Madurz
Narrator and Vartang portrayed by Angmar
Frodo: Disoriented in all the
chaos, Frodo knows not which way to look or what to do. He expects
to die at any moment, and feels no reaction to this thought, numb
from the shock. "What has happened to the women and children
in the wains?" is the chief worry that occupies his mind.
"Surely they cannot have perished! Surely they have survived
somehow!"
Frodo: Then his captors, his old tormentors who now
protect him from more assailants, are killed, and he cannot help
feeling relief. But into whose hands has he now fallen?
Frodo: He recognizes the loathed voice of Vartang,
and his stomach knots up with nausea. Vartang speaks with his
usual mocking calmness in a sea of death and misery, uncaring,
enjoying it all. "The cursed demon is back," Frodo thinks,
his heart sinking. "But I know it is useless to fight with
this man."
Frodo: Glaring, churning with resentment, he obeys
Vartang's orders, and tries to detach himself from this horrid
scene around him. "This time," he thinks, "I will
not give in to their taunts. I will not give them a cringing
victim to torment. I will be as impassive as stone. If my loved
ones have been killed, I shall not desire to live, anyway. I
shall not desire to fight, or even to speak to these cruel men."
Vartang: Vartang pulled the mask down with his other
hand, and Frodo's eyes met the sight of dark eyes and gleaming
white teeth, caught in the grin of a wolf. "My men and I
are looking forward to a pleasant afternoon with you, shakh. Throw
down your sword and sheath and save yourself the disgrace of having
my men paw over you to take it from you."
Vartang: With all his captors' eyes upon him, Frodo unfastened
his sword belt and let Sting and its scabbard drop slowly to the
ground. "You will not need a sword anymore, shakh. Now, Great
One, you will go with us," the cutting voice said and he
turned his mount southward, pulling Frodo's horse along by the
bridle. "Try to stay in the saddle and hold onto the pommel,
shakh. We would not want you falling off and getting hurt!"
Vartang howled in laughter, the sun catching the glint of his
perfect white teeth.
Vartang: Frodo was surrounded by horsemen, all wearing
billowing long cloaks, all veiled, turbaned and masked, their
steeds resplendent, sleek, fine mounts with delicate heads tapering
to a graceful muzzle. Grays there were and bays and sorrels,
mares and geldings mostly but here and there a few stallions.
All were of prancing hooves and trim in the leg, long flowing
tails and manes which were brushed to a sheen - horses of the
South now far to the north. Weary prisoners, their hands tied
behind their backs, their necks linked together by noosed ropes,
plodded ahead of them.
Vartang: Frodo thought he could see Rian and Haleth,
hair disheveled, gowns torn, and behind them, a sobbing Firiel,
Anborn and Targon. "Is that Guntha and Aradol?" Frodo
thought as he looked ahead and straining his eyes, he saw two
men with blood-blooming stains upon their tunics, stripped of
their cloaks. No orcs had been captured; all of Guntha's two orcish
companies had fled, panicked, into the forest of Mirkwood, and
who knew then where Frodo's hated protectors had fled.
Guntha: A fury within Guntha raged, for his horsemen
were slain, his life was in danger, and his mission was interrupted
with this most unexpected attack. Fresh splattered blood of his
men still painted his skin. He bared his teeth in complete frustration
and as he felt the restrictions of the binds on his wrists he
released a maddened guttural growl. His eyes burned and pierced
the enemies as if wanting to impale them to a death with his very
stare.
Frodo: Frodo was thankful for the safety of his friends,
but he grieved at their distress. That had always been the worst
part of the long ordeal of his captivity-- the suffering of the
innocent, who should have had nothing to do with him, his failed
mission, or Mordor's vengeance. Then he noticed that one was missing
from the group. There were only three women, and the two boys.
Where was Finduilas? "No! Oh, Elbereth! No! They have
killed her!" Panic set in, and for a moment he felt as though
he were about to be sick. But then he heard Vartang's laugh, full
of malice. "That is what he wants, to see me suffer. That
is why they do these terrible deeds, why so many innocent people
have died. I will not give them what they seek." With these
words he steeled himself, making his face stern and impassive.
Vartang: Off ahead on the horizon, Frodo could see wains.
He recognized their coverings as being those which had sheltered
his vast horde of gold and jewels. Guntha's numbers lay behind
them, slaughtered on the plain to lie unburied. The line of prisoners
was long and Frodo surmised, "They must be taking us all
as slaves to the East or South!"
Vartang: On they marched throughout the morning, and
then to early afternoon without a halt for food, water or rest.
As the afternoon wore on to evening, they came to a small stream
near the edge of Mirkwood and Vartang ordered a halt. "Make
camp here at the base of the forest. We shall have need of wood."
He turned to Frodo and leered. "We are in no hurry to leave
now that we have met once again.
Frodo: "After so much time as a pretended master,
I will now be a slave," Frodo thought. An unexpected, all-consuming
desire for the Ring surged within him. Such power could deliver
him and his friends from this fate. He managed to pull himself
from the wave of longing. "Perhaps this fate is fit punishment
for my aspirations to that forbidden...burden," he thought.
Frodo: He looked around at Vartang's men, at the remnants
of Guntha's regiment, and wondered if Guntha had been the victim
of a treacherous ruse, like Algund the Dunedain traitor. Perhaps
Guntha had been a pawn in yet another carefully staged plan to
bring Frodo pain. This attack, this loss of Finduilas and this
sight of his remaining friends' suffering, had been very successful
if that was the case. But Frodo decided again not to give them
the reaction they wanted.
Frodo: He nodded to Vartang, then looked towards the
line of prisoners, hoping he would get an opportunity to say a
kind word to the women and the newly orphaned boys.
Guntha: A man of duty, protocol and a devout loyalty
to Mordor and his Master. A man strong in his beliefs and grounded
in his ways, generally mild mannered and calm. But such a raid
was enough to completely bring out the dormant brute that laid
within until anger provoked its release. His eyes which blazed
through narrow slits as they looked around at the goings on about
him, burned hottest as they fell on Vartang. Dried blood from
his men stuck in his beard and moustache and made it stiff and
he turned his lips up into a sneer and spoke in a hoarse and low
tone that seemed different than before. "Vartang." The
word came out as a statement and low as he stared him down. "Vartang!"
This time, the word escaped grated and demanding.
Vartang: "Gentlemen," Vartang said, "make
the shakh and Lord Guntha comfortable." Strong hands threw
Frodo to the ground. Guntha was pulled from the line of captives
and thrown down beside him. Two men guarded them while several
others, one carrying an axe, went into the woods. They soon returned
with two long lengths of wood, hewn from saplings which they had
just cut. Frodo and Guntha were held as each staff was thrust
under their knees, and then the men pulled the arms of the two
under the length of wood, tying their hands in front of their
knees.
Frodo: It had been some time since Frodo was subjected
to such treatment, but he remained accustomed to it. The pain
of his bruises quickly faded, and he remained motionless and wordless
in his bonds, offering no comment on the scene playing out before
him. The stone-faced mask broke only to offer a look of condolence
to his sorrowing friends.
Vartang: "Guntha," Vartang smirked, "you
made the mistake of choosing the wrong side this time. You should
have joined with us long ago in throwing off the shackles of the
Evil One! But, no, the people of Rhûn were ever fools!"
Guntha: He despised that he must look up to face Vartang.
It elevated his level of frustration and he rolled around the
blood from his gums and mixed it with his saliva and he arched
his neck back a bit and hurled it up into Vartang's face. "It
is you who are the fool, traitor! Your fate is cursed now!"
He spits again at his feet.
Vartang: "Damn you!" Vartang hissed and swiftly
his foot lashed out, catching Guntha in the mouth. Then Vartang
took a handkerchief from the sleeve of his tunic and wiped off
his face. He moved away from Guntha. "I should have you lashed,
dog filth, but I have something much more pleasant!"
Guntha: Guntha grunted as he felt the split skin on
the side of his face spill trickles of blood down his jaw and
neck and felt the grinding of fragments of his teeth inside his
mouth. His chest heaved and his mouth was full of blood. He spit
it to the ground along with his broken bits of teeth and spoke
low and menacing as if almost to himself. "You will suffer,
coward. Yes, traitor, you will suffer."
Vartang: At Vartang's command, one of the men fetched
him a cup of wine. Looking down at Frodo and holding a cup in
his left hand, Vartang leered at him, his handsome tawny face
contorted in hate. "This wine has proven to be ever as good
as it always was from your cellar." Closing his eyes, he
smelled the aroma from the cup and then bending down, he held
the cup before Frodo's lips and laughed at him. "Thirsty,
shakh? Would you enjoy a draught?" And with those words,
he hurled the contents of the wine in Frodo's face.
Vartang: As the sun faded below the lip of the western
horizon, Vartang's men built a raging bonfire. Dragging fallen
trees from the forest, they used them as makeshift benches while
they ate their trail rations and drank Frodo's wine from cups.
"Hungry, shakh?" Vartang asked him, holding out some
dried fruit beneath his nose. He tossed the dried fruit to another
man who caught it in his hand and laughed.
Vartang: "Gentlemen," Vartang said as he stood
at a comfortable distance from the bonfire, "Our guest is
chilled. Put the shakh closer to the fire and let him warm his
feet." Two men grabbed Frodo under the armpits and, shielding
their faces against the heat with one hand, dragged him closer
to the fire.
Vartang: "Throw in more wood," Vartang commanded.
"We do not want such a distinguished guest to catch cold!"
The sweat beaded upon Frodo's forehead and ran down his face.
The hair on his feet became warmer. "He is not close enough,"
Vartang said, sneering. "Take him closer to the fire!"
Vartang: Two men pushed Frodo closer to the fire, the
heat so fierce that their cloaks grew warm. "That is close
enough," Vartang hissed. Frodo's foot hair began to scorch
and the sickening aroma of burning hair filled his nostrils, but
he could not move.
Frodo: As soon as he was carried to the fire, Frodo
realized Vartang's intentions. His heart raced in fear, but he
thought, "At least this will not harm the others, and it
will only be bodily pain. I know how to endure that." He
shut his eyes tight and clenched his fists. When the fire came,
he made little protest, and again tried to detach himself from
his situation.
Vartang: "What a pity," Vartang said. "The
shakh has become too warm! Drag him back before his breeches catch
flame!"
Vartang: When Frodo was at last pulled from the reaches
of the fire, Vartang took a water flask and, opening it, poured
the contents over Frodo's charring hair. The foot hair sizzled,
the smell sickening, and then the fire went out. "I fear
the shakh has a nasty burn on his feet!" Vartang exclaimed.
"But we do not have time to tend to his injuries. We have
entertainment planned and the shakh is quite in haste to see that!"
Frodo: Frodo did not know what sort of entertainment
his dread enemy was planning, but he felt a grim sense of foreboding
chill his heart and fill him with horror.