Chapter 24: The Battle of Amon Rhûd — Part 2
Fire arrows filled the dawn sky.
Thirty shafts, tips wrapped in oil-soaked cloth, blazing against the grey light. They struck the fortress palisade in a ragged volley—some bouncing off stone, others burying themselves in timber that caught instantly.
"Second volley! LOOSE!"
Another wave of fire. The wooden sections of Ulfang's wall began to burn in earnest, flames climbing toward the watchtowers, smoke billowing across the battlements.
Inside, chaos erupted. Horns blared. Voices screamed orders in orc-tongue and common speech. Shapes moved frantically along the walls, some trying to fight the fire, others scrambling for weapons.
"Hammer team! NOW!"
Grimbeorn's group broke from cover, sprinting toward the weak section Gorlim had identified. The half-Beorning led the charge, his massive frame eating the distance like a predator closing on prey.
The wall section was exactly as promised—timber reinforcement over crumbling stone, the wood old and rotted from years of neglect. Grimbeorn's hammer struck it with a sound like thunder.
Crack.
Again.
CRACK.
The section buckled. Grimbeorn drew back for a third swing.
An arrow struck his shoulder.
He stumbled, roared, and brought the hammer down anyway.
The wall collapsed.
"BREACH! THROUGH THE BREACH!"
Coalition forces poured through the gap. I led them, sword drawn, adrenaline burning away exhaustion and fear. The first orc I faced went down before it could raise its weapon. The second managed a wild swing that I ducked under, my blade opening its belly.
The courtyard became a killing ground.
[AMON RHÛD — COURTYARD]
Hand-to-hand combat has no rhythm.
Not like the stories say, not like training suggests. It's chaos and noise and the copper taste of blood in your mouth, bodies pressing close, weapons fouling on each other, the animal desperation of creatures trying to survive.
I killed three enemies in the first minute.
An orc with a rusted axe—my sword took its arm at the elbow. A Hill-man with a spear—I stepped inside his thrust and drove my blade through his chest. Another orc, bigger than the others—a lucky strike caught its throat.
Then someone caught me.
The blade came from my left—a direction I wasn't watching. It sliced across my thigh, parting cloth and flesh, sending white-hot pain screaming up my leg.
I spun, parried the follow-up strike, and opened my attacker's face from jaw to forehead.
Keep moving. Don't stop.
Blood ran down my leg, soaking into my boot. The wound wasn't fatal—the blade had missed the artery—but it slowed me. Every step cost effort I couldn't spare.
Around me, the battle raged.
Halbarad's arrows flew with mechanical precision, each shot finding its target. The old Ranger had positioned himself on a pile of rubble near the breach, giving him clear lines of fire across the courtyard. Three arrows. Three kills. No wasted motion.
Ferny's Bree militia fought in a tight formation near the eastern wall, shields locked, spears bristling. They'd taken casualties—I could see bodies in their colors lying motionless—but the line held. These weren't professional soldiers, but they'd learned fast.
Grimbeorn was a force of nature.
Even with an arrow in his shoulder, he moved through the enemy like a storm. His hammer rose and fell, rose and fell, each strike crushing bone and ending lives. Orcs who saw him coming turned to run—and found no escape.
"PUSH FORWARD!" I raised my sword, rallying the fighters around me. "TO THE HALL!"
The main hall stood at the fortress's heart—a stone structure that had survived when the rest of Amon Rhûd crumbled. Ulfang would be inside. The warlord who'd united these forces, who'd threatened everything I'd built.
End him, and this ends.
Twenty fighters formed up behind me. We charged.
[AMON RHÛD — APPROACH TO MAIN HALL]
The resistance intensified as we pushed inward.
Ulfang's elite guard—better armed, better trained than the rabble we'd fought in the courtyard. They formed a shield wall at the hall's entrance, blocking our advance with professional discipline.
"Form up! Shields forward!"
Our own shield wall met theirs with a crash that shook the ground. Men strained against each other, pushing, stabbing, dying. The space between the lines became a meat grinder where the unlucky fell and the lucky survived.
I found myself in the front rank, shoulder to shoulder with fighters whose names I might never learn. My sword struck over the shield rim, seeking gaps in enemy armor. A blow glanced off my helmet, setting my ears ringing. Another opened a cut on my arm—shallow, ignorable.
"HOLD THE LINE! HOLD!"
We pushed. They pushed back. Neither side gave ground.
Then—horns from the western wall.
Gorlim's team had arrived.
The blocking force struck Ulfang's defenders from behind, turning their formation inside out. Suddenly the enemy was fighting on two fronts, their discipline crumbling as they tried to face threats from opposite directions.
"NOW! BREAK THEM!"
The shield wall shattered.
Enemies scattered, some fleeing deeper into the fortress, others throwing down weapons in surrender. A few fought to the death—the most loyal or the most desperate—but the outcome was decided.
The path to the hall stood open.
[AMON RHÛD — MAIN HALL]
Grimbeorn's hammer struck the hall doors three times.
The ancient wood, reinforced with iron bands, held for two blows. The third sent it crashing inward, revealing torchlight and shadows beyond.
I stepped through.
The hall was smaller than I'd expected—a single chamber with a raised platform at the far end, stone pillars supporting a ceiling lost in darkness. Tapestries hung on the walls, old and faded, remnants of the kingdom that had once ruled here.
Ulfang stood on the platform.
He was tall—taller than me, taller than Gorlim, nearly as tall as Grimbeorn. Dark armor covered his frame, ancient make that predated Arnor's fall. A sword rested in his hands, black-hilted, gleaming with oiled perfection.
His eyes were wrong.
That was what Aldred had meant, back in the medical tent after the night raid. Not human eyes. Something older looking out through them, something that had seen centuries pass and learned to hate everything that light touched.
"The lord of Amon Hen-dîr." His voice echoed in the chamber, resonant and cold. "I wondered when you'd come."
"It's over, Ulfang. Your forces are broken. Surrender, and you might live."
He laughed.
The sound was worse than his eyes—hollow, empty, the laugh of something that had forgotten what humor meant.
"Surrender? To a boy playing at lordship?" He descended from the platform, sword rising. "My blood ruled these hills when your ancestors were still learning to walk. I was old before Arnor fell. I will be old when your bones are dust."
Old before Arnor fell.
The words hit like ice.
This wasn't just a warlord. This was something else. Something that shouldn't exist—a mortal who'd lived beyond mortal years, corrupted by darkness or preserved by something worse.
"I don't care how old you are." I raised my sword, ignoring the pain in my thigh, the exhaustion in my muscles, the fear clawing at the edge of my mind. "You threatened my people. You die today."
Ulfang smiled.
"Then come, little lord. Show me what the Dúnedain have become."
He attacked.
The first exchange nearly killed me.
Ulfang was faster than any human should be—faster than Gorlim, faster than the orc captain from the night raid, faster than anything I'd faced. His blade came at me from angles that shouldn't have been possible, each strike forcing me back, testing defenses that barely held.
I parried. Dodged. Retreated.
Can't match his speed. Can't match his strength. Need another approach.
His sword caught my arm—the same arm that had been cut in the courtyard. Pain flared. Blood flowed.
"Weak." He pressed forward, relentless. "Your fathers would weep to see their line brought so low."
I stopped retreating.
Not because I'd found an opening. Not because I'd discovered some hidden reserve of skill. Just because backing up wasn't working, and dying on my feet seemed better than dying on my heels.
My counter-attack was ugly—a wild swing that any training master would have criticized. But it forced Ulfang to block instead of strike, bought me a moment to breathe.
He's stronger. Faster. But he's also arrogant.
The warlord hadn't expected resistance. He'd expected me to break, to crumble, to die like all the others who'd challenged him over the centuries.
I didn't break.
Another exchange. His blade nicked my shoulder. Mine drew blood across his forearm—the first wound I'd landed.
He looked at the cut with something like surprise.
"You have some skill."
"Enough."
Keep him talking. Look for the opening.
Behind me, I could hear Grimbeorn and the others fighting the last of Ulfang's guards. The battle wasn't over, but it was ending. One way or another.
Ulfang came at me again. Three strikes, each one meant to kill. I blocked the first two. The third I ducked, feeling the blade pass close enough to part my hair.
My counter-strike aimed for his throat.
He twisted away—impossibly fast—and my blade caught his cheek instead. A shallow cut, but it bled.
"Enough of this."
His next attack was different. Not just fast but furious, driven by wounded pride and ancient rage. I couldn't block it all. His blade got through my guard, opening a gash across my ribs that would have killed me if I hadn't turned at the last moment.
I fell.
Ulfang stood over me, sword raised for the killing blow.
"The north belongs to darkness, little lord. It always has. It always will."
The blow fell.
I rolled.
His blade struck stone where my head had been. Before he could recover, I was inside his guard—too close for sword work, too close for defense.
I drove my blade up through his chin.
Ulfang's eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but no words came. The ancient darkness behind his gaze flickered, faded, died.
The warlord fell.
[AMON RHÛD — AFTERMATH]
Silence settled over the hall.
I knelt beside Ulfang's body, breathing hard, blood dripping from wounds I'd stopped counting. The sword was still in my hand—red to the hilt, trembling with the adrenaline that was finally starting to fade.
It's over.
Footsteps behind me. Halbarad's voice.
"The fortress is ours. Enemy forces are surrendering or dead."
"Casualties?"
"Twelve dead. Twenty-three wounded." A pause. "We won."
I looked at Ulfang's face. In death, the wrongness had faded from his eyes. He looked almost human now—an old man, weathered and worn, finally at rest after centuries of corruption.
"Get me to the courtyard," I said. "I need to see our people."
Halbarad helped me stand. The thigh wound screamed protest, but I forced myself to walk.
Outside, dawn had fully broken. Sunlight spilled across the fortress courtyard, illuminating the aftermath of battle—bodies, blood, the terrible mathematics of violence.
But also survivors.
Coalition fighters gathering, tending wounded, securing prisoners. Grimbeorn with Thorwen's bandages wrapped around his shoulder, refusing to sit down. Ferny directing his Bree militia with calm efficiency despite the blood on his face.
Maeglin emerged from the eastern gate, a child still clinging to his hand.
We'd won.
The cost had been terrible. Twelve dead, twenty-three wounded, from a force of seventy-five. But the Trollshaw threat was ended. Ulfang was dead. The roads would be safer.
I looked at the sun rising over the mountains.
First the claiming. Then the battles. Now this.
The settlement at Amon Hen-dîr had survived its first year. Against orcs, against politics, against a warlord who'd lived longer than kingdoms.
Whatever came next, we'd face it.
Together.
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