📜 STORY 6 - When the Gates of Angmar Shook: The Tale of Ram Dúath (part1)

 

The return to Bree was supposed to be a triumph. The heavy leather sack of one hundred gold pieces clanked with a beautiful, metallic ring against Echelvanbloth’s belt as he marched through the threshold of the Prancing Pony. Behind him, Echelwallbrick skipped with joyful energy, her massive steel gauntlets resting heavily over her pack, while Echelzannor leaned on his runic staff, still brushing residual soot from his singed robes. They expected a roaring welcome, a sprawling table of roast fowls, and perhaps a few rounds of un-watered ale funded by the Dúnedain’s gratitude.

Instead, they found a war council.

At the far corner of the crowded tavern, tucked away from the prying eyes of local pipe-weed merchants, sat Captain Echelandir. The leader of the vanguard was clad in his finest heavy chainmail, his longsword propped against the wooden bench. Next to him sat Echelannia, the dark-skinned Elf Loremaster from Harad, her sharp eyes scanning ancient, unrolled maps of the northern wastes. Across from them sat a tall, imposing figure entirely draped in a weathered grey and green cloak, his face completely masked by a deep hood—a Ranger of the North, a Dúnadan.

"Look at this, Captain!" Echelvanbloth bellowed, slapping the heavy gold pouch onto the scarred oak table. "The ruins of Annúminas are cleared of tomb-dwellers, and the Northmen pay their debts! Time to pour the ale!"

Captain Echelandir smiled barely. The he looked up, his face set in a grim, stoic line that instantly froze the pirate's enthusiasm.

"Split the gold in your purse between your comrades, Mariner," Echelandir said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding whisper. "Our days of hunting small game and chasing local rumors are over. The Fellowship of Nine has departed from Imladris. The Bearer of the Burden moves south toward the shadow, and because of that, the Eye in the North has widened. The Shadow in Angmar is stirring, mobilizing massive transports of iron, black powder, and wicked steel to flood Eriador and crush any hope of a rearguard. We have been hired by the Chieftains of the Dúnedain to ensure the Fellowship’s back remains unbroken."

Echelzannor let out a long, wheezing sigh, massaging his temples. "I have just narrowly escaped being buried alive by an alpha Kergrim, and now you tell me we are marching straight into the gates of the Witch-king's old playground? Truly, my retirement is going swimmingly."

"Echelarea has already been dispatched," Echelannia added, her voice smooth and precise as she tapped a specific point on the map. "Our heavily armored burglar has slipped north into the jagged canyons of Ram Dúath—the iron gate that leads directly into Angmar. She is scouting the supply lines as we speak. You know her, but a lone Elf cannot stop an army. We march in force, and we march prepared."

The gravity of the global war settled heavily over the table. Echelvanbloth, despite his crude nature, understood the stakes. If Angmar’s iron supply broke through the northern borders, the Greenway would swarm with Orcs, Bree would burn, and the hidden paths the Fellowship trod would be swarmed by the Enemy. The small skirmishes were finished; Echelandir's Company was now the hidden shield of the West.

The next three days transformed the quiet, rustic town of Bree into a frantic hub of military preparation. Echelandir’s Company possessed vast financial resources, accumulated from years of high-risk vanguard contracts, and the Captain spared no expense. This was not a stealth mission; it was a heavy logistical operation. They were to transport a massive supply of food, hardened steel weapons, and reinforced armor to the hidden Dúnedain rangers of Esteldín, while simultaneously equipping themselves for a siege at the gates of Ram Dúath.

The preparations stretched across every major corner of Bree known to travelers. Down at the Beggar’s Alley and the Market Square, the coin flowed like water. Seven massive, heavy-duty wooden supply wagons were commissioned from the local trade quarter. Echelwardir, the Warden, took charge of the logistics. Thoroughly sobered by the Captain's grim orders, the fearsome warden stood in the middle of the muddy street, shouting orders at cowering local carpenters and stable-hands. He personally inspected every single axle, spoke to the master of horses to secure twenty-eight of the sturdiest draft beasts in Bree-land, and packed the first three wagons with barrels of salt pork, dense travel-biscuits from the Combe storehouses, and crates of sweet Shire apples.

"If a single wheel snaps on the road to Trestlebridge because you used cheap pine, I will personally throw you into the Midgewater Marshes and then kill! Or other way around!" Echelwardir threatened a trembling wagon-builder, slamming his spear butt onto the cobblestones.

Over at the Blacksmith’s Quarter near the South Gate, the air was thick with the scent of burning coal and the rhythmic, deafening ring of hammers against anvils. Echelwanaba, the legendary Champion from the distant lands of Harad, stood amidst the sparks like a goddess of war. Her dark skin glistened with sweat as she personally tested the temper of dozens of greatswords and iron-tipped pikes meant for the Dúnedain, mercenaries and Free People. She discarded any blade that showed the slightest flaw, demanding the local smiths rework the steel.

Beside her, Echelorin, the dwarf Hunter, sat atop an anvil, meticulously oiling the complex gears of his prized automatic crossbow. It was a marvel of dwarven engineering, capable of firing a rapid succession of steel bolts with the pull of a single lever. He ignored the humans around him, entirely focused on filing down the edges of hundreds of heavy armor-piercing bolts, stacking them neatly into iron-bound ammunition crates that were loaded into the fourth and fifth wagons.

"Humans make soft iron," Echelorin grumbled through his thick, braided beard, spitting into the forge fire. "But with enough dwarven bolts, even a Bree-smith's arrow can pierce a warg's skull. Pack them tight, lads! We'll be painting the northern snows red before the week is out."

Meanwhile, up at the Skirmish Camp situated just outside the northeast stone walls of Bree, Captain Echelandir and Echelannia were recruiting muscle. The camp was a bustling hive of seasoned mercenaries, hardened soldiers of fortune, and veterans of local border wars. Echelandir, utilizing his commanding presence as a Captain, stood before a line of rugged sell-swords.

"We do not offer an easy march," Echelandir announced, his voice carrying over the din of practicing warriors. "We are heading to the throat of Ram Dúath. The pay is gold from the vaults of Arnor, but the price is blood. I need men who can hold a shield wall when the sky turns black."

With the help of Echelannia’s keen, discerning judgment, they hired ten heavily armored mercenary guards, four longbowmen from the High-king's old bloodlines, and a dedicated battlefield herbalist. They also hired seven local wagon-drivers, men who knew how to handle heavy teams of horses through rugged mountain passes.

The final two wagons were loaded under the watchful, terrifying gaze of Echelruuke, the towering Beorning skin-changer, and Echelveandalthael, the unbreakable Guardian of the Company. Echelruuke, currently in her massive human form, was hoisting full barrels of iron spikes and heavy timber logs onto the wagon beds with her bare hands, a task that usually required three grown men and a crane. Her low, rumbling voice kept the hired mercenaries moving at double-speed, none of them wanting to anger a woman who could transform into a twelve-foot mountain bear at a moment's notice. Echelveandalthael stood beside her like an immovable wall of polished steel, adjusting his massive tower shield and organizing crates of heavy iron shields meant to fortify their campsite against orcish archers.

By the dawn of the fourth day, the caravan was fully assembled outside the West Gate of Bree. It was a formidable sight: seven massive supply wagons, twenty-eight powerful draft horses, a dozen battle-hardened mercenaries, and the remaining heroes of Echelandir’s Company resting in a state of absolute combat readiness. Echelvanbloth, Echelzannor, Echelinda and the little Echelwallbrick remained at the Prancing Pony, resting their aching muscles but keeping their weapons packed, acting as the reserve vanguard should the main caravan encounter disaster along the Greenway.

The morning mist hung low over the hills of Bree-land as the grand caravan finally began to move. The iron-rimmed wheels of the seven wagons groaned loudly under the immense weight of the steel weapons, heavy armor, and winter provisions.

Captain Echelandir rode at the very front of the line, his Dragon shining cloak billowing behind him, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. Beside him rode Echelannia, her eagle - summoned friend, circling high above the Greenway, acting as her eyes in the sky to spot any early signs of a brigand ambush.

Behind them, the line of wagons stretched down the road, flanked on either side by the heavy infantry they had hired from the Skirmish Camp. Echelwardir trotted alongside the middle wagons, his keen eyes scanning the treeline, his javelin and spear held loosely but ready for a sudden throw. Echelwanaba rode near the rear, her twin longswords strapped to her sides, her posture relaxed but radiating the lethal grace of a hunting cat. Echelorin sat atop the ammunition wagon, his automatic crossbow resting across his lap, his fingers occasionally tapping the mechanical trigger mechanism with impatient anticipation.

Bringing up the rear was Echelveandalthael, his massive tower shield slung across his horse’s flank, looking back one last time at the receding stone walls of Bree. Beside him walked Echelruuke, preferring her own two feet to a mount, her massive shoulders easily matching the height of the horses, her eyes fixed firmly on the dark, rugged horizon to the north.

The destination was clear, and the stakes were higher than they had ever been. Far ahead of them, hidden in the jagged, shadow-drenched stone canyons of Ram Dúath, Echelarea was waiting in the darkness, tracking the enemy’s iron. The caravan picked up speed, the heavy thud of hooves and the crunch of gravel echoing through the quiet morning air as Echelandir’s Company marched forth to close the Gates of Angmar and shield the Fellowship from the unseen terror of the North.

The heavy wooden wheels of the seven wagons crunched relentlessly against the cracked, weed-choked stone of the old northern road. As the caravan pressed beyond the borders of Bree-land, the rolling green fields gave way to the bleak, desolate expanses of the North Downs. The air grew perceptibly colder, carrying a sharp, biting wind from the frozen wastes of the north.

By the third afternoon of their march, the jagged, broken silhouettes of the fields of Fornost loomed against the grey horizon. The Deadman's Dike stretched out like a colossal, fractured spine across the landscape—the tragic remnants of the grand city of Kings, now nothing more than a haunted wasteland of shattered stone towers and weeping willow trees.

Captain Echelandir pulled firmly on his horse’s reins, halting at the crest of a low ridge that overlooked the ruined city. His cloak whipped violently in the northern wind as his blue eyes scanned the dark, crumbling battlements in the distance.

"Fornost Erain," Echelandir said softly, his deep voice carrying a somber weight that made the surrounding mercenary guards quiet their horses. "The Northern Fortress of the Kings of Arnor. It was here, over a thousand years ago, that the final king of Arthedain fell to the dark sorcery of the Witch-king of Angmar. It is a cursed, bleeding wound upon the land. Do not let the silence fool you, men. The ruins are infested with vengeful spirits, wailing wights, and oathbreakers who find no rest in the dirt. If a man strays too far into those shadowed dikes after sunset, his soul is torn from his ribs before he can draw his blade. We keep our eyes straight and we do not linger."

As if responding to the Captain's grim warning, a harsh, unnatural croak echoed from the grey clouds directly above the caravan. Echelannia, the dark-skinned Elf Loremaster, snapped her head upward, her sharp eyes instantly narrowing as she pointed a slender, armored finger toward a large, pitch-black bird circling low over the supply wagons.

"Crebain!" Echelannia hissed, her eagle letting out an aggressive, warning screech. "Those are no mere crows of the wilderness. They are the eyes of Angmar, the feathered spies of the Dark Lord. If that bird flies back north, the entire garrison at Ram Dúath will know our exact numbers, our cargo, and our speed!"

Before the word spies had even finished echoing across the ridge, a sharp, mechanical CLICK-CLACK reverberated from the fifth wagon.

Echelorin, the young dwarf Hunter, didn't even bother to stand up from his ammunition crate. With the lightning-fast reflexes of a seasoned mountain sniper, he hoisted his prized automatic crossbow to his shoulder, aligned the iron sights with the circling bird, and squeezed the heavy mechanical lever.

THWIP-THWIP-THWIP!

A rapid succession of three heavy, steel-tipped dwarven bolts tore through the winter air. The first bolt clipped the black bird's wing, the second pierced its dark breast, and the third tore completely through its skull in a small spray of dark feathers. The dead spy dropped from the sky like a stone, splashing heavily into a muddy puddle at the side of the Greenway.

Echelorin casually spat into the dirt, pulling a lever to reset the automatic spring mechanism of his weapon. "A Bree-land crow makes for poor target practice," the dwarf grumbled through his thick beard. "But a dead spy tells no tales to Orcs. Keep those wagons moving, you lazy land-lubbers! My crossbow is still hungry."

That evening, the caravan rolled into the rugged canyons of Annúndir, a broken territory of jagged rocks and hidden hollows nestled deep within the North Downs. It was a perilous, claustrophobic landscape, an ideal territory for an ambush. Realizing the danger, Echelandir ordered the wagons to be drawn into a tight, defensive circle beneath a towering stone bluff, utilizing Echelveandalthael’s massive iron shields to reinforce the gaps between the heavy wooden wheels.

As the campfires were lit, casting long, jumping shadows against the canyon walls, the scouts detected movement in the darkness. Weapons were drawn and mercenaries stepped into the shield wall, but the tension quickly dissipated as five tall, cloaked figures emerged silently from the gloom. They wore the weathered green and grey of the Dúnedain—the Rangers of Esteldín.

The lead Ranger stepped into the firelight, lowering his hood to reveal a face hardened by constant warfare. "Greetings, Captain Echelandir," the Dúnadan said, bowing his head in respect. "Word of your caravan reached the hidden camp of Esteldín. We have come to warn you. The iron transports from Angmar have caused a massive surge of Orc activity throughout these canyons. The enemy has sent out predatory hunting packs to secure the roads. We have been ordered by our leader to reinforce your vanguard and guide your seven supply wagons safely through the hidden passes to the throat of Ram Dúath."

Echelandir warmly welcomed the Northmen, offering them hot rations of salt pork and dried fruit from the wagons. Five of the elite Rangers chose to remain with the caravan, taking up defensive watch positions along the high ridges overlooking the camp.

As the midnight hours approached, the heavy camp grew quiet, save for the crackle of the dying embers. Near the central fire, Echelwardir, the Warden, sat cross-legged, meticulously sharpening the broad tip of his throwing javelin with a whetstone. Across from him sat Echelwanaba, the human Champion from Harad, her dark skin reflecting the amber glow of the flames as she polished the elegant longswords.

"You handle that northern steel well for someone born beneath the burning sun of the South, Champion," Echelwardir murmured, his voice low so as not to wake the sleeping mercenary drivers.

Echelwanaba paused, looking down at the heavy blade in her lap. A faint, nostalgic smile touched her lips. "Steel is steel, Warden. Whether it is forged in the scorching sands of Harad or the freezing vaults of the North, it serves the same purpose. It protects those who cannot carry it." She looked up, her eyes locking onto his. "My people have known the heavy hand of the Shadow for generations. We were forced to bow, to march as puppets for an Eye we did not own. When Captain Echelandir found me, I was nothing but a blade, looking for a meaningful death. In this Company, I found a reason to live. We are the shield in the dark."

Echelwardir nodded slowly, the rhythmic scrape-scrape of his whetstone resuming. "Aye. I was a brigand once, a rogue who cared for nothing but the weight of silver in my purse. But when you see an Orc pack butcher a farmstead in the Lone-lands, something breaks inside you. You realize that gold means nothing if the land is reduced to ash. We are a collection of broken pieces, Wanaba. But when the Captain binds us together, we form an unbreakable wall. And I want to protect those weak, so they can pay me not be food for orcs" He smiled like real bandit.

Suddenly, the peaceful quiet of the canyon was shattered by a terrifying, primordial sound.

From the darkness at the edge of the camp, Echelruuke, the towering Beorning skin-changer, stood tall. Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flaring as she caught a foul, unmistakable stench carried on the wind. She did not call out with a human voice; instead, she opened his massive chest and unleashed a colossal, blood-chilling roar that echoed like thunder through the stone canyons.

"ORCS!" Echelruuke bellowed, her human form already beginning to ripple and expand with ancient, skin-changing magic. "THEY ARE IN THE SHADOWS! TO THE SHIELD WALL!"

The ambush was massive, but Echelandir’s Company was not a helpless target; they were a lethal, waiting trap. From the dark ridges above the camp, over a hundred foul, snarling Orcs of the Angmarim legions poured down into the canyon like a black tide, their jagged scimitars catching the moonlight.

"Hold the line!" Captain Echelandir roared, his voice carrying an inspiring, magical resonance, a rallying cry, that instantly banished all fear from the hearts of the defenders. He drew his heavy longsword, its polished steel gleaming in the firelight. There was seen a light beam rising like real Blade Elendil! "For the West! Drive them into the dirt!"

The clash was instantaneous and cataclysmic. A dense horde of Orcs slammed into the front barrier, but they were met by Echelveandalthael. The unbreakable Guardian stood like a mountain of iron, his colossal tower shield locked into the earth between two supply wagons. Three Orcs slammed into his shield simultaneously; Echelveandalthael didn't even yield an inch. With a roar of exertion, he heaved the heavy iron shield forward, smashing the bones of the attackers, while his heavy longsword came down in a crushing arc that cut an Orc chieftain in two.

Beside him, the ten hired mercenaries from the Bree Skirmish Camp proved their worth. They formed a tight, disciplined wall of pikes, thrusting their steel spears through the gaps between the wagons, skewering the charging Orcs like wild boars. The four longbowmen unleashed a relentless storm of iron-tipped arrows, dropping the enemy vanguard before they could even reach the wooden wheels.

On the flanks, the battle became a spectacular festival of slaughter. Echelruuke had fully transformed into her monstrous, twelve-foot grizzly bear form. The towering juggernaut threw herself directly into the densest pack of attackers. With a single, savage sweep of her massive, clawed paw, she sent four Orcs flying across the canyon, their chests caved in by the sheer brute force. She bit through the neck of a warg, tossing the carcass aside while her terrifying roar paralyzed the surrounding goblins with pure fear.

Echelwanaba fought like a dervish of death. Unleashing the full fury of a Champion, she spun through the enemy lines, her twin longswords carving a crimson path through the darkness. Heads flew from shoulders, and limbs were cleaved clean away as she moved with a hypnotic, lethal grace. Beside her, Echelwardir utilized his Warden gambits; he thrust his long spear with blinding speed, pinning an Orc to the stone wall, before executing a sweeping kick that sent another crashing into the campfire, its armor instantly igniting. He charged with shield like ox, trampling in his heavy armor and cruel boots with spikes the monsters.

From the top of the ammunition wagon, Echelorin provided a devastating rearguard. His automatic crossbow worked non-stop, the mechanical thwip-thwip-thwip acting as a grim metronome for the massacre. He targeted the Orc archers hidden on the high ledges, his armor-piercing bolts tearing through their leather breastplates and dropping them into the gorge below.

The five Dúnedain Rangers fought with legendary precision. Moving like ghosts through the shadows of the camp, their longswords flashed in perfect unison, executing the enemy stragglers with cold, calculated efficiency. Echelannia, the Loremaster, stood at the center of the camp, her staff pulsing with a bright, protective light. She directed her tactical raven to claw out the eyes of the enemy spellcasters, while simultaneously tossing fireballs that illuminated the darkness, ensuring the defenders never lost sight of their targets and exploding on impact burning targeted orcs.

The battle raged for less than an hour, but the sheer, organized ferocity of Echelandir’s Company completely broke the enemy's morale. Seeing their chieftains butchered and their vanguard reduced to mince, the surviving Orcs turned and fled back into the dark canyons, screaming in terror.

When the sun finally began to peek over the eastern ridges of the North Downs, the true extent of the victory was revealed. The defenders had suffered only minor cuts and bruises, but the canyon floor was completely carpeted in black blood and shattered armor. Echelwardir walked through the debris, carefully counting the fallen enemies na dot be sure stabbing everything lying around in the head saying “Hello are you fine sir? No?”

"Ninety-four," the Warden announced, wiping his bloody spear tip on an Orc cloak. "Ninety-four foul carcasses rotting in the sun."

"Do not leave them for the scavengers," Captain Echelandir commanded, his face stern. "Pile them high and burn them. We leave no foulness behind to poison these lands."

The mercenaries hauled the heavy bodies into a massive pile, setting them ablaze with the remaining oil. A thick, foul column of black smoke rose into the morning sky as the seven supply wagons rolled out of the canyon, leaving the smoldering ash of the enemy behind. Ram Dúath was now close.

The caravan pressed hard to the northeast, passing the hidden valley of Esteldín. High up on the rocky ridges, ranks of Dúnedain warriors and brave volunteers stood in silent formation, preparing their weapons for the coming global war. They cheered as they saw Echelandir’s seven heavy wagons passing below, knowing that the desperately needed steel, bolts, and provisions had finally arrived to fortify the northern lines.

By the following afternoon, the towering, jagged slate cliffs of Ram Dúath opened before them. It was a terrifying, claustrophobic pass, the literal iron throat that connected the green lands of Eriador to the corrupted wastes of Angmar.

Before launching their offensive against the enemy's supply lines, Captain Echelandir ordered the caravan to halt and establish a secure base of operations near the hidden settlement of Lehmä-koti.

Nestled within a secluded, rocky hollow alongside the ancient road that ran between Aughaire and Nan Amlug East, the village of Lehmä-koti was a strange, primitive refuge. It was inhabited entirely by the Earth-kin of the Suuri-lehmä tribe—the Jorthkyn. These giant, powerful humanoids were a simple, nomadic people, possessing massive, muscular frames, weather-beaten skin, and a deep reverence for the great tusked aurochs of the northern hills. They were a peaceful race, but the creeping terror of the Witch-king’s old realm had driven them from their ancestral hunting grounds, forcing them to find shelter in this hidden valley.

As the heavy wagons rolled into the primitive settlement, the massive Earth-kin elders stepped forward to greet the Company. They looked at the heavy crates of steel pikes and the rows of hardened mercenaries with deep, primitive respect. They understood what was at stake; if Angmar’s iron supply was allowed to pass through Ram Dúath, their small refuge would be the first to be crushed beneath the boot of the Dark Lord.

"We will help you block the high pass, Little-Fighters," a massive, tusk-wearer Earth-kin elder rumbled, his deep voice vibrating like a shifting mountain. "The iron of the Pale-Ones must not flow south. Our hunters know every hidden path, every loose boulder above the canyon. We will stand with your wall."

With the alliance secured, the mercenaries and heroes went to work with frantic energy. The seven supply wagons were systematically unloaded, their rich cargo of weapons and provisions distributed to the defenders. Using the heavy timbers and iron spikes they had transported all the way from Bree, Echelveandalthael and the Earth-kin began to construct a massive, ufortified barricade across the narrowest throat of the canyon.

Echelandir’s Company had successfully established their anvil. Now, they were simply waiting for the hammer to fall.