📜 STORY 7 - When the Gates of Angmar Shook: The Battle of Ram Dúath (part2)

 

⚔️ Part II: The Battle of Ram Dúath

The frozen wind howling through the narrow slate corridors of Ram Dúath carried the bitter stench of sulfur, ancient malice,
and old snow. Below the towering cliffs, the hidden settlement of Lehmä-koti had been completely transformed into a heavily fortified war camp. Earth-kin hunters hauled massive logs alongside Bree mercenaries, while the heroes of Echelandir’s Company worked relentlessly to weave a deadly web of steel, iron, and stone across the narrowest bottleneck of the pass.

High above the valley floor, on a jagged ledge overlooking the primary chokepoint, Echelorin was throwing a furious tantrum. The dwarf Hunter was buried under three heavy crates of armor-piercing bolts, desperately trying to haul his short, stocky legs up a sheer, icy stone wall to reach the supreme sniper position.

"Curse these human-sized precipices!" Echelorin barked, his face turning as crimson as his braided beard as his boots slipped on the frost. "A dwarf is meant to be inside the mountain, not scaling its slippery ribs like a mountain goat!"

Standing at the base of the ridge was Echelruuke. The giant Beorning woman, currently in her towering human form, wore thick furs and metal armor and carried a massive wooden timber over her shoulder as if it were a common walking stick. She watched the dwarf struggle with a deeply amused grin, her low, rumbling laughter vibrating through the canyon.

"Do you require a lift, Master Dwarf?" Echelruuke asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I promise I will not throw you into the nesting grounds this time. If you cannot claw your way up to your little shooting gallery, I shall lift you gently by your collar. No tossing. I give you my solemn Beorning word."

Echelorin went completely rigid, snapping his head around to glare at her. "If you throw me like a common cabbage again, skin-changer, I will personally reload my automatic crossbow with silver-tipped bolts and turn your bear form into a very expensive floor rug!"

Echelruuke raised her free hand in a mock gesture of surrender, chuckling heartily as she hoisted the dwarf upward with effortless strength, placing him firmly onto the high ledge where he immediately began to mount his mechanical crossbow onto the heavy iron tripods.

Like she said she was delicate, yet so strong Echelorin felt really like powerless cabbage. He felt savagery of a beast but also gentle look of a woman.

“Thank you my lady…” He grumbled silently with a shy tone, not like loud dwarf.

“Oh then our Sharpshooter will not use silver bolts?” She continued with a smile.

“No… excuse me i want to prepare the ammunition” He knew he acted like young boy from Thorins Gate bar, shy to look into a woman’s eye.

Down at the main barricade, a completely different struggle was unfolding. Echelwardir, the Warden, was leaning against a spiked wooden palisade, his keen eyes scanning the bleak mountain paths. Feeling the freezing bite of the northern wind, he casually reached into his leather belt-pouch and retrieved a small, silver flask filled to the brim with potent, dark rum from the Prancing Pony.

He had barely managed to unscrew the metal cap when a shadow loomed over him.

BAM!

A colossal, steel-clad gauntlet slammed directly into Echelwardir’s shoulder blades with the force of a falling boulder. The Warden staggered forward, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull as the air was violently blasted from his lungs. He coughed wildly, dropping his silver flask into the freezing mud.

"A true Master of the Shield does not dull his eyes with sour spirits before the blood flows!" a roaring, stoic voice rumbled. It was Echelveandalthael, the unbreakable Guardian. He stood like an immovable monument of polished iron, his massive, five-foot tower shield resting heavily against his knee. "The Vanguard does not falter. Our armor must be clean, our minds sharp, and our bodies pure. Leave the tavern juice in Bree."

Echelwardir rubbed his aching spine, wincing as he looked down at his ruined rum, yet his eyes held a strange, puppy-like devotion. He looked up at the giant Guardian with deep, unadulterated reverence. "You are entirely correct, mentor," the Warden squeaked, his voice still choked from the impact. "A wall does not drink. A wall stands firm. I shall emulate your magnificent discipline."

But as Echelveandalthael turned his back to inspect the iron spikes on the palisade, Echelwardir let out a sorrowful, pathetic sigh. He stared longingly at the muddy flask, his heart aching with profound grief. He desperately missed Echelarea. The heavily armored Elf burglar was the only one who truly understood him. Whenever they were off duty, the two of them would sit in the darkest corner of the Prancing Pony and drink cheap wine until they were entirely unconscious or make some brawls with drunk Bree guards. Soon it was harder because no one left to make brawls with, but still they were searching opportunity. Dealing with these overly disciplined, heroic paragons without a drop of alcohol was turning into an absolute nightmare.

At the center of the camp, tucked beneath a canopy of thick, tusked aurochs hides, Captain Echelandir was locked in an intense strategic discussion with the five Dúnedain Rangers and the giant elders of the Jorthkyn tribe. The Earth-kin had proved invaluable; their colossal strength had allowed the defenders to roll massive boulders onto the high cliffs directly overlooking the narrow throat of Ram Dúath, creating a devastating trap.

Suddenly, the heavy furs of the war tent were tossed aside. A cold gust of wind blew into the enclosure as a heavily armored figure slipped silently inside. It was Echelarea. The Elf burglar had successfully returned from her high-risk stealth mission deep within enemy territory. Her dark armor was splattered with thick, black Orc-blood, and her breathing was ragged.

"Captain," Echelarea gasped, wiping a streak of black gore from her brow. "The iron transport has passed the outer gates of Aughaire. The Angmarim forces are mobilizing for an immediate, full-scale march! We have at most two to three days before the vanguard hits this position. I managed to sabotage the main gate mechanisms at their forward fortress—their massive, iron-armored Trolls are trapped behind the gates, roaring in absolute fury because they cannot march out yet. But that sabotage has only bought us a sliver of time. The true horror is the scale of the army."

Echelandir’s eyes narrowed. "Give us the numbers, Echelarea."

"It is a nightmare," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "There are over ten thousand Orcs marching in the secondary lines. Behind them are packs of ferocious mountain wargs, swarms of goblins, and both small and giant, venomous cave-wyrms crawling through the slush. But worst of all, I saw Carguls—the wretched, red-robed phantoms bound to the service of the Nazgûl. And high in the dark clouds above them, a Ringwraith itself was circling upon a fell, leathery-winged black beast. The Shadow is moving in full force."

The tent fell into a stunned, suffocating silence. A force of ten thousand, augmented by wyrms, Carguls, and a Nazgûl, was a host capable of tearing through the North Downs and crushing Bree entirely.

Captain Echelandir stood tall, his heavy chainmail rattling as he drew his magnificent broadsword. "We cannot hold this chokepoint alone against ten thousand," he declared, his voice hard as iron. "We must summon the rest of the Company. Ranger, who is your swiftest rider?"

The lead Dúnadan stepped forward. "We have a young lad named Pavel. He knows the hidden shortcuts through the Downs better than anyone. He can ride like the wind."

"Send him," Echelandir commanded. "Pavel must ride to Bree without rest and bring Zannor, Linda, Vanbloth, and Wallbrick. Go!"

Pavel vanished into the frozen night within minutes, his horse's hooves hammering against the rocky path.

Dúnedain Rangers also immediately sent for reinforcements to Esteldin.

Echelarea then pointed a blood-stained finger toward the high cliffs on the tactical map. "There is one tactical advantage, Captain. High upon the jagged cliffs overlooking the narrowest gorge, there are ancient, unstable rock formations. If we can trigger a massive landslide, we can bury half their vanguard before they even see our swords. The Jorthkyn know the paths up there."

"We know but good you investigated further, excellent," Echelandir nodded. "Echelarea, you will take Echelannia and a detachment of Earth-kin warriors to those high ridges and return to me. They will hold that position. Echelannia, your lore and elemental arts will be the trigger to bring the mountain down upon their heads when the time is right."

Over the next forty-eight hours, the atmosphere at Ram Dúath turned electric with anticipation. The five Dúnedain Rangers had sent urgent distress calls to their hidden networks, and by the second dawn, a formidable reinforcing host materialized. Two thousand warriors—a disciplined mixture of stoic Dúnedain Rangers, battle-hardened mercenaries from the northern camps, and brave local volunteers equipped with the fine steel weapons and shields transported from Bree—marched into the pass.

Echelandir stood atop the crude stone ramparts, watching the reinforcements file into position. He knew the global stakes. If this northern army broke through Ram Dúath, they could easily bypass Esteldín, also on other side sweep through the Ettenmoors, and descend upon the Trollshaws, exposing the hidden valley of Rivendell itself to a brutal, dual-front invasion while the Fellowship was marching south. He immediately dispatched a secondary group of riders to warn Lord Elrond of the massing shadow.

Meanwhile, far to the south, the young messenger Pavel rode like a man possessed. His horse was foaming at the mouth as he skidded to a halt outside the Prancing Pony in Bree. Bursting through the heavy oak doors, he gasped out his urgent message to the resting members of the Company.

Echelzannor dropped his book; Echelinda, the Minstrel, gripped her lute; Echelvanbloth snatched his cutlass; and the little Hobbit girl, Echelwallbrick, slammed her steel gauntlets together with a deafening ring. They were ready.

As the four heroes sprinted out of the West Gate of Bree, a tall, mysterious figure wrapped in a dark, tattered cloak watched them from the shadows of an alleyway, its cold eyes tracking their departure before vanishing into the mist.

The heroes rode like a thunderstorm. At the trading hub of Trestlebridge, they threw themselves onto fresh, rested mounts and galloped hard into the North Downs. Reaching the hidden valley of Esteldín, they executed another lightning-fast horse change, pushing the beasts to their absolute limits until they finally skidded into the fortified encampment of Lehmä-koti. They were on time, they got still time to rest to regain strength.

The fortifications were complete. At the narrow exit of the pass, a massive, imposing wall of interlocking timbers, heavy stones, and iron spikes stood like an impregnable fortress.

Captain Echelandir assembled the fully reunited Company before the barricade, his voice echoing with majestic leadership. "Listen well, Company! The horde is at our doorstep. Here is your purpose today. Echelzannor, you must ascend to the high eastern ridges immediately. Join Echelannia and the Jorthkyn; combine your runic power with her lore to bring the mountaintop down when the vanguard enters the throat. Echelwallbrick, you will stand at the front line; reinforce Echelruuke and Echelveandalthael. You three will be the anvil that holds the gate. Echelinda, you will remain by my side at the central command platform – we will push when needed in center; let your melodies and ancient hymns shake the very souls of the enemy and bolster the hearts of the Free People. Echelvanbloth, your task is critical: you will scale the forward sniper nest and protect Echelorin and his bands of archers. His automatic crossbow is our primary vanguard defense, but his position is exposed. You and a detachment of longbowmen will rain death from above, and you must ensure no warg or goblin breeches their ledge. Stand firm, everyone! The night belongs to the Free People!"

As twilight dissolved into a pitch-black, freezing night, a single, piercing horn blast echoed from the high Dúnedain scout towers. They were here.

The ground began to vibrate with a terrifying, rhythmic thrumming as the colossal vanguard of Angmar marched into the throat of Ram Dúath. Through the swirling mountain mist, the terrifying army materialized. Thousands upon thousands of heavily armored Orcs marched in perfect, cruel synchronization, their jagged scimitars clashing against their iron shields. Surrounding them were snarling, red-eyed wargs and swarms of chattering goblins. Crawling through the frozen slush were the grotesque, venomous cave-wyrms, their scaly hides glistening in the dark.

Leading the massive host were the Carguls—the terrifying, red-robed phantoms whose hollow, spectral faces struck instant ice into the hearts of the common volunteers.

Standing on the central command platform, Captain Echelandir stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Echelarea, who held her dual blades in a reverse grip, her eyes fixed on the darkness. Beside them, Echelinda lifted her elegant, silver-stringed lute. She struck a single, resonant chord that echoed through the stone canyons like a celestial bell. Her beautiful, powerful voice rose above the howling wind, unleashing the majestic Hymn of the Free People. The magical melody rippled across the defensive lines; instantly, the terrifying dread of the Carguls vanished from the minds of the two thousand human volunteers, replaced by a roaring, golden courage that made their shields gleam in the dark.

"For Arnor! For the Free People!" Echelandir roared, his voice amplified by the minstrel’s song.

CRASH!

The battle began with a catastrophic explosion of rock and magic. High upon the eastern cliffs, Echelannia and Echelzannor stood side-by-side at the precipice, surrounded by a protective ring of giant Jorthkyn warriors. Echelannia raised her ancient staff, her dark skin painted with glowing, golden Elven runes as she channeled the elemental forces of the earth. Beside her, Echelzannor slammed his runic stones together, unleashing a blinding, white-hot stream of cataclysmic runic energy into the unstable mountain fractures.

"Bring the mountain down!" Echelzannor bellowed in a resonant baritone.

A deafening, earth-shattering roar ripped through the canyon as the entire face of the towering slate cliff fractured. Millions of tons of colossal boulders, jagged rocks, and massive ice sheets sheared away from the mountain, raining down upon the center of the enemy army like the wrath of the Valar. The cataclysmic landslide completely pulverized the secondary lines; over two thousand Orcs, a dozen giant cave-wyrms, and several armored transport wagons were instantly buried beneath a mountain of stone, completely severing the vanguard from their reinforcements.

Down at the main barricade, the remaining enemy vanguard slammed into the shield wall like a black wave.

"HOLD!" Echelveandalthael roared, his colossal tower shield locked into the earth.

An immense wave of Orcs crashed against his iron wall, but the Guardian stood like an immovable mountain. With a savage, disciplined heave, he slammed his shield forward, crushing the faces of the attackers, while his heavy iron mace came down in a continuous, skull-shattering arc. They were pushing forward! The orcs were terrified of nearly glowing warrior of ancient times, who remembered most brutal battles with monsters long forgotten these days. Orcs were for him like rats. Echelandir gave signal to push further.

Beside him, Echelruuke had fully transformed into her monstrous, twelve-foot grizzly bear form. The Beorning juggernaut threw herself directly into the densest pack of Orc shock-troops. She bit through the necks of venomous wyrms, swiped her massive, clawed paws to tear through iron breastplates, and tossed armored Orcs across the canyon like broken dolls. It was full rage, they knew beornings were creatures of nature magic also, they felt this primal fury of old. Even her bear form was seemed like bigger and more furious than always.

Sprinting beneath the giant bear’s flanks was Echelwallbrick. The little Hobbit girl was a whirlwind of absolute devastation; her steel-reinforced gauntlets delivered lightning-fast, bone-shattering strikes. She punched through the iron helmets of goblins, broke the jaws of charging wargs with brutal uppercuts, and laughed gleefully in the center of the carnage. She though knew not to disturb Echeveandalthael and Echelruuke, she was still junior comparing to two grand warriors.

"Keep them coming!" the Hobbit girl cheered, her small boots splashing through the black Orc-blood. "They break much easier than the Kergrims!"

Echelwardir and Echelwanaba fought with terrifying synchronization on the left flank. Echelwanaba’s twin curved greatswords spun in a relentless dervish of death, carving a crimson path through the red-robed Carguls, while Echelwardir’s spear thrust with blinding speed, executing any enemy that attempted to breech the timber wall and smashing shield was only making dull steel sounds of hitting orcs. The two thousand Dúnedain and mercenary volunteers, fortified by the weapons from Bree and Echelinda’s continuous, inspiring hymns, fought with legendary heroism, their pike-line holding the bottleneck with absolute precision.

High on the forward sniper ledge, the mechanical metronome of death was relentless. Bowmans instructed were taking enemies Echelorin could not manage to get because of reloading. They worked like well oiled machine. Crates of arrows and bolts were coming from the back by assigned soldiers.

THWIP-THWIP-THWIP-THWIP!

Echelorin’s automatic crossbow rained a continuous storm of armor-piercing bolts into the enemy flank, dropping Orc captains before they could organize a counter-attack. A pack of three ferocious mountain wargs attempted to scale the sheer cliff to breech the sniper nest, but Echelvanbloth was waiting. They were large like bears, with dirty ginger fur with black stripes.

"Not on my watch, you overgrown mutts!" the pirate roared.

With a savage, double-handed swing of his longsword and notched cutlass, Echelvanbloth sliced clean through the throat of the first warg. He ducked beneath the jaws of the second, driving his blade deep into its ribs, while the hired longbowmen behind him peppered the third with a dozen iron-tipped arrows. The pirate stood at the precipice, his yellow teeth flashing as he shielded the dwarf sniper from any threat.

Suddenly, a terrifying, blood-chilling shriek ripped through the clouds above, a sound so foul it made the stone walls of the canyon bleed condensation.

Out of the pitch-black sky descended a colossal, leathery-winged black beast. Atop its serpentine neck sat a terrifying, faceless phantom draped in interlocking black armor—a Nazgûl. The fell beast expanded its massive wings, diving directly toward the central command platform with its razor-sharp talons extended to rip Captain Echelandir apart. Nazgul as former king was clever, tried to go for a leader directly.

"CAPTAIN! LOOK OUT!" Echelarea screamed, lunging forward to push Echelandir out of the direct path of the diving monster.

The fell beast slammed onto the wooden platform, its massive talons shattering the heavy timbers. The Nazgûl raised its wicked, pale Morgul-blade, its chilling aura threatening to paralyze the defenders with pure, existential dread.

But Echelandir’s Company did not know the meaning of surrender. Echelinda struck a thunderous, defiant chord on her lute, amplifying the Captain's resolve. Echelvanbloth and Echelorin redirected their fire from the ledge; a relentless hail of automatic bolts and longbow arrows peppered the beast's leathery wings, tearing the flesh and forcing the monster to roar in agony.

Echelruuke, seeing her captain in danger, abandoned the front barrier and sprinted across the plaza in her massive bear form. With a colossal, airborne leap, the twelve-foot grizzly bear slammed directly onto the side of the fell beast’s neck. Her massive jaws clamped shut over the creature's throat, ripping through tough scales and black muscle with terrifying ferocity. The fell beast shrieked catastrophically, thrashing its wings as it collapsed into the dirt, entirely mortally wounded.

The Nazgûl was forced to leap from the dying mount, landing nimbly upon the bloody stones. It turned its empty, faceless cowl toward Captain Echelandir, raising its black sword as a chilling wave of despair rolled across the plaza.

“Now, you and me only…” cold voice of a wight spoke.

Echelandir stood tall, his cloak catching the firelight, his eyes burning with the ancient lineage of heroes. He gripped his longsword with both hands throwing away shield, channeling the pure, unyielding spirit of the Red captain style.

As the Ringwraith lunged forward with a blinding, lethal strike, Echelandir executed a magnificent, radiant counter-attack. His blade erupted with a brilliant, blinding white light that carried the ancient purity of the West—the legendary Blade of Elendil.

FLASH!

The radiant steel cut through the darkness, striking the Nazgûl’s pale blade with a deafening, metallic ring that shattered the phantom’s weapon into a thousand shards. The holy light tore through the Wraith’s dark armor, burning its spectral form.

A piercing, agonizing shriek of pure terror and defeat burst from the empty cowl of the Nazgûl. This was serious strike, and Nazgûl very well knew that. Shattered and broken by the radiant power of the Captain, the Ringwraith turned and fled back into the swirling mists of the north, protected by a desperate, frantic wall of its remaining Orc shock-troops.

The battle raged through the remainder of the freezing night, turning into a prolonged, brutal meat-grinder. But with their commander fled and the mountaintop collapsed upon their reinforcements, the morale of the Angmarim horde was entirely broken.

When the pale, cold morning sun finally peeked over the eastern ridges of Ram Dúath, the true extent of the legendary victory was revealed. The narrow passes of the canyon were completely carpeted in a thick, dense field of black-blooded Orc corpses, shattered iron armor, and the broken remains of cave-wyrms. Over nine thousand enemies lay dead in the snow.

The victory, however, had carried a heavy price. Dozens of brave human volunteers, mercenary guards, and Dúnedain Rangers lay silent upon the field, their shields broken but their honor intact. The heroes of Echelandir’s Company were severely battered, their armor dented, their faces covered in soot, sweat, and dark gore, but they were all alive.

As the morning mist began to clear, the rhythmic thud of fresh hooves echoed from the southern trails. A secondary, fresh detachment of Dúnedain Rangers and armed volunteers from Esteldín galloped into the pass, their banners flying high. They had ridden hard to reinforce the gate, but as they skidded to a halt and looked upon the vast, apocalyptic field of slaughter, their jaws dropped in absolute awe.

The battle was already won. The throat of Angmar had been completely severed.

Captain Echelandir sheathed his blood-stained longsword, leaning against a shattered timber of the barricade. He looked up at his battered, eccentric, and magnificent Company, a faint, proud smile touching his lips. They had stood against ten thousand, and the rearguard of the Free People remained unbroken.