(PTII)Defenders of Middle Earth: A Middle Earth Story(Book 4)

Chapter 20: Fear Not This Night

The enemy began to bombard the retreating army with large, long-range catapults as they fell back to Erebor. Fire rained down from the sky, and the screams of those unfortunate enough to be caught by it echoed through the valley. The screeches of the Nazgul filled the retreating army with terror, and they prayed that they would reach the relative safety of the Mountain's gates soon. 

Gerithor and his rangers took up the rear of the group, keeping a watchful eye on the enemy to ensure they weren't attacked from behind. Gilian and some of the younger rangers seemed shaken, but the older warriors among them were stoic and grim of face. They knew what war was like. They had been raised in it, and had to adapt to it their whole lives. The fire flickered in Gerithor's eyes, and he was filled with resolve as he watched his companions. They would make it through this. War was a constant; One that most of them were familiar with. 

The dwarves let out a cheer as the massive stone gates of Erebor came into view. The Dalefolk murmured with a mixture of anxiety and relief, happy to be close to safety but fearful that the great stones of the mountain would prove to be their graves. 

Gerithor cast his eyes upon the gargantuan statues that stood on either side of the gate. Shaped in the likenesses of dwarven kings of old, they cast a stony gaze over the valley, oblivious to the host on their doorstep that sought their demise. They reminded the ranger of the Argonath, but they were lifeless and far more foreboding. It seemed as if the many years of rain, wind, and fire had taken the life out of them, and now they were but husks of the warriors they were meant to represent. 

"Magnificent, aren't they!" Kalan exclaimed as he fell back to Gerithor's side. "Great kings of old they are! I've only had the pleasure of seein' 'em twice before. Why I-"

Just then a fireball, likely hurled from one of the enemies' many catapults, hit one of the statues square on the nose with a loud crash, sending chunks of stone falling into the moat below. Kalan's mouth was still wide open, and he slowly closed and opened it twice before frowning. 

"Well... I suppose they're just statues," He muttered, falling in line with the other dwarves. Gerithor smiled slightly in amusement and shouldered his pack, every now and again looking back toward the enemy. They were advancing into Dale now, and some were moving along a tall ridge to the east. But they seemed to be intentionally maintaining their distance, almost as if they wanted the fleeing Dalefolk to make it into the mountain. 

As they approached, the gates opened quickly and dwarves rushed out to defend them, their heavy armor clanking as they ran past. To Gerithor's surprise, the area just inside the gate was already packed with those who had fled earlier, and the dwarves had to make a path just so the newcomers could get through. Gilian moved silently to Gerithor's side, her eyes darting back and forth nervously. 

"I've never seen so many people in one place," she murmured, a slight hint of fear in her voice. 

"Just stay close to me, don't get separated from the group," Gerithor replied, guiding her in front of him with a gentle hand on her arm. His other hand rested on the hilt of his sword, for although he knew these people were merely innocent civilians, he also knew that tense situations like this could escalate into violence quickly. After all, these people were desperate and were eager to get as far from the enemy as possible. And desperate people were prone to do desperate things... Gerithor knew this from experience. 

"These people are afraid," Glorfindel said as he approached the rangers from behind. "I can practically feel the apprehension in the air."

Gerithor nodded as he watched the people he was passing by warily. "Aye. And they don't know who we are. Be vigilant."