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Boom... Boom... Boom.... There are many sounds that could be, all of which frightened Helmwolf of Rohan, son of Heldgard. It could be the beating of the war drums of the Morgul Host, one of their foes this day, or it could be the stamping feet of the Mumakil of Harad; massive beasts that terrified both man and horse, horse and rider dwarfed by their size. It could also be his own heart beating rapidly, fluttering in his chest, threatening to burst apart in fear and terror. It could be orc spears and feet stamped upon the ground, the pawing of restless horse hooves on the ground, the siege weaponry being loaded and fired. So many terrifying possibilities...
Helmwolf glanced to his left; there lie Osgiliath in ruins, the horizon ablaze with the enemies fire and torches, their ranks a cruel, vile blank smear on the landscape. He glanced to his right, there lie Minas Tirith, which has seen better days, the white walls darkened with soot from the burning crofts and farmlands. He looked straight ahead; more vile Morgul Host, Easterlings and Haradrim, the great Mumaks towering, the orcs looking like ants swarming about its feet.
He slid his spear into a holder on his saddle, reaching up to slide off his helmet and sets it on the horn of the saddle before him, untying a piece of leather string from around his gauntleted wrist and reaching back to tie back his golden mane of unruly hair, its once pale colour darkened by weeks of travel, his beard equally as dirty as well.
The Rohirrim were silent... They knew death was imminent... The occasional cough rose up from the men, even the rare, yet not unheard of sob. He emits a soft sigh and grasps his helmet, lifting it and settling it over his golden locks once more. He was positioned near the back of the ranks, a mere metal-smith from Snowbourn.
He glanced up, hearing King Theoden's voice above the steady, thumping booms... He only could catch part of what he said, “Arise! Arise, Riders of Theoden! Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered! A sword day... a red day... ere the sun rises! Ride now!... Ride now!... Ride! Ride to ruin and the world's ending! Death! Death! Death! Death! DEATH! Death!”
All while Helmwolf heard this, he could hardly breathe, holding his breath, knowing what awaited him. He slew maybe a dozed or two orcs in his lifetime, yet hundreds, even thousands lay before them. It scared him to his very being.
Helmwolf reached to grasp his spear now, pulling it out of its holder, giving a small, soft laugh to himself, hoisting his shield bearing arm up, joining in the Rohirrim's and his king's chant of, “Death! Death! Death!”
At last, a new note reached his ears, joining in his voice to the legions of other men, screaming out, “FORTH EORLINGAS!” He hoisted his spear in the air proudly. Today he rode, he rode for his home, so that the women and children back in Rohan can live to see the dawn rise again.
As if all at once, the riders sprung forward, their king taking lead of the charge. Time seemed to speed up and slow down all at once. It seemed it took but moments for them to cross the field of ruin and meet their foes, a deafening crash rising up, metal meeting metal. Riders and orc tumbling to the ground, the ranks splitting into chaos to avoid the fallen. Helmwolf reared back, eyeing up a Haradrim sitting astride a horse. He let his spear go, watching with grim satisfaction as it pierced the archer's neck and he tumbled to the ground. He murmured a quick prayer to Bema for the poor man's family and loved ones.
He moved to pull his sword free of its sheathe, blinking as an arrow whizzed past his head, hoisting his shield up to protect himself, wincing as arrows sunk into his shield, jolting him with each one. He swung his sword, beheading an Uruk-hai that was on foot, its back turned to Helmwolf. Many more orcs and evil men fell, as he lost count, his limbs starting to grow weary as the morning turned into the afternoon. He fought valiantly, yet fatigue was any warriors worst enemy.
He stopped his steed for but a moment , lowering his head briefly to catch his breath. The armour, how hot and heavy it was and most uncomfortable, his arms felt like they were hewn from lead. He jolted upright, his eyes staring straight ahead in confusion as he felt a searing pain in his back through his stomach to his front.
He winced and glanced down, blinking to see a spear point poking through his stomach, blood already soaking his armour. He sat there, rigid, not daring to look back at his foe, crying out in pain as they twisted the spear cruelly in him, then jerked back, unseating him from his horse. He fell to the ground, the spear driven further through his body by the fall.
Helmwolf gave a choking scream of pain, writhing on the ground, only now looking frantically for whoever felled him, greeted by the sneering face of an orc, laughing at his demise before he finally passed out, his spirit leaving his tortured body at last.