The Men drew first blood, and with another roar from Benedor, another flock of arrows filled up the empty sky. For the second time, the Earth tasted filthy Slayer – blood. Hundreds of them were killed even before the first clash of swords. This, though, did not stop their rally for their enemy, towards whom they ran, yelling and roaring, ready to strike them with their weapons raised above their heads. Their first clash of swords was, for an aerial on-looker, the confluence of the Gale and the Sorceress-the Sacred in the North-west.
If for the Slayers, it was brute force, for the Men it was their metallurgical development. Their swords were made of the White metal, the new find of humankind. Purifying the raw iron and taking out the coal before solidifying was what had produced it, and what had made it tougher than the black iron still used by the Slayers. For this, Benedor had rewarded Hindora, which meant ‘the great workshop’ in Nebial. However, the use of White metal combined with the excellent display of sword work got lost in the endless sea of Slayers. For Men, it was just kill and kill, without stop.
The first to bear the rally of the Slayers were Zahlur’s spearmen. Having caused the initial onslaught, they were helpless in stopping the Slayers, their weapons being futile weapons for closer warfare.
‘Spearmen retreat!’ Benedor thundered, ‘Knights, take guard!’
The knights were nowhere to be seen, thought most Slayers. Then were heard hoofs of a large number of horses, making a kill for the army of Slayers, coming out of the large forests in the Southeast.
But how could this be? How could Men risk being so close to Maraud’s territory?
From a distance, it was a shocking sight. Slayers on the back of Zahlur’s horses - a large horde of Slayers. To the Slayers on foot fighting for their Lord, this act of betrayal came as a shock. What was seen as they came closer shocked them even more. The Slayers riding the horses were dead. The sight took the Slayers by surprise, weakening their attack.
‘The plan has worked’, muttered Benedor to himself, as his sword tasted another Slayer’s blood.
On the horses were dead Slayers, and Men were sitting behind them on the horsebacks. They had tied the Slayers’ bodies to their waists, to provide for extra protection, their shields protecting their backs. This shield served as a great shield against the Slayer offence. They practically had their faces as the only part of their bodies that could be attacked, thus almost giving them invincibility. The knights had caught the last few rows of Doemen’s army and ad used the bodies of the slain as their shields before entering the war. This, as they call now, was the ultimate plan of Benedor that made this moment the turning point of the war, one that shifted the force towards the Men.
Destruction and havoc caused by the knights made the innumerable numerable, and the numerable countable. The knights tore apart the sea of Slayers, threatening to cut their momentum. But just as they brought Zahlur to the brink of the point of no return, there were sounds of thumps, thumps of heavy footsteps. They were the Trolls, ferocious and tall. Green and slimy, they were easily the most fell of creatures after Slayers. Slayers made the way for them as they shook the earth when they walked through them.
‘Knights, fall back!’, roared Benedor, the decision taken as soon as the line of Trolls was seen. It was wise of him to order his knights back, for there was no reason making them fight the large Trolls.
War, as a whole, came to a stop. The Slayers stopped as they watched the Trolls unleashing their menace. The Men stopped as they were taken aback by the appearance of Trolls.
Within all this, the Trolls used their strength to crush everything they could get. ‘Trolls are there not to be used, but to be unleashed’, as they had ever said, looked a reality. This was what Maraud had done. He had unleashed his Trolls in the war.
Men losing their limbs, men crushed below giant feet, men flying in the air, men thrown to a great distance. There was nowhere Men could escape. They were caught off guard by the onslaught.
It was this time when young Mithrin did what would then be remembered for a long time to come. One of the most powerful swordsmen of the army, he charged towards a troll with a sword and a spear of his dead friend Randir. The troll looked menacingly towards him with a loud grunt. It swirled a hand to sweep away his tiny enemy, but Mithrin was agile enough to feign his movement and head with the spear into the leg of the Troll, the act making it groan in pain, and making him fall to its knees, with an angry grunt so loud that all near shook with fear.
There was a triumphant look in Mithrin’s eyes. After all, it is not easy for a man to hurt a Troll, and to have that proud human feeling of having avenged his friend’s loss. The Troll was ready for its fall. Mithrin moved backwards, but fate was such that a stone behind him made him trip and fall. Now he was on ground, not having time to retreat and save himself from the Troll’s fall, not having the energy left to stand. Death was now looking into his eyes. However, his act was not over yet.
Mithrin held his sword upright, resting it on his stomach, his eyes closed, and waiting for death to take him. His lips opened up into a mutter of few last words. There was a loud thud then, followed almost instantly by the cry of a Man, and then a painful grunt of a Troll. A stream of two bloods mixed in a stream flowed down the surface. Nothing moved then. Mithrin had fallen, but what a brave death. Slaying a Troll alone was a not a feat oft repeated in the History of Men. Mithrin, before falling, had made sure his name would occupy the air long after he had last tread the sands of this world.
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