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The ground itself trembled with awe as the multitude of heavy cavalry hooves thundered across the open plain towards the enemy, producing a colossal white plume within its wake that could be seen for miles around. Emerald green cloaks fluttered wildly in the draft, numerous mail rings clattered sharply and the immense chargers neighed and snorted in anticipation. The winds swept pass the ears of each man and intoned an air of invincibility. War cries of “Oromë!” and “For Fornost!” greeted the sky.
Onwards the mounted guardsmen charged, as each pounding hoof step brought them closer to their enemy, their quarry. As the fiery host approached the mass of terror-struck orcs, shaking lances were lowered and the cavalry galloped forward into the last lap with reckless abandonment. Faced by the terrible spectacle before them, the orcs lost their nerves, broke rank and rout. The slaughter began.
Belegorn of the Rearguard felt the hooves of his mount pound the ground, felt its power and felt the irresistible allure of the battle. There was always something special in horseback fighting, an indescribable rush that would made even the most battle weary cavalier grin with excitement. The first lieutenant had not felt this “alive” for a while, not since the chaotic retreat from the old city where his and the lives of his men stood at the edge.
The Dúnedain spotted his opponent – a large imposing goblin clad in black fur and mail, armed with a crude halberd. Pulling the reins of his charger with a loud and reassuring ho, he turned the magnificent animal towards the pike holder and galloped towards it. The speed of his approach was less than that of the initial charge, but what Belegorn intended to accomplish required more in terms of accuracy than alacrity. The rochecthel was the nonpareil weapon of the cavalry arm; scientifically engineered to provide both shock and wield-ability. With the right angle of approach, adequate momentum and a strong spear arm, it was guaranteed to penetrate anything. And right then, Belegorn was quite intent in introducing his rochecthel to the orc.
The orc caught sight of the incoming horseman and instead of fleeing; it showed remarkable courage and chose to stand its ground. With a grunt, it planted the halberd into the frozen earth and tipped the elaborate end of his weapon towards man and beast. The confrontation then turned into a deadly duel of nerves versus reflexes. Should the orc be nonplussed and quit the yoke, its life would be automatically forfeited. But should its courage prove steadfast, and then it was up to the rider to discharge his lance at the right moment and at the right spot before his horse veers to avoid the obstacle and expose its master to certain doom.
Seconds passed like hours and time slowed to an excruciating crawl as Belegorn galloped up to huge snarling goblin. In those moments his senses were heightened and he could hear the strain in the charger’s deep snorts and feel its fear and uncertainty at the enemy it was forced to face. The pounding of the hooves was painfully apparent and reverberated in his head like beats of huge drums.
Timing was everything.
Belegorn marked the exposed collarbone of the orc and urged his mount forwards…
The creature let out a ferocious roar of defiance, yellow eyes staring straight at its adversary’s…
The leave shaped tip broke through warty skin, penetrating tough flesh, sinewy tendons and dense bone before it met something more delicate and fragile. With a grunt of exertion, Belegorn twisted the lance and it snapped as it should. He allowed the steed to continue its gallop for a short distance before turning back to look; the collapsed orc was mortally wounded and hot steaming ichor spewed from the mangled shoulder where half a lance still protruded from.
Grinning with satisfaction, Belegorn disposed off the then useless lance and immediately drew his cavalry saber from its sheath. Surveying the carnage around him, he moistened his lips, placed his horn to his mouth and blew to rally his men,
“To me guardsmen! To me children!”
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