The night wind whipped fiercely across the rocky peak of Cameth Brin, fluttering the silver banners of the Star of Elendil and the Ice Sword high above the massive stone fortress.
Inside the bastion’s great hall—now cleansed of the Gundabad Orcs’ brutality—wall torches cast a warm golden glow, reflecting off the steel plate armor of fifty Heavy Shield Knights and fifty archers.
At the center of the room, a massive metallic map of *Nogrod-dûm* lay spread out.
Ice-blue light gleamed across the iron surface, illuminating a glowing network of lines that connected the entire defense ring.
King Arthur stepped closer to the map table, fixing his gaze on Arandhir, Boran, and Elmir.
“Nordfall under Halbarad’s command shall remain standing as the Primary Northern Gate within the Echoriath-Sûl,” Arthur declared, his voice echoing through the stone hall.
“Nordfall at the foot of the Weather Hills is our main stronghold, protecting the heart of our realm at Barad-Grinn Nim”
Arthur then pointed to *Cameth Brin* on the northernmost tip of the map.
“As for Cameth Brin…
this place shall serve as our *Forward Bastion*,” Arthur continued firmly.
“This position is far too valuable to abandon.
By seizing this cliffside fortress, we cut off the enemy’s advance long before they can even approach Nordfall.”
Arthur beckoned Elmir and patted his shoulder with warm reassurance before drawing an ancient double-edged longsword from the forge table, its scabbard adorned with silver rune engravings.
“Elmir, your role at Aetherion is far too vital to our central command,” Arthur said gravely yet with absolute trust.
“However, this forward bastion requires a seasoned officer of your swift judgment to stabilize its initial defenses and organize the chain of command.”
Arthur looked Elmir directly in the eyes.
“I appoint you as the *Interim Commander of Cameth Brin.
You shall lead these fifty shield knights and fifty archers atop these stone walls until we find a suitable officer to relieve you, so you may return to your duties at Aetherion.”
Elmir stepped forward, dropping to one knee on the cold stone floor.
“This task is a high honor, My King,” Elmir answered firmly.
“I shall ensure these walls stand unyielding and impenetrable until a permanent commander is ready to assume command.”
Arthur turned to Arandhir and added a sharp directive: “Arandhir, as soon as we return to Barad-Grinn Nim dispatch a reinforcement of two hundred reserve troops through the underground tunnels to bolster the garrison at Cameth Brin.
In addition, begin vetting suitable officer candidates to replace Elmir here.”
“At once, Your Majesty!” Arandhir replied, saluting respectfully.
Arthur helped Elmir to his feet and handed him the command sword.
Elmir drove the tip of the scabbard into the stone floor, offering a formal salute.
Even Elmir is Archer but he Can Fight With a Sword.
Arthur then turned toward Chieftain Boran.
“Boran,” Arthur called softly.
“You and your Dagor-Gathol of the *Gargor-Dun* shall remain stationed at *Zhar-Gij*.
The caves of Zhar-Gij are your people’s home, and you are the true masters of *Nogrod-dûm*’s secret tunnels.”
Boran nodded respectfully, crossing his arms over his chest.
“A wise judgment, My Lord.
We shall serve as Interim Commander Elmir’s eyes and ears in the shadows.”
Elmir turned to Boran, extending his right hand.
“During this transition, let us ensure the northern border remains completely sealed against the Orc threat, Chieftain Boran,” Elmir said with a faint smile.
Boran clasped Elmir’s forearm tightly with the firm grip of a mountain hunter.
“They shall be crushed between your arrows and our blades, Commander,” Boran replied, his eyes gleaming with battle readiness.
“An ambush from above, a strike from below.
Not a single Orc will leave these lands alive.”
Arthur smiled proudly as he surveyed the coordination along his northern frontier.
With Elmir holding interim command at the cliffside bastion, Two hundred fresh reinforcements on the way, Boran mastering the shadowy underground network, and Outpost Nordfall standing resolute in the south, the northern line had become a perfect death trap.
“Our work has only just begun,” Arthur murmured, looking out the narrow window toward the dark northern expanse.
“When the Orcs of Gundabad realize this forward bastion has fallen into our hands, they will bring a storm…
and we shall answer them with steel and ice!”
Far to the north beneath the jagged black peaks of the Misty Mountains, perpetually shrouded in eternal blizzards, stood *Gundabad*—the iron and stone throne of thousands of Orcs, Goblins, and wild Wargs of northern Eriador.
Inside the *Hall of Skulls*—the deepest command chamber lit by the blood-red glare of crude oil braziers—a furious roar shattered the night.
*CRASH!*
A thick oak table splintered into pieces under the blow of an iron mace wielded by *Gothmog-Utar*, High Captain of the Black Battalion of Gundabad.
The massive, pale-gray Orc stood breathing heavily, his crimson eyes glaring down at a cowering Snaga scout—a pitiful Goblin—kneeling on the stone floor.
“What did you say, worthless *Snaga*?!” Gothmog-Utar roared, his voice booming off the pillars and silencing the dozens of Orcs gathered in the hall.
“Say it again before I throw you into the Warg pits!”
The Goblin scout quivered, pressing his chest against the cold stone floor.
“C-Cameth Brin…
High Captain!” the Snaga squeaked through a tight throat.
“Gorgol the Smacker is dead!
Our entire garrison at the cliff fort was slaughtered!
Our skull banner was torn down…
and now…
now the banner of the Silver Star and the Ice Sword flies above the keep!”
A dead silence settled over the Hall of Skulls—cold, suffocating, and filled with disbelief.
Cameth Brin was their primary forward post meant to choke the Trollshaws pass and watch the movements of the *Tark*—the Orcs’ derogatory term for Men—in the south.
Its cliffs were sheer, its siege engines lethal, and its main gate built of iron-reinforced hardwood.
“How could such a fortress fall in a single night?!” shrieked a one-eyed Orc Captain with a heavily scarred face.
“We had three hundred iron-clad warriors and two stone-throwers up there!
“They…
they didn’t climb the cliffs, Captain!” the Snaga whispered, trembling violently.
“Our surviving scouts saw it…
the Men appeared from inside the earth!
Out from the basement beneath the keep!”
“Underground?!” Gothmog-Utar snarled, his black tusks grinding together.
*”Magol-dûm…”* he spat onto the floor.
Ancient stonemasons.
The Dwarves of old and the Men of the past had left behind secret passages that the Orcs had failed to discover during their centuries of occupying the fort.
Gothmog-Utar stepped toward his throne of bone, drawing a jagged, blood-crusted broadsword.
“Who was the *Tark* leading the attack?” he asked coldly, his voice dropping to a low hiss far more dangerous than his previous roar.
“The new King of Men…
the wizard *Tark* who wields the Ice sword,” the Snaga stammered.
“The militias and the hill-folk of *Gargor-Dun* call him…
*Hîr-Helchmegil*.”
The name echoed through the hall like an ancient curse.
“Hîr-Helchmegil…” several Orc Captains muttered nervously, recalling rumors from survivors of the battle at *Zhar-Gij*.
Their kin there hadn’t simply fallen to sword cuts; they were frozen solid into statues of ice before being shattered beneath the boots of the Human King.
“The Lord of the Ice Sword…” Gothmog-Utar growled, glaring up at the bone-strewn ceiling.
“King Arthur…
he reclaimed Zhar-Gij in the east, and now he holds Cameth Brin in the north.
He has planted a forward post right beneath our nose!”
“High Captain Gothmog,” a heavy Orc Captain wielding a double-bitted axe stepped forward.
“If Cameth Brin is held by *Hîr-Helchmegil*, our Black Battalion’s movement into the south is completely cut off.
We can no longer raid the human settlements along the border without being ambushed by their forward guard!”
Gothmog-Utar slammed the tip of his massive sword into the stone floor, striking a shower of red sparks.
“Then we shall grind that cliff fortress into dust!” Gothmog-Utar roared, his voice consumed by a burning, vengeful rage.
“Gather every legion from the Black Mountains!
Unchain the iron Wargs and awaken three War Trolls from the deep abysses!”
He turned to face his gathered Captains, who cheered with ravenous bloodlust.
“*Hîr-Helchmegil* thinks the cliff walls of Rhudaur and Dwarven tunnels will protect him,” Gothmog-Utar threatened, a grotesque grin spreading across his scarred face.
“We march as soon as the first blizzard descends from the north.
We will level Cameth Brin, slaughter their interim commander, and bring the head of the Ice Sword Lord to hang upon the main gates of Gundabad!”
Bloodthirsty roars and the rhythmic clatter of iron maces striking shields reverberated through the dark subterranean halls of Fort Gundabad.
A great storm was gathering in the north, and Cameth Brin was destined to become the stage for the bloodiest battle the Northern Trollshaws had ever seen.