Azog was a far more cunning Orc than anyone imagined.
Just as all believed that the seemingly endless dark host would cross the tributaries of the Lhûn on the first starlit evening after the onset of summer in the year 2931 of the Third Age, and sweep down upon the Elves’ last and holiest harbor in the North, Mithlond, the Grey Havens, that fell army halted upon a plain ten leagues from the Havens.
At that distance, they could both forestall a sudden sally by the Elves and, after the host had rested, surge forward with the crushing weight of a mountain to hurl the battle line against the very walls of the Grey Havens.
Moreover, he sought to deceive the pointy-eared Elves within the Havens, making them believe that the Orc-host threatened only from the front, while in truth he had already dispatched another force of dark minions to steal around the Grey Havens and strike from the south.
Azog did not yet know that Manwë, chief of the Valar, had already warned Círdan through the whispering wind.
For now, he still dreamed of crushing them utterly in one swift blow, catching the accursed pointy-ears between hammer and anvil.
So, with the Grey Havens in sight, the cunning Pale Orc halted.
He sent out great numbers of Orcs and wild men from the far North to scour the orchards and oak groves the Elves had planted along the banks of the Lhûn and the foothills of the Blue Mountains, felling tall trees to build siege engines.
“Lazy maggots, move your feet!
Faster!” A black Orc overseer cracked his whip, bellowing through yellow fangs, driving the lesser Orcs and the wild men to swing their axes without pause, felling Elvish trees and hauling the trunks back to the sprawling, clamorous camp, where they were assembled into crude siege engines of every shape.
“Stand firm, you vermin!
Raise your spears!
Guard the camp!
Archers to the rear, spearmen in front!
Move, you slugs!” Black Orc wolf-riders galloped back and forth, cursing and lashing the smaller Orcs whose ranks had grown ragged and sluggish after the forced march, forcing them to reform.
Hungry and thirsty, the Orcs from the Misty Mountains shrieked and cursed, shoving one another until they had formed over thirty blocks of a thousand each, facing the Grey Havens.
And still it was not over.
Soon, the deep bellow of horns rang out.
Azog ordered the remaining Orcs to form twenty more blocks, ugly but stout, on the right flank and behind the camp, to guard against any Elvish counterstroke.
The left flank was covered by the Lhûn, so he placed no heavy guard there.
Of the thirty blocks facing the Havens, three were archers armed with the short, curved bows of the Orcs.
These foul, misshapen creatures cursed and snarled, drooling as they stared at the Elven harbor that lay almost within reach.
This was the hatred for the Elves buried in their hearts since the day they were spawned.
The fallen ones envied the Elves’ beauty, hated their wealth, and the immortality of the Firstborn made these short-lived, hideous, corrupted beings burn with such envy that their very livers ached.
They yearned to rush into the city of those loathsome pointy-ears, to slay them, devour them, rip out their entrails, and let their screams resound across the land.
But the Black Orc wolf-riders from Mordor kicked and flogged them without cease, sending them squealing.
Unlike those cowardly kin who only ambushed lone travelers in the dark, Azog knew where his advantage lay.
Sixty thousand Orcs without discipline might prove no match for six thousand Elves.
In ordinary circumstances, a single Elf could easily face ten Orcs.
Only under a harsh will, welding the craven yet brutal Orcs into tight masses, could overwhelming local numbers overcome the mighty Firstborn.
In short, he meant to use the grinding butchery of massed battle, where neither side could easily maneuver, to wear them down.
Thus, Azog would allow none of these foolish creatures, at once craven and bloodthirsty, to break ranks on their own.
For he knew that only by keeping this evil host, unseen since the Dark Years, clenched in his fist could he hope to exterminate the accursed pointy-ears once and for all.
Gazing upon the camp that resembled an anthill, where masses of Orc craftsmen and wild men toiled noisily day and night to assemble crude, menacing siege engines, the Pale Orc astride his great white warg, his scarred, hideous face twisted into a savage grin.
He looked toward the shadowy Elven city beneath the darkest hour before dawn, and a cunning, ruthless light flickered in his murky, cruel eyes.
“Gloat while you can, foul Elves.
One more day, one more day, and my host shall grind you to dust.” To the south, countless wargs, huge as oxen, ran howling beneath the moon.
The Hobbits of Michel Delving were roused from their warm, snug beds by that howling.
These kindly, timid folk, much like Men in appearance but no taller than a human child, clapped their hands over their ears, huddled beneath the blankets clutching their wives, and shivered.
“This is no season for wargs to roam!
Why have those cursed, fanged brutes come out?
Oh no, my cabbages, surely they won’t ruin my cabbages!” A few bold (or foolish) Hobbits tried to crack open the shutters for a peek, but were dragged back by their wives or fathers by the ear, or booted on the backside, unless it was a mother, in which case a sharp ear-pull sufficed, and shoved back into the warm, safe bed.
“You stupid, brainless Took!
Get back to your bed and don’t you dare come down!” “You fool, wargs don’t eat cabbages, they eat you!” “Ah!
Dad, why do you say such dreadful things?
… Well, though I don’t suppose a warg would fancy a midnight snack tonight, I think staying snug in bed is a fine idea!
Hobbit beds are the softest, coziest beds in the world.
Goodnight, Dad.
And I hope you singe your eyebrows when you light your pipe!” “And you’re a Took too, you dolt!” Took, a name of great renown among Hobbits.
But let us leave the squabbling Tooks on that summer night of Shire Reckoning 1331.
Beneath the moon, a monstrous beast beyond the ken of Elves or Hobbits crouched upon a spur of the North Moors and lifted its voice in a long howl.
Countless wargs, fangs bared and slaver dripping from their jaws, led by a handful of Black Orcs and Gundabad wolf-riders, raced past the western borders of the Shire, circled around the Far Downs west of Michel Delving, and entered the narrow pass between the Tower Hills and the southern Ered Luin.
Beyond that pass lay the southern approaches of the Grey Havens.
In the end, the dreadful beast vanished as silently as it had come.
Come morning, these small, garden-loving folk gathered and spoke of a wild rumor: on a summer night in S.R.
1331, howling wargs had eaten an entire Hobbit family… Círdan, having received the warning, stood upon the eastern wall of the Grey Havens and gazed out over the vast plain beside the Lhûn, silent.
There, heavy clouds out of the North blotted out the starlight, and the dread bray of horns drifted across the land.
Beyond doubt, the Orc-host had arrived.
Yet…
“They have halted,” said Galdor, who commanded the eastern defenses.
“Clearly they are building siege engines and resting.
Battle may erupt at any moment.” Círdan agreed, and indeed he judged that battle would be joined before dawn, for he had perceived that these Orcs were unlike those that shunned the sun.
In this black tide, the northern sky seemed mantled by a power that even he found chilling: a fell force that drew brooding storm-clouds over the North, where lightning flickered and thunder rolled in a semblance of doom.
Vast swarms of hideous bats darkened the air, so that even at the height of Arien’s glory, her light could not pierce the cloud-wrack above the northern host.
Thus was the craven yet vicious nature of the Orcs, their fear of fighting under the sun, largely remedied.
Worse, some bold Black Orc wolf-riders had crept within a thousand yards of the Havens under cover of darkness.
Moreover, a staggering number of Mordor’s Black Orc wolf-riders prowled the darkened plain like specters, shielding the vast camp that buzzed like a hellish hive.
Though Elven sharpshooters soon shot down every foul creature that dared approach that sacred haven at the mouth of the Lhûn, their presence had utterly quashed Círdan’s hope of sending Elven outriders to harry the Orcs while they were still unsettled.
Lindon was not horse-country; the Elves’ cavalry was few.
The scouts and those who had ridden in from all corners of Lindon numbered fewer than eight hundred in all.
He was loath to waste a force that might break the deadlock on mere probing skirmishes.
The Lord of the Grey Havens sensed that these eight hundred riders would serve a far greater purpose.
Thus Círdan simply bade the Elves to remain vigilant and await the great battle.
Galdor had no objection.
The Grey Havens might seem lightly defended when compared to the White City of Minas Tirith, but the walls of this last and holiest Elven harbor in the North were built of white stone blocks each a meter square: thirty feet high, ten feet thick, broad enough for two warhorses to ride abreast.
More importantly, Elven masonry was fearsomely strong.
It seemed as if some enchantment had been woven into the stone, for in the dim moonlight the city’s white walls glimmered with a faint radiance.
Combined with the exquisite, opulent beauty of Elven craft, the Grey Havens exuded not only holiness but a sense of unassailable mass.
Therefore Círdan and Galdor both thought it better to rely on the walls and delay this fell host until Gandalf the Grey returned with Dwarf reinforcements, if any such aid was coming.
The lives of Elves were precious.
The Lord of the Havens and Galdor were unwilling to squander the Firstborn in struggles with the corrupted, filthy Orcs.
To their eyes, the Age of the Elves was passing.
Better to preserve their lives and one day sail to the Blessed Realm of Aman in the West to enjoy eternal bliss.
Thus, against all expectation, both sides settled into a stalemate, through that night and the following day.
The vast Orc-host remained ten leagues from the Grey Havens, toiling feverishly to build more and ever cruder siege engines, while the Elves stood calmly, with a touch of resignation, upon the high walls, awaiting the decisive hour.
At last, on the evening of the next day, as Arien’s light waned westward and the land turned amber, a great, mournful horn-call sounded.
One after another, the formed blocks of Orcs gave a mighty shout and began their march toward the Grey Havens.
“The final battle begins!” rasped the Pale Orc, mounted on a huge white warg atop a low hill, watching the armed host below.
“Forward, my host!
Destroy and level that accursed Elven city before you!
Take their heads!
Show no mercy, no retreat!
To war!” Tall, crude siege towers and ladders, hauled and pushed by dozens or hundreds of Orcs, crept along behind the blocks.
It had begun.
On the southern wall of the Grey Havens, the Dragonborn, who had already been forewarned, felt his spirit quicken.
He listened.
On the sea breeze amid the fading sunset, the horns of the Orcs echoed like the fell voices of hell, far away yet drawing nearer.
Since the day before, the northern sky had been shrouded in clouds, dark and heavy as if the heavens themselves were about to collapse.
This, the first true, epic-scale battle of the West that the Dragonborn had ever witnessed, made his heart pound.
He could almost feel the distant clamor in the air and the reek of the Orcs.
More than once he yearned to look northward, but he knew that all he could and should do now was remain calm and not hinder the Elves.
For the Dragonborn knew himself to be a mere novice in the art of war: let those who were masters attend to their craft.
The Lord of the Grey Havens and his Elves were battle-hardened veterans of countless conflicts; they possessed the skill and wisdom to face the oncoming epic struggle.
He need only obey the commands of Círdan and the Elf-maiden guard, and devotedly guard the flank and rear of the Northern Elves.
Thus did the black-haired Dragonborn, clad in finely wrought silver armor and gripping a formidable warhammer, pass an unforgettable night.
And now, with the great horns sounding, there could be no doubt: the hour of decision had come!
Yet the black-haired Dragonborn, who should have felt excitement, fear, or dread, found his expression growing ever more grave.
Something was wrong.
It was too quiet.
The narrow pass from Emyn Beraid, the Tower Hills, to the Grey Havens was too silent, a silence that bred fear.
The black-haired Dragonborn rested his long, powerful hands on the white ramparts, his golden, slit-pupiled eyes striving to pierce the gathering gloom in the narrow vale to the south.
He knew not why, but in that moment before the great battle, the southern mountain path had grown dark and menacing, as if some vast beast crouched there, ready to devour the world and the stars.