"It's an historic moment," Ternak commented, watching the first of the sloops as it went down the slipway into the Entwash.

"You're not wrong there," his second replied. "I'm astonished they got the things ready on time – especially with the refit. Are you sure-"

"No, bur we've had this conversation already." Ternak slapped his second on the back. "Stop worrying! There's not really much of a weight penalty, and it at least means it can move a lot faster once it's pointing in the right direction."

"As long as the fuel holds out..." The second held up a hand, acknowledging the arguments that had already been made. "I know, I know, I'm going over old ground. Should we have armoured them more, though, if we're putting in the engine?"

"No, too much more of a weight penalty – she's still going to need sails for most of the journey. The next ones, though, yes."

The second sloop's chocks were removed, and she slid forward in a gathering rush. The bow splashed into the water first, then the stern, and with a cough of steam the ship headed forwards into the centre of the river, paddles churning the water.

"Right, that's one and two... just number three left," Ternak said, then coughed. "Sorry. That's, ah, Bat and Rat in the water, and Cat to launch."

The third sloop followed the other two. As they watched, INS Bat disengaged her engines, opened her sails, and began to cruise downriver with paddles hanging loose in the water.

"Excellent," Saruman said, reading the dispatch. "My compliments to Ternak on some sterling work."

With the three Bat-class armoured sloops on the way, he could now be confident in supporting the planned attempt to clear their southern flank.

It remained to be seen, of course, how well they would do in combat. But he was optimistic.

Saruman then wrote out two further dispatches.

The first, to Raza.

Colonel-

Be advised. Three friendly sloops will be passing through Osgiliath shortly. Ensure that you do not fire on them.

They are ships with paddle-boxes on the side, thanks to a recent refit. They should be easily identifiable.

In addition, please advise on the current progress of the siege. Retaking the west bank of the river in its entirety would considerably simplify things, and if the siege is far enough advanced that you could make use of gun support from offshore then it would be good to do so while the opportunity remains.

Saruman.

That done, he handed it off to a courier and began work on the other.

Boromir-

I have managed to launch three ships ahead of schedule. They are armed with Isengard artillery, and are fully capable warships.

They are available to join the Umbar expedition beginning in one week's time. This may be delayed by the clearing of Osgiliath, so be advised that it may be helpful to delay the dispatch of the expedition.

The ships possess the additional property that, like galleys, they are capable of sailing against both wind and tides – though not for long.

Yours,

Saruman.

"Alright, lads," Raza said, walking slowly down the lines. "We all know what's in there."

She paused, looking into the city theatrically. "A bunch of starving wretches, that's what!"

After that, she sobered slightly. "They're hungry, they're desperate, and they're going to try to kill you. Try to make sure that doesn't happen. Close order drill, bayonets fixed, and don't get too far ahead of the artillery – a blast of cannister solves a lot."

She nodded to the battalion commanders. "Good luck, ladies and gentlemen."

Twelve hours to go until the flotilla got there. With luck, that should be long enough to push the Mordor forces back to the shores.

Commander Rakos, commanding INS Bat, contemplated the coming engagement.

It wouldn't quite be the first crisis faced by his command – negotiating the Entwash delta into the Anduin itself had been fraught, and he'd had to tow the Rat on one occasion – but it would be the first time he, personally, had gone into battle.

In a strange way, he was looking forward to it. Not what it was, but what it represented.

Proof that the ships he'd been significantly involved in designing and building would be as useful as the senior service – the Army of the Hand – in defending the world.

"Messenger, arriving!"

He looked up, driven from his reverie, as a crow alighted on the bridge perch.

"Message from Colonel Raza," the bird began. "She has the Mordor forces pushed back to within half a kilometre or so of the waterfront. Some patches have given up already, and she thinks they're close to breaking."

"Just in time," Rakos said, looking at the approaching suburbs of Osgiliath itself. "Right. Where's the pocket?"

"Below the big bridge, and covering about eight hundred metres of shoreline," the crow replied promptly.

That gave a location to the occasional sound of shellfire that Rakos could hear over the repeated splashing of the water.

"Right," he said again, and raised his voice. "Signal to the other ships in the flotilla – we are about to go into combat. Strike the sails, make steam."

The engine-room telegraphs clanged. Overhead, crewmen began hauling in the sails onto their spars.

"We will turn to face upstream as we reach the point of engagement, and then use engines to counter the force of the current and fire onshore on targets of opportunity," he continued. "Load contact in port side main guns, and ready your rapidguns."

That done, he turned back to the crow. "Please inform Colonel Raza that I will be in place in about twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes to travel two miles?" Raza asked, blinking. "I'd lay even odds my men could march that. I thought these new ships were supposed to be fast..."

She looked up, and pointed. "Captain, see off that flanking movement!"

"Lieutenant," the captain said in turn, pointing. Rifles turned and crashed, and five or six of the ten-strong Mordor squad fell.

A rapidgun's spiteful brrrrt erased the remainder.

"Here they come!" someone called, as more orcs appeared over the makeshift barricade ahead. Dozens of them, then hundreds – all of them looking emaciated and starving, but still armed and dangerous.

"Down!" the gun-captain called, spinning the elevation and traverse wheels, and yanked his lanyard. At four hundred metres, the shot cones were at maximum dispersal, and dozens of orcs went down.

"Volley fire!" the captain called crisply, as the breech-block clanged open and the field gun reloaded.

Raza fielded another messenger crow, trying to keep a map of the action in her head.

It was cursed hard, fighting in a city like this. She'd had to split everyone up – even the reserve wasn't really concentrated. Without the crows, it would be impossible to maintain control.

As it was, every reasonably large street had two platoons, one rapidgun and a field gun on it, and that seemed to be enough to hold them more or less indefinitely. The smaller streets had half-platoons, and there were men on half-ruined towers and pretty much everywhere else they had good fire lanes.

Despite that, though, she was still taking casualties, as orcs infiltrated through covered passages where they couldn't be spotted ahead of time by the crows.

"Hurry up, damn it..." she whispered, then cleared her throat, resisting the urge to cough in the acrid powder-smoke. "Can you get a shell into that barricade, gunner?"

"Might be able to, sir," the gunner reported, frowning. "It's... what, four hundred twelve metres?"

He sat down with a pen and piece of paper, and his second stood ready to conn the gun if needed.

"How many more rushes are there going to be?" the captain asked, looking down the street at a carpet of orc bodies – a carpet which twitched and moaned in places.

"Not many," Raza said grimly. "Every time they work up the courage, it's the bravest ones who do. And then they die."

She sighed. "Sooner or later there'll be some who are willing to give up."

Another crow came down and reported, before taking flight. Raza considered, then signalled.

The wheels of the rapidgun rumbled on stone as it was manhandled forwards a few paces, and slewed to aim into the door of a courtyard off to the left.

A heartbeat of stillness, during which everyone could hear gunfire elsewhere in the city, and then the orc platoon which the crow had spotted came charging out of the doorway with a shrieking roar.

With a by now familiar motion, the Lune operator turned his crank. The machinery clicked, the thirty-five rounds blasted out in sequence, and roars turned to screams.

Rifle fire finished the job, with the few survivors running for their lives back into the courtyard.

"Got it," the gun captain said. "About a third of a degree."

He spun the elevating wheels so the gun was horizontal, then gave a small adjustment back up. "There. Load contact."

"Follow it up with a shell," Raza said. "That should give them something to think about."

She waited for him to be ready. "Now!"

The gun bucked, sliding backwards on the street. At the other end of the thoroughfare, a red-cored explosion blew the barricade to bits.

Before the round had even hit, the gunners were reloading. The shell was already prepared – one-second fuze – and the gun elevated slightly more so that its' shell would not strike the barricade itself.

Much faster than they would in a field engagement – largely because for one shell the gun life wasn't as much of a concern – the weapon was ready to go, and the gun captain jerked his lanyard a second time.

The shell was a bit off to the left, nearly hitting the remaining section of the barricade, and almost half the balls struck it uselessly. The remainder, however, passed cleanly through – producing screams.

"Keep your distance," the gunner muttered, as they hauled the gun back into battery again and loaded cannister.

"Here goes," Rakos mused, and reached over to the engine telegraphs.

He shifted them – right to full, left to full reverse.

More smoke plumed up from the smokestack. There was a moment of lack of motion, with the engines disengaged as gears shifted, and then the paddles started up again.

The differential engine power caused the ship to rotate, nose swinging out into the middle of the Anduin and then coming to point upstream.

Another shift of the telegraphs, and engines went to near-stopped, barely churning the water.

The whole evolution had taken a little over a minute.

"Good work," Rakos said down the speaking tube, as the current of the river matched the upstream progression of the Bat. "Port side guns, ready!"

Affirmatives came back.

"First target is the tower right by the shoreline," Rakos continued. "Fire when ready."

The five guns on the port broadside fired in sequence. Two rounds missed. One round detonated before it hit, sending out a spray of shrapnel which slashed down at least a dozen orcs, and two shells hit.

"Ragged, ragged!" Rakos called. "And who loaded shrapnel!"

There was some embarrassed shuffling.

"Aule's forge and hammer, what do you call this?" he went on. "We're a stationary platform firing at a stationary target five hundred metres away, and three misses? Do that against the Corsairs and we're fucking dead! Now, try again, and I expect to see more hits!"

This time, the guns fired a little out of sequence, as differences in reloading speeds and in the jitteriness of the crews told. Four shots hit the tower, and only one missed.

"Better," Rakos said, somewhat mollified. "One more."

The third salvo hit something load-bearing, and the tower collapsed in a cloud of stone-dust.

"Right. Now, load shrapnel. Finished with engines."

Bat started to drift slowly downstream. Rat went past her, still facing the way she was going, and began to drift into shore.

"Sir!" someone called. "Boats!"

Rakos looked to his right, out to starboard, and saw the half-dozen dories setting out from the eastern bank. They were packed to the gunwales with orcs, and rowing hard for him.

"Right," he said, and walked over to the starboard guns. "You lot's turn. Rapidguns, ready! Main battery, ready – load contact!"

A couple of dozen sailors, no longer needed to handle the sails now they were stowed, collected rifles and crowded to the rail.

"Rifles, fire! Lunes... fire!"

One boat was hit hard by the volley gun, spinning out of line, and starting to take on water. A few orcs in the other boats dropped.

"Main battery, fire! Reload shrapnel!"

The starboard gun crew managed to score two hits on the same boat. The bottom of that dory essentially fell apart, and it sank in seconds – perhaps mercifully, for the orcs who had been on board.

One of the remaining boats turned for shore. The last three came on, soon reduced to two as the Lune guns badly damaged another one.

Then the shrapnel shot fired.

The half-pound shrapnel balls were more dangerous than the 11mm rounds fired by the Lune rapidgun. They smashed orcs into the water, flipping over the rail, or punched them down in bloody heaps.

"Cannister!"

Rifle fire continued to crack steadily away.

Rakos nodded grimly. By now, it was more or less a done thing.

Now, back to the fire support task.

"That was the last?"

Sanga nodded. "Relan is an expert captain, and I doubt any other could have held his ship together as smashed as it was. If there were survivors more badly damaged, they foundered in the bay."

Minardil sighed. "Damnation..."

He strode from one end of the council chamber to the other, and looked out over the great harbour of Umbar.

"What went wrong, old friend?" he asked.

Sanga shrugged. "I don't know, Minardil. I don't know..."

"This was our rebirth! Our statement that we, not Gondor, were the true heirs of Númenór!"

Sanga paused, then raised a touchy subject. "Do you believe those tales they were telling?"

"I do, Sanga," Minardil said. "Oh, I know the rest of the council doesn't believe them... weapons that can throw fire or strike down dozens of men with a puff of smoke! It sounds absurd!"

He chuckled. "And it would be... were it not for the lead shot driven into the planks of several of the returned galleys. That's what's doing the killing, not the smoke."

"And the fire?" Sanga pressed.

Minardil hesitated. "I don't know," he said. "It might be something like how catapults throw flame, but... whatever. We don't know enough to speculate."

He slammed his hand on the table. "What we need is action! Gondor's going to be trying to strike us now that we've kicked their nest!"

"I've already ordered checks on the outer fortifications," Sanga commented. "On my own authority – the chains checked for rust, the supplies made ready... nothing beyond what's supposed to be there."

"Good. And increase it," Minardil added. "Increase the garrisons, make sure the catapults have extra ammunition. I've got a few of the councillors in my pocket, we can force it through... get the Arsenal making us small ships, fast ones that can ram and board. We don't need the larger ones, but we do need the crew to man the small ones – so get the great ships up on the stocks. Break them up for seasoned wood if we run out – no, never mind, these smaller ships can be built of green wood if we need more."

Sanga nodded. "Makes sense."

He followed his friend to the window, and looked out at Umbar – looking, this time, at the defences.

The outlying forts, on the horizon – covering the islands of Arish and Moun with squat stone fortifications that would take time to capture - and which could host a small number of galleys to raid an attacker who dared bypass them.

The much closer fort high on the Grey Island's only hill, which covered both shipping channels with its catapults... and, more importantly, which hosted link points for two of the three Great Booms.

The two Towers of the Sea, protecting the other link points for the Great Booms and linked to Umbar's main fortifications by covered wooden walkways.

And, of course, the city fortifications themselves. The high Land Wall with its catapults and towers and sheer face, and the lower Sea Wall which cut the wharves off from the city proper.

It all looked very impressive, but two things worried the councillors.

Firstly, they knew all about the scrimping and saving. The embezzling of funds. The little economies that had lined their pockets and the pockets of their clients, and which had let them control Umbar with a velvet glove instead of an iron fist... and which were now likely to come back to bite them.

The other thing that concerned them was how those new weapons they'd heard of would change things. If they could be carried on ships, then that meant that sallying out might well no longer be an option... and if the weapons could be used in a siege, then that would make things even worse.

"Sanga?" Minardil asked.

"What?"

"Well, I was just thinking... what I wouldn't give to have some of those strange weapons here defending Umbar," he said. "I bet it'd be nearly impossible to make a landing."

"True," Sanga agreed.

He looked out over the city for a moment longer, then nodded. "Okay... should we start drilling the militia?"

"We'll pretty much have to," Minardil agreed. "And – we need to stockpile grain and water, as well, the reserves aren't as full as they could be."

There was a knock on the door.

"Oh, here we go," Sanga sighed. "Hours of arguing and then we decide to do what it took us ten minutes to work out."

Instead of the other councillors, however, a woman in a nondescript grey cloak entered the room.

"Ah," Minardil said, nodding. "What do the Hasharin say?"

"The Lord of Death is displeased with Umbar," she informed them blandly. "He expected more."

"The Lord of the World told us nothing of the weapons that slaughtered our men," Sanga replied. "We can only prepare for what we know of."

As the woman considered them, she made no threat.

She didn't need to. The threat was implied – no man or woman was given the task of representing the Lord of Death in negotiations unless they were fully willing to die in his service.

It would not precisely be unexpected for her to draw a poisoned blade and cut them both, delivering a lethal dose of toxin, before allowing herself to be cut down in turn by the guards – just to make a point.

After several seconds of cool regard, though, the Hasharin nodded. "Understood. Your plans?"

"Ensure the city is made safe," Minardil said promptly. "Make the price for attacking us as high as possible."

"You cannot stop them?" she asked. Cool, placid, as though discussing the weather.

"We don't know if we can," Sanga said – knowing better than to dissemble. "But Gondor is not unscathed – if the price is too high, then they may think again."

The next question came almost as soon as he had finished speaking. "Will you negotiate?"

"If need be, yes," Minardil admitted. "If Umbar cannot be preserved otherwise."

A pause, then a nod. "Understood."

There was another knock at the door. Sanga glanced over, and when he looked back the woman had vanished.

"All right, gentlemen!" the Uruk said, voice carrying clearly over the field – about a half-mile on each side. "Stand ready!"

The motley group of about six hundred Gondorian men – until recently swordsmen, spearmen and bowmen, though all with good eyesight – straightened.

"Starting today, you are not warriors of Gondor," he went on. "You are not here to swing a sword, you are not here to use a shield, you are here to be a rifleman – and you are here to be a good rifleman."

He turned slightly. "A good rifleman is a good shot, and he is not a man who either seeks glory for himself... or who rigidly obeys orders. A good rifleman is someone who does what is expected of him, and who can think to work out what that is. He is a soldier."

The crowd was silent.

"The first step is to teach you how to shoot," the Uruk said. "Reloading is brainless drill, shooting takes skill, and we're going to start you early. You will be learning to fire this."

With a flourish, two of the NCOs assisting him – one Uruk, one human – pulled one new rifle each out of the crates.

"This is a muzzle-loading rifle – which has been named the Ithil by the steward. We've got enough to practice with for now, and every one of you will get one by the time you are deployed to war."

A pause. "Any questions so far?"

One young man raised his hand. "Sir – uh, what do muzzle-loading and rifle mean?"

"Good question if you don't know," the officer agreed. "A rifle is a kind of gun – it is, essentially, a metal tube closed at one end. An explosion takes place in the closed end, and forces the bullet – like a sling bullet – out of the open end. Because it is rifled, it is more accurate because the bullet spins."

Taking one of the Ithils from his assistant, the officer grounded the butt and held up a paper cartridge. "This is what you fire. First, you bite the paper to open it, and then spill the powder down the open end – the muzzle."

Demonstrating as he went along, the officer poured the powder in, then sent the bullet after it and rammed it sharply home. "The bullet should fit down quite easily... don't worry, you'll all get so much practice you're sick of it. Now, the final step."

Taking a small object, he placed it at the breech. "This is a percussion cap, and it's what makes the gun actually fire."

To complete the demonstration, he brought the rifle up to bear at one of the targets and pulled the trigger.

There was a blam, a whoosh of flame and smoke, and the target twitched as the bullet hit a little left of centre.

A few of the trainees applauded.

"You'll all learn to do it," he commented. "Now, you will not simply be firing at targets to learn, there is a system. Firstly – you will be learning to judge distances to the satisfaction of myself or my assistants. Then you will be demonstrating your ability to set a rifle on target. Then, once you have done this, you will be graduating to the first class actually allowed to fire at targets."

Left unsaid – for now – was that there were three classes, and that to graduate the third class they would have to be able to score more hits than misses on man-shaped stationary targets over seven hundred yards away.

Since this particular group was almost as likely to be broken up for instructors as it was to actually be deployed en masse, it was important to make sure they got the full system.

"Right!" he went on, pointing at one man. "What is your guess of the distance to the red target?"

"Uh..." the former bowman looked a bit lost. "A hundred and twenty yards? I guess?"

"You?" the officer went on, indicating a second man.

"One hundred ten?"

He went down the line for a further nine men, getting answers which were all roughly between a hundred even and one hundred and thirty yards.

"Interesting," he said. "Sergeant! What's the distance to the red target?"

"One hundred fifty!" the NCO replied.

"You see what I mean?" the officer went on. "If you tried to hit a target like that, you're likely to hit the ground! And hitting the ground is not only a dreadful waste of a bullet, but means there's one more enemy out there with a spear who wants to introduce you to it!"

He clapped his hands. "So – the green target? Anyone got an idea?"

As someone was about to try their luck, a series of thuds echoed over the fields – faintly audible even this far from Osgiliath.

"Hm," he muttered. "Wonder what's going on over there..."

With a gasping thud, the troll collapsed – red wounds from shells and rifle rounds pocking its skin.

"Cease fire," Raza called, easing the hammer on her revolver forward again. "Reload, but don't fire, lads..."

She squared her shoulders. "Let's see if they're willing to surrender."

"If they've got half a brain between them they will," someone muttered.

"That's the trouble, though, isn't it?" Raza chuckled. "Hey! You lot!"

Silence answered her as the wind blew powder-smoke away from the battlefield.

"Look," she went on, voice pitched to carry. "You're the last lot left, and you've lost your troll. Just give it up, and you can spend the rest of the war getting good food for hard labour – it's better than you've had so far."

More silence.

"Right, have it your way! Captain-"

Several orcs came running out of holes in the warehouse, and rifles moved swiftly to cover them.

"Hold fire! You lot, drop your weapons!" Raza snapped. "Drop them and you get to surrender!"

Weapons clattered to the floor. One orc screamed instead and charged, and got three paces before a rifle barked.

"Captain, detail a platoon to escort the prisoners," Raza instructed. "Usual place. And – clear that building."

"Understood, colonel," the captain agreed. "Second platoon, handle the prisoners! First, fire support! Third, head to the entrances and ready to clear the building! And someone get me some Gondor swordsmen!"

Raza nodded – the captain would handle it from here.

She had prisoners to sort out. With as many as they'd bagged, they could probably get to work on the Gondor section of the railroad...

"Come on, come on!"

A man carrying a water barrel stepped aside, narrowly avoiding a collision with a wagon full of supplies headed down to the docks. "Hey!"

"Essential supplies have right of way!" the drover replied, and then he was out of sight and the conversation was effectively at an end.

With a sigh, the water-carrier adjusted his grip and resumed walking to the docks himself.

A squad of soldiers in Gondorian armour went marching across the street, followed by some Blackroot Vale archers in their cloaks and carrying cased bows.

Bringing up the rear was something that made everyone turn to look – a dozen uruks, in the light chainmail and uniform of Isengard.

Boromir turned away from the window of his quarters. "It's still strange, seeing orcs on this side of the war."

Geren shrugged. "There are men on both sides, why should there not be Uruk-hai? And common orcs, and dwarves for that matter."

"I've not heard of a villainous dwarf this Age, but I take your point," Boromir mused.

He looked out over the docks again. "How's the loading going?"

"We found enough transports for half mounts," Geren reported. "But you'll probably have to take as little cavalry as possible."

"Well, it will be a siege," Boromir agreed.

He spread a map of the lower Anduin over the table. "I was thinking we should stop here, here and here... all on the north shore. Pick up some more galleys in Pelargir, the marines are well experienced in shore landing operations."

Geren nodded. "What about Dol Amroth?"

"Imrahil rode back there a few days ago," Boromir filled in. "He should beat us there comfortably, and I gave him orders to assemble most of the remaining Swan Knights and enough armsmen to crew most of his galleys and provide an assault force."

He shrugged. "And all that coal that you insisted – though I still have trouble envisaging these ships you told me about."

"I've never seen them either," Geren said. "Well, once when they were just being built – but they were just going to be sail ships, then."

"I look forward to it," Boromir smiled. "And then there's the final stop at Tolfalas... and from then on it's camps in hostile territory until we reach Umbar."

He looked up. "I'll expect your men to help secure the camp."

"Of course."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in!" Boromir called, and a moment later a messenger entered.

"Beg pardon, sir, but there's a party of riders headed along the road towards the port. Lots of banners, looks important."

"Thank you, I'll be at the gate in a minute," Boromir replied. "Any idea who that is?"

Geren frowned. "No, actually... hold on a moment."

He leaned out the window and whistled, and after a few seconds a crow descended from the murder overhead to land on his arm.

"What news?" he asked. "The party headed for the gate – who are they?"

"Not sure," the crow replied, looking uncertain. "I've never seen the standard before – a white tree with seven stars and a crown."

Boromir looked up, startled.

"What is it?" Geren said. "Do you know who it is?"

"Do I know who-" Boromir chopped himself off, and managed a chuckle. "You're not exactly a herald, are you?"

Geren shrugged. "I know enough to get by, I think..."

"That banner can only mean one thing. It's Aragorn's banner – his royal banner," Boromir stressed.

Geren got it. "...oh, I see."

Boromir chuckled. "I wonder what he's here for..."

Sighing, he began to pull his surcoat and armour on. "I'll need to greet him – sorry about this, I know we were going to discuss the provisions."

"Whenever you're available, then," Geren said, standing. "I'll see to making sure the artillery's stowed properly."

Boromir nodded.

In full armour, polished up to a shine but with the dings of his recent battles still visible, Boromir walked out to meet Aragorn.

They'd last met... was it only a month or so ago? Less?

But then it had been different. Then it was the ranger and the captain.

Now it was the King and his Steward. Or the King and his general, or...

Aragorn reined in at the head of his party, and slid off the back of his horse.

Boromir took a moment to look him over as the two men approached one another.

There'd certainly been changes. The horse was clearly good Rohirrim stock, for a start, but the man was somehow more...

More royal, was the only way Boromir could put it. The cut of his cloak, the full armour he wore, and – even more than that – his bearing.

"Boromir," Aragorn said, with a smile. "I'm glad to see you well."

"And I you, my-" Boromir began, but Aragorn waved him off.

"Just Aragorn, Boromir," Aragorn told him. "My Steward can address me without the need for royal titles."

Boromir nodded, absorbing that – and not missing the confirmation of his position. "Thank you, Aragorn."

He looked pointedly up at the banner. "So, I take it you are claiming the throne?"

Aragorn frowned slightly. "It is... complicated. I have raised the banner, and I would have the throne – I have little choice – but I would not have made my claim so soon, were it not for the circumstances."

"What circumstances?" Boromir asked, a little warily. "What is the problem?"

"That's part of why I'm here," Aragorn told him. "I fear you're not taking the expedition to Umbar any more."

Boromir blinked.

"I am," Aragorn said simply.

"But..." Boromir shook his head. "Why?"

"A decision I have discussed with Gandalf, and would discuss with you," Aragorn said. "A way to avoid a long, tiring war on our southern flank, which I fear would otherwise press us even were we to take Umbar."

Boromir thought that over for some seconds.

"I said I would follow you," he said, eventually. "Though I didn't expect something like this quite so soon... but very well."

He laughed suddenly. "Did you just want to go back and visit Umbar a second time?"

"My own experience will be helpful," Aragorn replied.

"Smoke!" someone called, and both men turned to look. "Out on the river!"

Boromir peered, then smiled. "Ah, here they are."

"The sloops?" Aragorn asked. "We heard they were coming through, but I left Cair Andros before they passed that way. I'm interested to see what they really look like."

Over two hundred miles away as the crows flew, and considerably further by ship, an Amrothian quartermaster stared at the order in front of him.

"How much coal?"

A wind blew over the Trollshaws, slow and warm – ruffling the meadows like the caress of a gentle hand.

Golag didn't trust it.

It had been four days since his band had left the Gundabad border posts behind, and they were well into Elf-territory now. Into the land where the elves did not fear to ride, and to strike.

He glanced back at the two dozen fire-powder wielders, ensconced safely in the middle of the band of about eight hundred orcs – and their troll, kept docile by sheer stupidity.

A chuckle came. They'd better do their job.

"Alright, lads!" he called, getting their attention. "Hurry it up! Anyone I see slacking goes in the pot!"

There were jeers, mostly good-hearted – they knew he didn't always mean it.

"And keep an eye out," he added. They were taking a route which avoided too many trees, simply because it was too risky to get too close to a place an elf could use for ambush. "Where are those outriders?"

"Coming this way, boss!" another orc said, from the shoulders of a second troll. "Twelve of 'em!"

Good – that was as many as they'd sent.

"Oi!" he called over, as the warg-riders slowed. "What's the news?"

"Way's clear," the head of the scouting party called back. "So's the ford!"

Better and better. That ford led onto the road which would, within another day or two, take them to a small human walled town.

And that's when they'd show those brazen humans the power of fire and lead!

"Good!" he said. "Pick up the pace!"

"Pick up the pace!" his lieutenant called, and then there was a zzzip sound and what was almost like a cough.

"What was-" Golag began, and then it happened again.

Turning, he saw two of the fire-powder orcs collapsing – one just slumping to the ground, another standing as though transfixed by the hole between his eyes.

A third fell, and then a fourth-

"Get to cover, you maggots!" Golag shouted, throwing himself to the ground. "Those White Hand orcs are back!"

Six hundred metres away and halfway up a tree, Elladan sighted his Isen rifle and fired.

The moment that the gun had cracked, and with the retort still blasting in his ears, he took his right hand off the trigger – keeping the left hand on the stock, steadying it on target, and using his shoulder as the other support.

He actuated the lever, catching the spent casing out of the air like a frog catching a fly, and swapped it for one of the two remaining rounds between his ring and little fingers.

Cycling the lever the other way, he adjusted his aim minutely and fired again.

The whole process had taken perhaps three seconds – performed with a supple, blazing speed which extracted as much speed from the rifle as was possible.

Elladan fired the final round another three seconds later, then watched as the orcish formation rustled around like a kicked beehive.

No fewer than six of the orcs had gone down in less than twenty seconds, all of them clustered around the wagons which held their gunpowder and – presumably – their firearms.

The elven princeling carefully deposited his spent brass in the pouch, and then took another half-dozen rounds – ready to repeat the process when possible.

As he waited, though – more to let the rifle cool than anything else, since overheating was a very real risk – the orcs seemed to regain their courage. His keen ears picked up the one in charge exhorting the others to attack, reminding them of their own fire-powder weapons and telling them there had to only be about half a dozen uruks.

That brought a small smirk to the corner of his mouth.

Slowly the orcs began to advance towards the tree with its plume of white smoke – and then there was another barrage of shots.

Right on time.

When the seventh orc fell, Golag looked up – ready to see the telltale cloud of white smoke again, and confirm that he'd got the right tree.

Then the eighth fell, and there was still no white cloud.

The ninth-

Golag whirled, looking to the fire-powder orcs as they dove for cover. A tenth orc fell, and the spray of blood and bone was to his left.

"Another!" he shouted, pointing – and seeing the second white plume, now he knew where to look. "Another group! That way!"

Then the larger of his two trolls suddenly clutched at its eye, moaning and thrashing – flinging the rider off with bone-crushing force.

Elladan nodded to himself, then paused – considering – as the troll's thrashing drove it to knock the powder-wagon over.

There was an opportunity there.

He dropped his rifle onto the sling, drew his bow from his back and strung it with a single supple motion. Taking a flint and steel, he lit the rags tied to a fire arrow and drew back his bow – then let fly.

Nearly a kilometre away from her brother, Arwen Evenstar watched as the whole powder wagon went up in a plume of smoke and flame.

She fired one last round, hitting the orcish leader as he lay stunned, and then jumped down the tree from branch to branch and landed next to her horse, Asfaloth.

"Come, Asfaloth," she said, mounting up and drawing Hadhafang. "We can cut them down without the waste of more bullets."

Asfaloth flicked an ear at the powder-smell on her clothes, and broke into a trot – then a canter.

They were silent for a time, as Asfaloth pushed himself up out of the swale – then she caught sight of Elladan, riding in to finish the job of panicking the orcs just as she was.

It would be a long sixty miles back to Gundabad's border for these orcs.

Aragorn looked out over the fleet from his flagship.

Everything seemed to be ready. The ships were crewed up, with dozens of sleek warships holding the majority of the soldiers as temporary marines to aid them in a fight – and the matching transport ships, wide and awkward by comparison but even more important.

Grain, meat, horses, water, arrows, wargs and the thousand lesser things an army on the move would need, for a long campaign.

Even this wasn't all of it, of course. There was a smaller fleet gathering at Dol Amroth, and by now the reinforcements from Andrast and Anfalas and Pinnath Gelin would be at sea and heading for the city of the Swans.

In order to be on time, they would have to set off today – and, thankfully, the north wind was blowing with increasing strength and clarity as the sun rose towards zenith.

He nodded to himself, and got the attention of his flag captain. "Signal to the fleet," he said. "We move out – no sense wasting the wind and tide."

"Aye, sire!" the captain replied, and passed on the order.

A horn blew, a low note which throbbed out over the whole anchorage, and men on every ship turned to the flagship – finding it by the black double-tailed streamer that flew from the masthead.

Below it, a signal flag rose to flutter in the wind. A bright red flag, large enough to be visible as a splash of colour from over a mile away.

The order was – raise anchors and set off.

It wasn't that easy, of course. The ships were grouped in squadrons for a reason, which was that each squadron commander had to interpret the orders and keep an eye on the actions of other ships.

The bustle began to spread as ships made the last preparations. The sails were unfurled enough to make way once the anchor was hauled in, and oars were unshipped for the delicate manoeuvres of getting their ships out of harbour.

Rakos watched as INS Cat set off, taking up her position near the middle of the convoy.

As the most powerful combatants in the fleet by far, the little flotilla of Isengard sloops was split up into singular units and spaced out to lend their aid to as many places as possible. Rat was with the scouting squadron, ranging ahead of the rest of the fleet, and coordinating crows to search further out still – and, of course, many miles inland.

If hostile ships awaited them, the job of Rat would be to engage them and keep them in play until the rest of the fleet showed up.

Or, he admitted, die gloriously to let the fleet beach itself, if it turns out the Corsairs have enough sea power to crush us easily.

It wasn't something he considered particularly likely, though.

As for Cat, her role was essentially to be a very powerful gofer. Able to sail against the wind and currents for hours on end, Cat could head wherever in the fleet she might be needed with little trouble.

And then there was his own ship. Bat.

Bat was the rearguard, there not just to protect against attacks from the rear but also to help out anyone who had to drop out of formation... and to convince ships that didn't feel they needed to participate to think differently.

Hopefully none of that would be needed, none at all... but Aragorn was no fool, and he'd given Rakos the job.

The Uruk wasn't going to follow Aragorn blindly, but he had no compunctions about an order he saw the sense in himself.

"Remember, lads – sail dril!" he called. "Let's show these Gondorian seagulls how we handle our sails in Isengard!"

A few cheers came back to him, and he considered the crew.

Their gunnery was a little better now – he'd had them practice at least a few times a day, going through the evolutions dozens of times in succession and randomly replacing a few of the training dummies with live rounds.

At least no-one had managed to accidentally load the wrong round type...

"Skipper!"

Rakos looked up. "What?"

"One of the transports has run aground!"

"What?" he repeated. "Stupid-"

The commander chopped off the rest of the sentence. "Send a crow over, ask them how bad it is – are they holed below the waterline! Engine room, I hope you've kept the boilers warm!"

"Warm, sir!" the chief engineer replied. "I can give you steam in five minutes!"

"Do it," Rakos ordered promptly, striding over to the map case.

He unfurled the harbour depth chart, glanced between the grounded transport and the charts a few times, and then nodded. "Looks like just a sandbar, that part of the channel's been deeper before. Good."

Rakos looked up. "Get the hawsers!"

Lenabath cursed.

This was a right mess, wasn't it? The great Enterprise of Umbar, the chance to finally show the bilge-rats what Gondor was about, and he'd crashed on the way out of harbour.

"How are those leaks?" he called down.

"Not too bad," the bosun replied, rubbing sweat off his forehead. "Looks like some of the seams worked, but Blanchrath says he can fix it with just a little timber. Won't hold in a storm, but it's the wrong season for them."

"Right," Lenabath said, a little relieved. "How much water are we taking on? Do we need to fother her?"

"Don't think so..."

Lenabath pursed his lips. "We'll have to drag her off – put the boats down. Someone signal for aid from one of the warships, too, they've got oars."

There was a whirr of wings behind him, which he barely noticed. "Darkness and damnation – the cargo! Make sure the grains don't all get wet..."

"Excuse me, Captain?" a voice asked from behind.

Lenabath didn't recognize the voice, which meant only one thing. "I don't have time for you, lubber, we'll talk later."

"You'll talk now!" the voice snapped, and there was the whirr of wings again – and Lenabath flinched back as a flapping black shape flew up in front of his face.

"Listen closely," said the – crow, the crow – as it fixed him with a beady eye. "I need you to tell me if you're holed below the waterline."

Swallowing, Lenabath shook his head with a jerk.

"Right," the crow added, somewhat mollified. "Wait here, there's a tow on the way."

The pace of his wingbeats increased, and he flew off to the west.

Following the flight of the bird, Lenabath saw a shower of sparks erupt from the chimney of the iron-skinned ship that had come downriver from Isengard.

And it was coming straight towards him – with the sails furling even as he watched.

"Steady..." Rakos muttered to himself, judging the distance. He'd need to allow for the current, so-

He kept the left telegraph at ahead-slow, and moved the right one to all-stop.

Slowly, slowly, the Bat swung around under the pressure of her rudder and the power of one paddle. Her other one hung loosely in the water, producing the occasional small splash as it was moved one way or the other by a wave, and over the course of about a minute his sloop moved upriver of the grounded transport – which, he could now just about see, was the Saltspray.

Then Rakos shifted both telegraphs, and the Bat began to rotate. Her right paddle churned the water as it went into reverse, the left paddle sprang to life and pushed forwards, and the net result was to swing her bow about to point at Saltspray – and keep going.

Lenabath watched, jaw slightly agape, as the smoke-spurting ship conducted a stately pirouette in its own length, then began to reverse towards him.

"Ho the ship!" a compact dwarf on Bat called, waving. "Make ready to receive a tow rope!"

Lenabath shook his head and took himself in hand. "You heard the gentledwarf!" he said. "Second watch to the bow!"

A thin painter rope with a sandbag tied to it was thrown across from the steamship to the cargo vessel, and twenty strong men began to haul it in – as the thin painter pulled a thicker stay, and then a thicker rope, and finally an anchor hawser capable of handling the weight of a ship larger than this one even in a heavy storm.

"Make that fast!" the bosun called. "Put your backs in it!"

It was the work of a few minutes to secure Saltspray to the Isengard ship, and the bosun double-checked their work before nodding his approval.

"We're fast!" Lenabath called over the now-narrow gap.

"Right," Rakos said, fighting a grin. "Let's do this."

Both levers went forwards, and there was a clunk as the men below shifted the shafts to forwards motion.

Then the Bat began to creep forwards – and Saltspray restrained her, making her pogo back for a second until the line went taut again.

Slowly, Rakos increased the power he was expecting of his ship. Power for four knots. Five. Six.

At eight, there was a shudder of movement. Then, all in a rush, the Saltspray came free of her sandy prison, and there was a burst of cheering from both crews.

More distantly, cheering came from the ships still leaving harbour as well.

"Good work, everyone," Rakos said. "Now – back to sail power."

He slid both the telegraphs to finished-with-engines with a clang, and turned to the stern. "And get the tow cable back in, we might need it again."

"Aye, captain."

A few miles south of Isengard proper, the steady chuff of a steam engine heralded the arrival of a train along the narrow-gauge pioneer line.

The locomotive was no longer pulling hard, slowing as the friction of the axles bled away speed and the destination came into sight.

There was the sound of protest from brakes working away, and then the train came to a slow halt at the passenger station.

The doors opened at the front of the train, and a few dozen passengers came out – some Gondorians, still looking a bit startled, along with the more experienced Isengarder logistics troops and a number of soldiers detached for guard duty.

Once the guards were out, Saruman the White followed – stooping a little to get through the door, then looking around at Isengard to reassure himself of the situation.

No anomalies were predicted, Central said, with what sounded like the ghost of irritation.

I wanted to see for my own eyes, Saruman shot back. It's been a while. "Lieutenant?" he said aloud.

One of the infantrymen on the platform nodded. "Sir?"

"Please take the prisoners in the rear of the train into custody – they're to help with the main rail line construction at this end. We dropped the others off further up the track."

"At once, lord wizard." A salute, and the lieutenant chivvied his platoon into efficient operation.

"Efficient," the head of the Gondorian delegation observed.

"It's supposed to be," Saruman replied. "Word was sent ahead, of course..."

An Uruk approached. "Lord Saruman?"

"Ah, Ternak. Excuse me, count Galador," Saruman apologized. "Business awaits."

"Of course," the count agreed readily. "Where should I take my men?"

"There are rooms already prepared for you in the Tower itself," Saruman assured him. "If you will take yourselves there, Ternak will send someone to meet you."

Ternak turned aside to pass the order on, and they waited until the delegation had set off.

"Inside the tower, lord Saruman?" Ternak asked. "I'm surprised."

"Gondor is an important ally," Saruman reminded him. "Possibly the most important we have – no other friendly power on Middle-Earth has the numbers they do, and numbers matter in this age of fire."

Ternak nodded his understanding. "I see."

"Now..." Saruman nodded. "Report. What has happened in my absence?"

"You already know about the launch of the sloops," Ternak said. "It was a bit trickier than I'd like, and I sent some of the mechanics with them in case they had trouble with the engines... that's one reason I put two engines in."

Observe, Central murmured.

Saruman saw three ships, beating steadily upriver in a line.

The flags at their topmasts fluttered backwards – they were going against the wind – and smoke issued from the ship at the front.

Paddles steadily churned the water, throwing up little splashes of water, and all three ships slowly made way against the current.

The view changed, showing the inside of the front ship.

One engine sat quiescent, unworking. The other one was operating at full normal power.

Steam engines produce best results at low speed, Central said.

"An excellent choice," Saruman told Ternak, blinking away the vision. "I imagine you'd only need one engine to tow the entire flotilla."

Ternak nodded. "I could see that, lord," he admitted. "They're quite powerful."

"As they should be."

"We received word by crow that the delegation to Erebor arrived last week," Ternak said. "No further word after that, though."

"Pity," Saruman mused. "Perhaps it will take time for the victory at Pelennor to spread – once it is known we can stand against Mordor, and how powerful our weapons are, I have hopes for the Dwarves of the far north."

Ternak nodded. "I understand, lord."

"And the elves?"

"What we've heard indicates that the children of Elrond, at least, are interested in the new weapons. In fact, they want to know how to make their own."

Saruman chuckled. "Perhaps that will have to wait... speaking of rifles, how are things proceeding with the new Flaxite?"

Ternak winced. "Well... that's not been going as well as it could have, lord."

"Show me."

An uruk in a heavy leather suit raised an Isen-III type rifle – a test type, much the same in mechanism as the Isen-II already undergoing early production – and pointed it downrange.

He took a breath, and then began to fire.

Crak-crak-crak-crak-crak-crak-

Then there was a spang, and pieces of metal flashed out as the mechanism broke.

One or two of the small bits of shrapnel bounced off the leather suit, and the uruk sighed in relief.

"The prototypes are fine," Ternak said gloomily. "The ones made with individually fine-built parts. But as soon as we switch to the production methods we'd use for a mass-production version, it keeps breaking."

Saruman nodded. "I see."

He considered, for a long moment.

"I think there is a solution," he said. "Take two – one all fine-built and one with the mass production parts. Replace the fine built components with the mass-built ones one at a time, no more than one at once... then, when you find which component cannot take the strain, examine whether that particular component as a fine-built part in a mass-produced mechanism works."

He waved his hand. "That is the first option. The second is to reduce the powder charge in the cartridge."

"Which should we try first?" Ternak asked.

"Test both," Saruman advised. "If the powder charge reduction leads to a weapon that still fires a faster bullet, then it is worthwhile simply to save on the propellant."

"I understand," Ternak nodded. He took a clipboard, and wrote down the suggestions. As the leather-clad uruk walked back over, he passed the clipboard across. "Pass this on to the development head for the Isen III – thank you."

"And this is something which Uglúk has been trying out," Ternak introduced. "It's very experimental at the moment..."

It looked like some kind of metal monstrosity which a 75mm gun had been built on top of, as it happened.

"Right!" Uglúk was saying. "Let's give a good demonstration for the lord wizard!"

"Yes, sir!" one of the gun crew agreed, saluting, and then they bent over their weapon.

"I was wondering about how to get better accuracy, lord," Uglúk explained, as half-a-dozen shells were stacked by the weapon and it was rotated – slowly – to point at the mountainside rising behind Isengard. "And I wondered – obviously there's recoil, but what if the gun could sort of... absorb it? Like the way a person's shoulder absorbs some of the recoil of a rifle?"

Saruman nodded. "I see. Continue."

"Well," Uglúk went on. "I realized that a rifle – or even a rapidgun – doesn't recoil on a mount, so I did some experiments and I found that what matters is the peak force. If you rig up a rapidgun so all thirty-five barrels fire at once, it does recoil the carriage backwards, but a normal volley is spread out enough that it doesn't."

"He broke two carriages proving that if a gun couldn't recoil it would instead damage the wood mechanism," Ternak interjected.

"Right," Uglúk agreed. "But then I thought about it, and I realized – if you set it up kind of like a spring, you could spread the force out in time and that way it wouldn't actually move the weapon."

Saruman listened without comment.

Interesting, Central noted. A grid flashed over the weapon, highlighting important bits of the large experimental mount.

"So I ripped the gun barrel off and put it on a slide," Uglúk explained, pointing. "I had to add rollers, but it means that just the barrel recoils back... which is an improvement, but when it reached the far end it still delivered a shock, and it also has to be pushed back."

With a flourish, he indicated a second, shorter cylinder – something which had flashed in Central's sight. "So there's a fluid system under the barrel, and when the gun fires it pushes fluid from just beneath the barrel into this cylinder – which compresses the air in this end of the cylinder, via a piston, and then as the air pushes back, it returns the gun to the original firing position."

He stood back.

Saruman couldn't help but be impressed. It was big, cumbersome and crude, but it sounded a lot like Uglúk had significantly modernized the Isengard artillery if this could be made to work.

Correct, Central agreed. Canon de 75mm – the soixante-quinze. Major advance in artillery weapons. Used hydraulic oil instead of water.

"A demonstration?" Saruman suggested.

"Of course," Uglúk agreed. "All right, lads – six rounds rapid!"

Ternak got out his timepiece.

A small counter appeared in the corner of Saruman's vision, made of green numerals.

"Fire!"

The Anduin fired, recoiling back with a jerk, and then came sliding back to the original firing position over the course of about four seconds.

The breech-block clanged open, shut, and then the second round was on its way.

Saruman turned to watch as the shots hit the mountainside. The second hit before the smoke-cloud from the first had dissipated, and then the third, fourth, fifth and sixth shells all hit the same area – spalling off fragments of the rock face and throwing up clouds of dust – inside an area that was, to all intents and purposes, the same place all six times.

As the sixth shell cracked out, Central froze the timer.

It had taken perhaps thirty seconds to reload the cannon five times.

Uglúk coughed in the clouds of acrid gun-smoke. "Of course, it's not ideal... faugh! But it still means our shots are much more accurate – with this and a high-angle gun, we could use the crows to get our rounds accurate to within a few feet!"

"Would it work better with smoke-less powder?" Saruman asked, softly.

Uglúk's eyes widened.

"Excellent work," Saruman added. "I imagine that flaxite would also prevent the gun barrel being eroded quite so much... less residue. But yes, continue with your experiments. Try to make it small enough to fit on a carriage, it doesn't matter if it takes an extra warg to pull."

"Yes, lord!" Uglúk nodded.

"After that, the railway sounds mundane..." Ternak muttered. "Uh, anyway – we're working on the main line. It's spreading out from four places by now – but we're working on just two of the lines to start with, the left-hand pair."

"Sensible," Saruman agreed. "I think we're going to need as much capacity as possible."

Central concurred, statistics appearing before Saruman's eyes. The requirements of an offensive up the Morgul Vale... the ammunition consumption of a recuperating artillery piece...

"And see about planning the line over the Anduin river, as well," Saruman added. "Negotiate with the new lord of Cair Andros."

"Of course, lord."

When Ternak was gone, Saruman sat down at his desk.

"This isn't going to be a quick war, is it?" he asked, and the Palanitr flashed.

I did not promise a quick war, Saruman. I merely explain how to fight one that can be victorious.

AN:

So, I've started this up again.

I'm going to try to do a 1000-word-or-so mini-chapter every other week and then upload here when I've got enough for a full one.

Incidentally, a little joke here for those who might spot it - the Armoured Sloop Bat. ASB intervention!