The fine blue morning had quickly given way to a lowering grey sky, with scudding clouds hurrying in from the west.  The wind from the south had grown warm and gusty, riffling the grasses.  To the west, distant lightning danced in traceries and staccato bolts from south to north against a black storm cloud hugging the horizon, crowding upon the plain.

Though the light ahead of the advancing storm mimed early dusk, it was barely midday.  Dezoch had spent the morning on a low rise, watching the battle play out just over a mile away.  Those were his orders, to watch and wait until the second signal was lit.

From what he could see the lines had changed little in the last few hours.  Gondor had been pushed back marginally, if only to make room for more bodies in front of the shield wall.  It was butchery, he knew.  But Gondor’s men had to be tiring.  The volleys from the archers had all but stopped as they conserved arrows for the afternoon.  Impatiently he waited as the wind rose, thunder rumbled and the scent of pending rain wisped by.  Then he saw it to the rear of the battle off to the northeast, two roiling columns of black smoke rising from separate oily pyres of wood, ripped away north in the buffeting wind. 

He turned and scrambled down the slope to the three flagmen, each with pennants of tribal colors.  A few sharp words and they stood waving their flags on long poles.  At once the plain came alive as six thousand wild, unkempt men stood awaiting orders.  Dezoch barked orders at the three tribal leaders who in turn bellowed out commands to their troops. 

Now he walked back up to the crest of the low rise.  Behind him his small army swept up the slope, taking positions in a broad front facing north.  In front of them, less than a mile away, Gondor’s army held a wavering line, facing east.

Dezoch felt his heart pounding.  Sweat prickled under his woolen tunic.  He beckoned over to the flagmen again.  They stood and waved the banners back and forth three times.  A great roar erupted among the men.  Then the banners dipped down, facing north.  En masse, six thousand club wielding, snarling, wild haired men from the far eastern plains swarmed down the slope, the light of death in their eyes.

Gondor's doom had arrived.