In the outer walls, in the inner walls, to the very last stronghold.
Black skin crowling, battle yells ringing, the blood lust and victory
hanging in the air.
At once the doors burst open, revealing white horses carrying white riders in glistening mail and plate.
Sword against sword, black against white, riders of the east versus monsters of the west.
Red blood mingled with black blood, corpses of both kinds falling on each other.
Slowly the white horsemen fought their way forwards. Beyond the Hornburg,
Through the courtyards, down the stairs, over piles of rubble left from the night before,
As the White Face crept through the sky, so the White Cavalry crept through the city.
The horn of Helm Hammerhand blew on that fateful morning, when East met West.
I heard the cries of agony from the fields below, in the tongues of both Isengard and Rohan,
Mingled with the rousing cry of the horn, echoing through hill and dale, waking the children hiding in the caves.
At last I stood on the great wall, surroundede by black corpses, so many I could hardly turn around,
Black blood flowing down the white walls, glistening in the morning sun, and suddenly a shadow--
A shadow that should not be. And I finally gazed out beyond my foes, and saw the wall of hope.
Trees, great trees surrounding us, a fourth wall, impenetrable, as they soon found out:
Fleeing uruks, nowhere to run, cut down cruelly by Theoden king and his men: a fifth wall of goblin corpses.
And there stood I, Narsil unsheathed, looking out at the plain beyond, seeing the White Wizard's work.