It was then when doom was nigh and all hope was deemed lost, that their faces turned to meet the sound of horns from the west. All along the ridge line hundreds of banners started to rise from the ground. Great green bolts of cloth embroidered with white horses galloping to meet the wind. A line of mail-clad men crested the ridge, their armour dusty and battered from the long ride and old battles fought. Their lines topped by spear points glistening in the morning sun and banners streaming through a river of air. The orc hoards amassed outside the walls of Minas Tirith turned in shock to see the riders of Rohan emerging from thin air on their flank. It was soon that the horsemaster's horns were met by those of the defenders remaining in the city streets and on the walls, it was then that the men of Gondor realised that this day might yet belong to man. Cries went up from the city streets as men gave their last and rushes of steel-clad warriors emerged from doors and small alleys putting orcs to the sword. High up on the white walls archers rallied to their captains and unleashed flights of arrows on the orc hoards below them. On bowstrings the famed rangers of Ithilien played their songs of war, sending arrows whistling through the sky. It was then that the horns of Rohan ceased their calls and commanders darted across the lines returning to their companies. Encouraged by their king's words the horns of the Rohirrim shattered the sky and the cries went up from thousands of men at once: "Death!", "Death!", "Death!" And the ground trembled under the weight of tens of thousands of hooves kicking at the soil. It felt like an earthquake as a tidal wave of horsemen closed on the orcish ranks. The first volley hit home and struck men and horse alike to the ground. And when it hit its mark another volley was unleashed by the orcish archers shielded by their spearmen. But arrows could not stop the war crazed riders as they fell upon Mordor's lines with axe, spear and sword. They broke through the hedge of spearpoints cleaving orcheads left and right, trampling what remained under their horses' hooves leaving a bloody mess of an army in the wake of their charge.