Marchwarden: Hidden Hero - Chapter 11
Title: Marchwarden: Hidden Hero - Chapter 11
Author: kenazfiction
E-mail: kenazfiction@gmail.com
Fic Journal: http://kenazfiction.livejournal.com/ or The Archive
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Borrowing the Good Professor's characters for my own amusement.
Archive: OEAM, Melethryn, The-Archive.net, others, just ask.
Feedback: of course!
Beta: Lady E
Summary: Life is a ragged diagonal between duty and desire.
Click here for Chapter 10.
A/N: As in the previous chapter, this chapter owes a debt of gratitude to Marnie for letting me borrow some ideas from The Battle of the Golden Wood. Details will follow at the end of the chapter.
Third Age 3019, 54 Echuir
Either the sun had not risen, else it hid behind the clouds draping the forest and vale like thick smoke. In the distance, the sky over Oroduin looked as if it were sucking the very firmament into its maw, drawing all light into its vortex. It was not only the dearth of sun that marked this day ominous; the clamor of the Yrch armies had for two days been a dissonant and ceaseless cacophony. In Lorien, however, the silence was uncanny; no birds sang, no animals foraged, and the Elves spoke little. The forest held a collective breath.
The latest battle had begun two nights past, and it had not gone well for the Galadhrim. With their borders burned, the archers had neither the cover nor height required for their assaults. They sent arcing volleys from the ground that sang across the divide, but their defenses had been dealt a devastating blow, and their efforts had done naught but temporarily push the enemy back. The trebuchets still stood, and they would be in range of Caras Galadhon by nightfall. Worse yet, the engines had been primed to spring, and even stopped short of their goal they would bring devastation untold. Each sortie had been costly, yet every foot they drove back the foe was a foot they could not afford to lose anew. It appeared that Dol Guldur had succeeded in this, at least: the Galadhrim no longer had any choice but to ride to battle on the Gladden Fields. Yet still there was hope, however slim: of the Nazgûl there had been no sign (more trouble for Gondor, Celeborn surmised) and with sunrise the second day came word that Thranduil's forces had repelled the attack on the Greenwood, though with no victory there, Dol Guldur had turned its eye full on Lorien.
Celeborn once again amassed a cavalry on the wastes. On his command, Haldir had left others to take charge of the remaining archers and swordsmen at the battle's onset. He now rode at the head of one mounted regiment, and Feredir another. The ancient Elf-Lord, arrayed in mithril plate glowing with equally ancient magic, took the central vanguard. Despite his expertise with a bow, Celeborn was a son of Doriath, and he carried a halberd received from his sire during Elu Thingol's reign, its damascened blade backed with a cruelly edged hook that could unhorse a man and slit his throat in two swift jerks. He would not allow yet another of his beloved homes fall.
The horses balked at the scent of scorched trees and flesh and moved restively on fire-warmed ground. Even the whisper of Elvish voices did little to calm them; they knew death when they smelled it. Celeborn's charger tossed his head impatiently, switching his weight from foot to foot, and he absently rubbed his knuckles against the horse's twitching withers. This animal was unfamiliar between his legs; the stallion that had faithfully served him for nigh on ten years had been shot out from under him yesterday, the victim of an Uruk's quarrel that had opened a hole in his chest the size of a hen's egg.
The standard of his house stirred little in the stolid air, but still its colors could be seen from afar, a warning and a promise. He turned his head first to one side, then to the other, and in each direction the warriors of Lorien stood at the ready, each Elf a creature of fell beauty and hard discipline.
Haldir spoke of sacrificing the silver to save the gold, but there is no silver here; each life forfeited for our cause is no less brilliant than gold, no less costly than mithril.
Haldir tugged at his cloak, pushing the red wool back over his shoulders. Gone were the greys of the hidden sentries and march-walkers. The Galadhrim had mustered in full panoply, and had there been sun to greet them, it would have blazed brilliantly across their cuirasses. Beneath greaves and breeches Haldir's legs sang a song of constant misery. The blisters had burst, leaving raw, pink skin to chafe against his bandages with every step. Gripping the barrel of a horse was little better, but he counted himself lucky and thought on his brother still abed with his knitting bones, and on those whose bodies lay now beneath the earth.
"It has been a long time since we have stood together on the field, you and I."
The voice made him snap his head around, sounding, as it did, so very much like Rúmil's. Orophin edged his sorrel gelding shoulder to shoulder with Haldir's grey, grinning impishly at the momentary stutter of his brother's composure.
"Indeed it has," Haldir replied, heartened, "but I am ever proud to fight at your side."
The shine of Orophin's smile dimmed as he looked out over the field at the seething ranks of the foe beyond. Haldir knew the path his brother's thoughts had taken: Nothing stood between the din-horde and the Golden Wood save these cavalry lines and the remnants of the infantry, brave and valiant all, but outnumbered three to one. If they did not bring down the siege engines, Caras Galadhon would fall to fire, and the realm of Lothlorien would be no more. This was no longer a battle; this was an endgame.
Orophin spoke low, reminding Haldir that their customary benediction had not yet been spoken. "Say you will come back to me, pen iaur…"
Joy and sorrow swelled in tandem in Haldir's heart as he took up the old and beloved words. "…Because I do not part from you willingly."
Cocking his head, Orophin observed him thoughtfully through blue eyes slightly narrowed and slowly blinking.
"What are you thinking, muindor?" Haldir asked.
The middle son of Guilin drew a breath. "I was thinking that in your red cape and your armor, with that sword on your back and your bow in your hand, you look for all the world like Ada."
Haldir reached out his arm and took his brother's shoulder in a firm grip. Behind his proud smile, fear lurked.
"Come back to me as well, Orophin. It will be no victory without you beside me."
The standard-bearer carrying Celeborn's colors raised his staff aloft. With determination in his carriage and a lethal glint in his eyes, the Lord of Lorien raised his voice above the tumult and the Elves took up his call as the vanguard vaulted forward
"Death to the foes of the Golden Wood!"
The forays of the previous days had served their purpose well, even if they had failed to deter the Yrch or bring down the war machines. The evildoers converged in a wedge in the center of the field, staying well clear of the bogs and foothills where their opening assault against the wood had failed. Safely behind the ranks of Orcish foot soldiers and warg-riders, the Cave-trolls plodded on, straining against their harnesses, the trebuchets rolling inexorably behind them. Once in range, the mounted archers let fly and fire was returned. The distance between the lines closed and the clarion call of an Elvish war-horn rang out, a silvery note slicing through the muzzy morning.
When the alarum sounded, Haldir peeled to the right and his echelon followed; behind him, Feredir drew his men left. Crouching low, Haldir urged his mount on, asked the beast to give him all the speed he could, and the horse stretched out his neck and lengthened his stride. Haldir could feel the subtle shift of three beats becoming four, could feel the instantaneous suspension as all four hooves left the ground. The air was clammy on his face as he moved out and ahead. Glancing left, he saw Feredir riding parallel across the field, his men angling inward in an inverted 'v' to the rear guard. The cavalry descended on the Yrch like a steel jaw, wide open and ready to snap down on the prey that filled it. The foemen had not anticipated the crush that now surrounded their narrowed forces, and the flashing Elvish teeth closed around them.
But the Galadhrim had yet more in mind for the blackguards that ravaged their forest. Haldir, Orophin, and a half-dozen men behind detached from the formation and continued to speed ahead, mirrored across the field by Feredir's front riders. While the mainstay of the adversary was engaged, their attention had turned from the siege engines. They were still guarded, but the Elves could not hope for a better opportunity to destroy them. Haldir drew up beside the first machine and called behind him.
"Bring it down!"
He rounded on the wain that followed the trebuchet, its bed laden with clay vessels fragile as bird's eggs and filled with the fire of Dol Guldur. The Easterling driver pulled up his team and swung his flail threateningly over his head as three pairs of sharp blue eyes set him in their sights. Knowing his life forfeit, the Easterling drew back his lips in a cruel rictus and brandished his weapon one last time before letting go. The spiked ball sailed through the air like a comet, the rod and chain following in an arc behind. Haldir ducked instinctively, but the flail was not for him. The Easterling had aimed for his own payload.
There was a split second of stillness before everything around him burst into flame.
Though there were still miles between the burnt edge of the forest and the walls of Caras Galadhon, Taurnil could not help but feel that the City of Trees was woefully exposed. He slipped silently between alders and oaks in the scant leagues of unguarded forest standing defiantly outside the Lady's wards. The wards were stronger now, the sole benefit of their forced retreat; she needed no longer stretch her powers to their limit to reach the hithermost marches. In dire times, he thought, better to seek the bright side of each dilemma lest one sink into despair.
"What was that?"
The sharp whisper of his partner pierced the bubble of his ruminations and he looked up.
"Wind in the branches, methinks. I will have a look."
He darted off toward a clump of sycamores, but found nothing. He turned around shrugging, but even as he turned the rush of jostling branches accosted him and he looked up just in time to see a furred form in rapid descent. He leapt out of the way as the Ungol dropped from the sycamore's limbs, landing lightly on the ground despite its vulgar size. The necromancy of Dol Guldur had coddled this creature well, for less than a fortnight had passed since the eggs had been pitched into the forest, and already its dark body had swelled to the size of a boar's.
Taurnil shouted in surprise, stumbling backwards and barely managing to get himself out of the way of the falling spider. The twanging sound of a plucked bowstring heralded an arrow's flight, but the spider was equipped with a queer facility for moving in inconceivable directions. The flights did naught but graze two hairy spindles, prompting an eerie hiss of umbrage. Taurnil was too close to get off a shot himself. He continued scuttling backward, his hand cautiously reaching for his sword. Another bolt sped past his shoulder. This one found its target, the turgid, fleshy abdomen. The Ungol let out a furious shriek, rearing backward and waving its forelegs in a pained rage. It leapt forward, but already its strength had been leached by the wound. A sluggish gout of blood the color of nightshade pulsed onto the ground. Taurnil watched in morbid fascination as the creature stumbled and flailed, eight legs futilely thrashing.
He turned with a cheeky grin. "I shall alert Haldir you are in need of some remedial training. Had your second attempt gone as far astray as your first, I would have been in quite a predicament!"
By the time he heard the movement above him, it was already too late.
The grey destrier pulled up short, and Haldir lost his opportunity for a clean shot as the horse swiveled on his hind legs and darted left. It would have made no difference for him had he fired; the Easterling was dead, engulfed in flames. A lake of fire widened across the ground, punctuated with intermittent bangs as the heat shattered the other vessels and the charred shell of the wain collapsed in on itself. The liquid flare flowed down the grade of the land, filling in the runnels left by the war engine's heavy wheels, a trail of flame creeping toward the wood. The firepot held in the trebuchet's sling remained intact, ready.
Most of the Yrch surrounding the machine had fled, their cowardice for once greater than their hatred of the Elves. A few remained, however, and a single arrow from a single enemy was always enough to kill. Haldir turned his head against the blaze and squinted through the shimmering air, his burned legs raging as heat recalled heat. Across the wastes, he could dimly see Feredir and his men closing in on the third engine. Beyond him, Celeborn drove forward at a measured pace. The echelons needed to draw together around the army of Dol Guldur, but their comparatively paltry numbers demanded they destroy as many as possible at a distance first.
Behind him, Haldir's outriders gathered, awaiting his order. He appraised them, red-faced from the heat. "Maethor, Badhor, and Gormegil, with me! Orophin, stay with the others and destroy this thing. Disable it at all cost!"
With his men behind him, he sped toward the middle of the field, where the second engine trundled steadily in range of the wood.
A mere six to take out a war machine guarded by more than a score? This is madness!
Feredir closed his leg the bay mare and she snorted in commiseration, dropping her head and opening her stride. His men snaked out behind him, firing at will. An Orc-bolt whizzed darkly past his ear and he cursed under his breath, returning an arrow of his own and sneering when his would-be assassin pitched backward off the axle of the trebuchet.
A cry resounded behind him and he did not need to turn to identify the source. He cursed again, louder this time. It was not until he had come around a few strides more that he saw the downed horse and the body of one of his friends crushed beneath it. It galled him-and always had-that warfare did not afford the simple civility of a moment to mark the falling of a friend. His lips curled in a vengeful scowl and he took aim again.
It was an unexpected surprise to find the Yrch so poorly armed. Those who guarded the siege engines wielded mainly swords, pikes, and flails. They relied on the ranged weapons of the forward ranks to shield them. They had not counted on their nemeses assailing them so closely. Even as he watched, one of his men danced easily out of reach of a studded club. 'Tis the only score in our favor, Feredir thought grimly, pulling off a shot that garnered him a hit but no kill. Should the warg-riders turn from their business with Celeborn's men, they would be in dire danger, for a horse could scarce outrun a warg, and horses did not have mouths full of daggers and a taste for blood.
The enraged bellow of the Cave-troll resounded and Feredir craned his head to see the beast swatting at the arrows that bounced uselessly off his green-scaled skin.
"Save your shot!" Feredir's order barely registered over the tumult. "We have no bolts that will prick his hide!"
Then, an idea. "Throw me the end of your rope," he called to the rider beside him, who swiftly slipped the knot of the hithlain coiled at his waist and tossed one end to the lieutenant. It was not as long as he had hoped, but it would serve.
He gestured with a long, lean arm before securing the rope around his waist. The warden looked and nodded, tying his own end tight. Feredir dug his heels into the mare's side, feeling her flinch beneath him as she surged into action. The other Elf waited until Feredir passed in front of the Troll and then sped off in the opposite direction. They passed shoulder to shoulder in front of the Troll's enormous, toeless feet. They rounded back behind the troll and Feredir heard an agonized howl as his partner received an arrow to the thigh for his trouble.
"Do not stop!" he demanded, seeing the warden grimace, one hand on the rope at his middle, the other gripping the shaft in his leg. The horse understood and pressed on, his rider grunting with every stride. They circled again, and the rope tightened around the Troll's ankles.
"Aware! Here it comes!"
A third pass, and the rope had reached its full length. They pulled as best they could, cinching the circles as the Troll raised his back foot to take a step. There was a moment of suspense before the ropes caught and the creature lost his balance, unable to put his hind foot down as the hithlain shackle bound him. He roared, a sound like thunder in the earth's bowels, and Feredir clamped both hands tight around the rope, holding his breath and waiting.
At last, the Troll toppled, and though he was ready for it, the jerk that yanked him from his horse was abrupt and painful. He had envisioned himself landing on his feet, but the stunning force slammed him bodily into the fallen creature's immensely solid leg. He struggled to stand, dazed by the impact, and felt a searing line around his middle where the rope had pulled across his skin. But no matter, it had worked. The Troll had fallen, and even now his men were rounding on it. An Elf with a long spear approached at speed and sent his weapon through the Troll's eye and deep into his brain. The wheels of the trebuchet lurched to a halt and did not roll again.
Nearby, his compatriot was breathing in exquisite pain, his face ashen with shock. He rolled up glassy eyes at the lieutenant.
"Ribs," he rasped, and Feredir nodded, quite certain he was correct-at least a couple of the rider's ribs had been broken when he had collided with the solid wall of Troll. With help, the Elf was moved onto the ground between the dead Troll's legs. There was no time to move him off the field, or to imagine they could do so without being shot dead, and the mountain of unmoving flesh was as good a cover as any.
He had only a moment of smugness to appreciate the success of his scheme. One of his men called to him, and he turned to find an Orc he had shot and left for dead scaling the frame of the engine. A white-fletched arrow stood out between his shoulder blades, but still he crawled, and in his dying moment, threw himself against the trigger-arm of the trebuchet. The Elves cried out, full of fury and horror, but the counterweight dropped with sudden finality and the arm of the engine arced over them, pulling behind it the firepot in its sling. They could do nothing but watch as it hurtled through the air toward the outer flank of Celeborn's cavalry. The ranks broke as riders scattered every which way, but not all of them escaped the conflagration that enveloped the field. The scream of dying horses and Elves was a vile, discordant song.
We have done what was asked of us, Feredir reminded himself as he hewed through the ropes and pulleys to permanently disarm the machine. Here was one less engine headed toward the wood. But though he weighed the number of lives saved in Caras Galadhon against the number of his fellows burning before him, and while he knew he had served the greater good, it was a bitter victory, and one bought dear.
The archer did not need two shots to take out the second Ungol, but a single arrow flying true was too little, too late for Taurnil. The creature's stinger had still found the soft flesh of his stomach and pierced him like a blade even as it made the high-pitched whine signaling its death.
Taurnil's body responded instinctively, the last of his strength spent pushing the dying thing off of him. He vomited, tried to rise, but his legs went out from under him and he crawled jerkily, his limbs no longer responding to his body's commands. Beneath him, the blood of the Ungol pooled in an oily slick on the surface of the ground; the earth refusing to drink its poison.
"Be still!" his partner exhorted, a note of panic turning his voice shrill. "Be still, friend!"
Taurnil saw the Elf's lips move, saw the leaf mould kicked up in his wake as he bounded away in search of a healer, yet he heard naught but a distant hum. He opened and closed his fingers in weaker and weaker fists but he could no longer feel them, could no longer feel his legs, and his body grew cold and colder, as if dunked in the Bay of Forochel. At the last, he could move no longer. He collapsed on the ground, his eyes turned skyward.
He could not say (for he could not speak) how much time had passed when, with dimming sight, he saw Galion's face above him. He closed his eyes and smiled.
The Troll plodded forward with mindless steps, any sign of slowing bringing an immediate lash from the Orc who menaced him from the frame of the trebuchet.
"Take out the rest of the escort," Orophin directed, lining up a shot even as he spoke. Only a few Yrch remained, and if they were conquered while Celeborn's men engaged the others, they stood a chance of success.
A terrific roar raised his head, and he watched the far side of the field explode in a red-orange burst and a symphony of screams, at least a score of warriors and horses vanishing in the sudden flames. His nostrils flared reflexively and he spared a moment to thank the stars his wife had gone over the sea, though in that moment he would have done anything, anything, to feel her presence in his mind, to feel the rhythm of his heart strengthened by hers. He pushed the thought aside and turned his focus to the matter at hand.
The lash-wielder had dropped his whip and was scrambling now for the back of the machine, reaching for the lever that would loose the arm. Either he saw the first engine shoot and thought he had been ordered to fire, or he saw the futility of his position and sought to make his end as murderous as possible; it made no difference which. Orophin was drawing back his bowstring when one of the others let fly a shot that toppled the Orc off the engine. With the Troll's next step, the rear wheels rolled over him, severing his legs below the knees, black blood welling up on the ground ere the spreading balefire touched it and set it, and the Orc, to burning.
Finally, they had the machine free and clear. Orophin rode up close beside it, careful to stay out of the Troll's line of vision. He swung his leg over his horse and dropped easily onto the axle. With squirrel-like agility, he shimmied up the pole-arm. The counterweight was far too heavy for him to trip the machine thusly. He pulled his dagger from his belt and sawed at the ropes of the basket. It dismayed him to find that Orcish cord was near as strong as hithlain and just as hard to sever, but he persevered. One by one, the strands gave way and the ropes began to unravel.
Below him, one of the others was shouting. "Come away! Come away before it snaps!"
Hearing the groan of the strained fibers, Orophin slipped back down the arm and vaulted back onto his horse, steering the animal away from the engine as the final strands began to break. He waited.
Nothing. Though the basket swung precariously, the firepot did not fall. The Troll trudged on.
He pulled an arrow from his quiver and took aim, but he could hardly see the joint of the ropes. He shot, and the arrow pitched wide. He cursed and aimed again. Another miss.
Rúmil would drub me for my poor showing, he considered ruefully, exhaling in a slow, steady stream. He slipped another bolt on the string.
I will not miss, he silently promised, and loosed the string.
"Taurnil!"
Galion dropped to his friend's side, wiping beads of sweat like blisters from cooling skin. He prized open the Elf's eyelids and found the orbs beneath cloudy and pale, as if a caul had slipped over them. A dark stain showed on his belly where the Ungol's sting had entered him. It was a small wound, nothing compared to what an arrow might have done.
Yet it is enough, Galion inwardly moaned.
Milky purge frothed on the Galadhel's lips now and his body convulsed, back arching hard as if his spine would snap in twain, hands twisting up like claws.
"I can do nothing for him here," the healer barked at the warden. "Help me carry him."
Though his body was not heavy, they stumbled as they ran.
Above, the clouds swirled threatening and grim and Haldir almost expected to be sucked skyward by some foul updraft. Fires raged bright ahead of him and bright behind, and still one siege engine remained, lurching forward toward his homeland with the Troll's every stride. Badhor and Gormegil were two of his best archers (though Rumil's sure skills were sorely missed) and they had dispatched the enemy envoy with ease. The Cave-troll, however, proved impervious to their arrows; it did not so much as growl as the bolts bounced off his hide. The chains binding him to his task were beyond their means to break, and thus the trebuchet was not so much a burden to the thrall as an extension of his enormous body, a tail carried behind.
A lethal tail, at that: a wain loaded with firepots had been chained to the rear axle. It would be no simple matter of killing an Easterling to stop the forward progress of this lumbering inferno. The gap between Celeborn's men and his own was closing rapidly. If he did not strike now, he risked destroying dozens, maybe hundreds, of warriors, for if the firepots exploded or the machine was triggered, the cavalry would be too close to escape.
His only plan seemed precipitous and foolhardy, but he hardly had other options. Pressing his gelding up beside the trebuchet, he leaped onto the front axle, grabbing the Troll's chain for balance. A slap to the backside was signal enough for the horse to move well clear of him. He steadied himself and unsheathed his sword. Even in the storm-dark of the battle plain it gleamed, hungry for blood.
You have served my house well, friend, he spoke silently to his blade. Serve me again today. Aid me in the keeping of my vow.
As it had on the eve of the first battle, the inscription on the blade appeared limned in blue light, and Haldir was encouraged. He wasted not a moment more, but took three precarious steps up the taut links harnessing the Troll to the engine. The Troll's back was scored with oozing stripes where the hide had been laid open by an Orc-lash, and it was at one such raw site that he aimed his first jab.
Haldir barely managed to maintain his balance on the chain when the Troll roared and jerked. Another jab and the enraged beast turned, a cloud of fecal breath preceding its outraged bellow. It took a swipe with a meaty fist, but Haldir leapt from the chain back to the axle and ducked the blow, ducked again, before daring another slash at the wounded skin. The Troll stopped in his tracks and craned its head around, seeking its tormentor with dim eyes. Out of reach now, Haldir nocked an arrow and drew back, aiming for a particularly cruel wound high between the monster's shoulder blades. Though the arrow did not stick in the skin, it clearly aggravated the injury, for a shudder rolled slowly up the mountainous back followed by more noises of rage.
The Troll reversed his path, following Haldir's retreat with thunderous steps and Haldir jumped back onto the ground, fearing that if the Troll struck the trebuchet, the jolt of it might cause the machine to fire. He edged backward, staying only barely out of range of the Troll's furious blows. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maethor riding close behind.
"Go!" Haldir's voice sliced like a blade through the din. "Get away from the wain!"
Maethor did not even nod, simply pulled his mount left and sped ahead to where Bathor and Gormegil rode hard toward the Eastern side.
Cautiously, with a step light as a wren's, Haldir climbed the side of the wain and stepped into the wagon bed. The clay eggs rattled against each other as the assembly rolled over the uneven terrain. A momentary loss of balance, a misplaced foot, and he might shatter a vessel and make of himself a living torch. He took a breath and thought of Galion.
He knew his next deed might be accomplished at the cost of his life, and though he rued the thought of it, there was naught to be done but make good on his oath that he would extinguish his own light that the light of Lorien might burn on.
He took his shot. The arrow lodged in the creature's eye, and the sound of his pain and fury was terrible to hear. He charged toward Haldir with fists swinging and Haldir crouched, swallowing hard. He waited until those furious fists loomed above him, ready to crash down upon his head, and when they began to fall, he leapt.
Even as he closed his eyes, it seemed as though the clouds had cleared, and he hoped with a fervid desperation that the fleeting glimpse of blue he caught through tightening lids would not be his final glimpse of sky. Already his burns were screaming in anticipation of the fire to come.
Celeborn jerked the point of his halberd out of the warg's gaping mouth, a red spume erupting behind. The echelons had closed around the ranks of Dol Guldur and the column of foemen had splintered under the slam of the Galadhrim trap. All sense of order was lost now, a melee remaining, a dread chorus of blades and screams filling the air around him. He had seen at a distance the destruction of one trebuchet where it stood, and a second stripped into uselessness, though only after it had unleashed its fatal ammunition. The losses from immolation on the field had been hard to stomach, but they were a fraction of what might had been had the engine rolled another league further.
Now he saw the last of the engines as it fell. Strange… it seemed as if the giant thrall that hauled it had gone mad, had begun to break the firepots with angry blows. The balefire caught light and roared into blazing life, oily flames leaping across the Troll's arms and chest, spreading over its body. Crazed with terror and pain, the beast had tried to flee, making in clumsy haste toward the Anduin, dragging the trebuchet and the flaming wain behind.
Water will not aid you, stupid creature, Celeborn thought with a mixture of pity and animus. Sure enough, the Troll jumped into the rushing river, but the flames that cloaked him were not extinguished. The weight of the wagon and the trebuchet pulled him under to drown as he burned, greasy flickers dancing on the surface to mark his passage down and away toward Rauros' mighty falls.
A shiver seized him, shook its way down his spine and left fine hairs standing erect beneath his armor in its wake. Something had happened. He let his mind reach out, a silver thread, to the Mirror grove, and as that strand of his sentience drew into the woods, he found that he did not feel the prickling resistance of his Lady's wards. Panic filled him.
Fear not, beloved, came the answer he sought, lighter than eiderdown. It is done. Splendor of Eru, it is done.
Halberd in hand, absently thrusting at an Uruk-Hai soldier, he could hardly even begin to fathom her meaning.
The wards?
Fallen. Nenya's power is no more.
This, too, was blessed news to him; long had they required the Ring of Adamant to strengthen and shield them, but he had never wished his wife to bear a Ring of Power, and he had not a single tear to weep for its loss. His Lady read this from his silence, for she had no more to say. There would be time for words later. There would be time.
A rider-one of Feredir's men, though Celeborn could not see who-- broke away from the phalanx and sped toward the place the last engine had stood when the Troll had wreaked his havoc. Only then did he spy a dash of red, a Marchwarden's cloak, spread like a pool of blood across the ground.
Feredir pressed his horse, fingers of one hand knotted tight in a shock of dark mane. Ahead of him, he could see the Marchwarden rolling painfully to his hands and knees. Though his leap had been perfectly timed, the force of the blast had sent him sailing and his landing had been brutal. Even now, he was unsteady on his feet as he struggled to stand, and, dazed, dropped back to his knees.
Feredir called Haldir's name once, and the Elf looked up just in time to see his lieutenant barreling towards him, arm extended. He struggled to his feet once more and reached, letting the momentum of the horse's stride propel him up and onto her back. He slumped in relief against Feredir, anchoring himself at his law-brother's waist as he shook off the last of his dizziness.
"Yet again I have cause to thank you for handing me my life," he shouted against the wind. He felt Feredir's body jerk in a scoff.
"I do not save you for your own sake, you know," Feredir returned with mock severity. "Rúmil would cast me out of his bed if I did not return you alive. I serve my only my own interests in this."
Haldir laughed, though his battered ribs and back chastened him for it, and clapped a hand on Feredir's thigh. All around him, the enemy were scattering, Men and Yrch looking less fearsome now, and more frantic. Only the Uruk-Hai seemed indifferent to the chaos and dedicated to their violence.
What luck is this, Haldir wondered. Is this a retreat? Do they finally flee from us?
"Are you fit to ride or do you need a healer?" Feredir asked him.
An image of Galion flitted through his head and he forced it back. "I need only my horse," he said.
Once more astride his grey gelding's back, it became clear to Haldir that some monumental change had occurred.
"Sauron has fallen!" Celeborn's voice held a note of unfettered joy Haldir had never before heard it carry, and it energized him. "The One Ring has been destroyed!"
The Galadhrim sent up cheers as suddenly their foe became desperate and craven. The trebuchets destroyed, it was now simply Elf against Orc, against Uruk, and against Man, and Haldir set out to dispatch the remainders with glee.
A ferocious noise signaled the death match of two wargs. Their riders downed, they had no commands to obey and turned on each other with snarling alacrity. To the West, Feredir had rejoined his men and they drove scores of Yrch into the marshes, hunting them down and slaughtering them as they fled.
And thus, the final push on the Gladden Fields was made. His arrows expended, Haldir slipped from his mount's back and bid him make haste for the forest where he might rest his brave and weary bones. He drew his sword and waded into the fray, spilling the blood of each creature who challenged him with a fearlessness that bordered on cavalier.
He found Badhor with an Orc who as yet seemed unwilling to concede defeat. He moved to assist his comrade when something caught his eye. There, dangling from the creature's crude armor, was a long, pale braid, a thick plait of Elvish hair clotted with blood and filth. He knew on sight what it was. Or, rather, whose: the hair belonged to Estadion, the sentry whose throat had been slit in the pines, whose locks had been cruelly shorn by his killer. Estadion, the first man to die on Haldir's watch.
Engaged as he was with Badhor, the Orc did not sense Haldir's proximity until the Marchwarden dealt a blow to his sword-hand that knocked away his scimitar and lopped off his first two fingers. He howled, black blood jetting from the stumps. Haldir grabbed a handful of coarse, grimy hair in his fist and jerked the Orc's head back, pressing his dagger tight against his throat.
"Mercy, Lord Elf," the foeman screeched, "you have me prisoner, show mercy!"
Haldir chuckled darkly as he saw the Orc's hand move with attempted stealth toward his own dagger.
"Nay, I think not," he crooned softly. "You showed him no mercy." With that, he opened the Orc's throat, drenching the ground at his feet in a torrent of inky swill. He released his grip and let his lifeless body fall, wiping the filth on his breeches. He yanked the braid from the corpse. He would weave Estadion's hair into his bowstrings so that each shot would carry his sentry's revenge. Sometimes, there was simply no room for mercy.
Across the battle plain, victory cries rose like a new dawn. It was over; the mighty Galadhrim had won.
Soon, he told himself. You will see him soon, and you will know his heart.
For though the battle was over, Haldir had a private victory yet to claim.
Come, Taurnil, Galion sent silent thoughts to his fallen friend. Defy Mandos with your laugher!
A buxom young healer pushed him brusquely aside and swabbed Taurnil's brow with single-minded dedication.
Do you not hear the singing? It is over. You have won! I would hear your voice rise with the others, dear friend.
"Oh, Taurnil…"
He had spoken aloud this time, and the elleth looked at him disdainfully.
"I might better care for him if you were not in the way," she sniped, and turned her back waspishly to make a poultice of comfrey and rue. Galion took two steps back, but did not leave the tent.
You offered me love that I was a fool to decline. I had a sterling heart that was mine for the asking, yet my own heart was given to a fool.
The pointed clearing of a feminine throat brought his eyes back into focus.
"There are others who need your assistance, Galion. I will keep watch over Taurnil."
It took him a moment to understand he was being dismissed. He watched the healer stroke Taurnil's face and discerned there was little of healing in that touch, and much of a different sort of tenderness. His heart seized just a little, out of surprise, and also out of jealousy, and remorse that he could never find it in himself to claim what his friend had offered.
Outside the tent, there were other wounded, other dead. He helped where he could, feeling that all around him the joy of victory was tempered by the devastation of loss. He worked long into the night, and into dawn the next day, and all the while he was haunted. He knew Haldir lived, had seen him moving among the wounded. He rejoiced at that first sight of him: bloody, ragged, his red cloak torn and singed, yet the sight of him also made his stomach clench, for he had not forgotten what Haldir had asked of him, had not forgotten the choice that lay before him.
He had not forgotten, and for all the world, he did not know what he would do.
Next chapter...
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Mettarë = The last day of the year in the Elvish calendar. It correlates to 25th March in the Tale of Years, and in 3019 it was the day that marked the end of the War of the Ring.
Muindor = Brother
Pen iaur = Ancient one
Hithlain = The slender but incredibly strong grey rope woven by the Galadhrim.
Elleth = Female Elf
A/N: Once again, I am beholden to Marnie for some of the conventions found in this chapter-namely, the trebuchets (once again), and the idea of a cavalry of archers. I will say again: I am spoiled that she allowed me such free rein with her work, and I cannot recommend her own writing enthusiastically enough.
A word about dates: The three attacks on Lorien came on March 11th, 15th, and 22nd, and I have used the dates as given in the Tale of Years, rather than their modern equivalent, and then converted them to the Reckoning of Rivendell as per the Encyclopedia of Arda. However, some discrepancies appear in the Encyclopedia regarding dates, so I ask you to give me the benefit of the doubt and chalk up any discrepancies here as a touch of artistic license.
*
Author: kenazfiction
E-mail: kenazfiction@gmail.com
Fic Journal: http://kenazfiction.livejournal.com/ or The Archive
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Borrowing the Good Professor's characters for my own amusement.
Archive: OEAM, Melethryn, The-Archive.net, others, just ask.
Feedback: of course!
Beta: Lady E
Summary: Life is a ragged diagonal between duty and desire.
Click here for Chapter 10.
A/N: As in the previous chapter, this chapter owes a debt of gratitude to Marnie for letting me borrow some ideas from The Battle of the Golden Wood. Details will follow at the end of the chapter.
Third Age 3019, 54 Echuir
Either the sun had not risen, else it hid behind the clouds draping the forest and vale like thick smoke. In the distance, the sky over Oroduin looked as if it were sucking the very firmament into its maw, drawing all light into its vortex. It was not only the dearth of sun that marked this day ominous; the clamor of the Yrch armies had for two days been a dissonant and ceaseless cacophony. In Lorien, however, the silence was uncanny; no birds sang, no animals foraged, and the Elves spoke little. The forest held a collective breath.
The latest battle had begun two nights past, and it had not gone well for the Galadhrim. With their borders burned, the archers had neither the cover nor height required for their assaults. They sent arcing volleys from the ground that sang across the divide, but their defenses had been dealt a devastating blow, and their efforts had done naught but temporarily push the enemy back. The trebuchets still stood, and they would be in range of Caras Galadhon by nightfall. Worse yet, the engines had been primed to spring, and even stopped short of their goal they would bring devastation untold. Each sortie had been costly, yet every foot they drove back the foe was a foot they could not afford to lose anew. It appeared that Dol Guldur had succeeded in this, at least: the Galadhrim no longer had any choice but to ride to battle on the Gladden Fields. Yet still there was hope, however slim: of the Nazgûl there had been no sign (more trouble for Gondor, Celeborn surmised) and with sunrise the second day came word that Thranduil's forces had repelled the attack on the Greenwood, though with no victory there, Dol Guldur had turned its eye full on Lorien.
Celeborn once again amassed a cavalry on the wastes. On his command, Haldir had left others to take charge of the remaining archers and swordsmen at the battle's onset. He now rode at the head of one mounted regiment, and Feredir another. The ancient Elf-Lord, arrayed in mithril plate glowing with equally ancient magic, took the central vanguard. Despite his expertise with a bow, Celeborn was a son of Doriath, and he carried a halberd received from his sire during Elu Thingol's reign, its damascened blade backed with a cruelly edged hook that could unhorse a man and slit his throat in two swift jerks. He would not allow yet another of his beloved homes fall.
The horses balked at the scent of scorched trees and flesh and moved restively on fire-warmed ground. Even the whisper of Elvish voices did little to calm them; they knew death when they smelled it. Celeborn's charger tossed his head impatiently, switching his weight from foot to foot, and he absently rubbed his knuckles against the horse's twitching withers. This animal was unfamiliar between his legs; the stallion that had faithfully served him for nigh on ten years had been shot out from under him yesterday, the victim of an Uruk's quarrel that had opened a hole in his chest the size of a hen's egg.
The standard of his house stirred little in the stolid air, but still its colors could be seen from afar, a warning and a promise. He turned his head first to one side, then to the other, and in each direction the warriors of Lorien stood at the ready, each Elf a creature of fell beauty and hard discipline.
Haldir spoke of sacrificing the silver to save the gold, but there is no silver here; each life forfeited for our cause is no less brilliant than gold, no less costly than mithril.
Haldir tugged at his cloak, pushing the red wool back over his shoulders. Gone were the greys of the hidden sentries and march-walkers. The Galadhrim had mustered in full panoply, and had there been sun to greet them, it would have blazed brilliantly across their cuirasses. Beneath greaves and breeches Haldir's legs sang a song of constant misery. The blisters had burst, leaving raw, pink skin to chafe against his bandages with every step. Gripping the barrel of a horse was little better, but he counted himself lucky and thought on his brother still abed with his knitting bones, and on those whose bodies lay now beneath the earth.
"It has been a long time since we have stood together on the field, you and I."
The voice made him snap his head around, sounding, as it did, so very much like Rúmil's. Orophin edged his sorrel gelding shoulder to shoulder with Haldir's grey, grinning impishly at the momentary stutter of his brother's composure.
"Indeed it has," Haldir replied, heartened, "but I am ever proud to fight at your side."
The shine of Orophin's smile dimmed as he looked out over the field at the seething ranks of the foe beyond. Haldir knew the path his brother's thoughts had taken: Nothing stood between the din-horde and the Golden Wood save these cavalry lines and the remnants of the infantry, brave and valiant all, but outnumbered three to one. If they did not bring down the siege engines, Caras Galadhon would fall to fire, and the realm of Lothlorien would be no more. This was no longer a battle; this was an endgame.
Orophin spoke low, reminding Haldir that their customary benediction had not yet been spoken. "Say you will come back to me, pen iaur…"
Joy and sorrow swelled in tandem in Haldir's heart as he took up the old and beloved words. "…Because I do not part from you willingly."
Cocking his head, Orophin observed him thoughtfully through blue eyes slightly narrowed and slowly blinking.
"What are you thinking, muindor?" Haldir asked.
The middle son of Guilin drew a breath. "I was thinking that in your red cape and your armor, with that sword on your back and your bow in your hand, you look for all the world like Ada."
Haldir reached out his arm and took his brother's shoulder in a firm grip. Behind his proud smile, fear lurked.
"Come back to me as well, Orophin. It will be no victory without you beside me."
The standard-bearer carrying Celeborn's colors raised his staff aloft. With determination in his carriage and a lethal glint in his eyes, the Lord of Lorien raised his voice above the tumult and the Elves took up his call as the vanguard vaulted forward
"Death to the foes of the Golden Wood!"
The forays of the previous days had served their purpose well, even if they had failed to deter the Yrch or bring down the war machines. The evildoers converged in a wedge in the center of the field, staying well clear of the bogs and foothills where their opening assault against the wood had failed. Safely behind the ranks of Orcish foot soldiers and warg-riders, the Cave-trolls plodded on, straining against their harnesses, the trebuchets rolling inexorably behind them. Once in range, the mounted archers let fly and fire was returned. The distance between the lines closed and the clarion call of an Elvish war-horn rang out, a silvery note slicing through the muzzy morning.
When the alarum sounded, Haldir peeled to the right and his echelon followed; behind him, Feredir drew his men left. Crouching low, Haldir urged his mount on, asked the beast to give him all the speed he could, and the horse stretched out his neck and lengthened his stride. Haldir could feel the subtle shift of three beats becoming four, could feel the instantaneous suspension as all four hooves left the ground. The air was clammy on his face as he moved out and ahead. Glancing left, he saw Feredir riding parallel across the field, his men angling inward in an inverted 'v' to the rear guard. The cavalry descended on the Yrch like a steel jaw, wide open and ready to snap down on the prey that filled it. The foemen had not anticipated the crush that now surrounded their narrowed forces, and the flashing Elvish teeth closed around them.
But the Galadhrim had yet more in mind for the blackguards that ravaged their forest. Haldir, Orophin, and a half-dozen men behind detached from the formation and continued to speed ahead, mirrored across the field by Feredir's front riders. While the mainstay of the adversary was engaged, their attention had turned from the siege engines. They were still guarded, but the Elves could not hope for a better opportunity to destroy them. Haldir drew up beside the first machine and called behind him.
"Bring it down!"
He rounded on the wain that followed the trebuchet, its bed laden with clay vessels fragile as bird's eggs and filled with the fire of Dol Guldur. The Easterling driver pulled up his team and swung his flail threateningly over his head as three pairs of sharp blue eyes set him in their sights. Knowing his life forfeit, the Easterling drew back his lips in a cruel rictus and brandished his weapon one last time before letting go. The spiked ball sailed through the air like a comet, the rod and chain following in an arc behind. Haldir ducked instinctively, but the flail was not for him. The Easterling had aimed for his own payload.
There was a split second of stillness before everything around him burst into flame.
Though there were still miles between the burnt edge of the forest and the walls of Caras Galadhon, Taurnil could not help but feel that the City of Trees was woefully exposed. He slipped silently between alders and oaks in the scant leagues of unguarded forest standing defiantly outside the Lady's wards. The wards were stronger now, the sole benefit of their forced retreat; she needed no longer stretch her powers to their limit to reach the hithermost marches. In dire times, he thought, better to seek the bright side of each dilemma lest one sink into despair.
"What was that?"
The sharp whisper of his partner pierced the bubble of his ruminations and he looked up.
"Wind in the branches, methinks. I will have a look."
He darted off toward a clump of sycamores, but found nothing. He turned around shrugging, but even as he turned the rush of jostling branches accosted him and he looked up just in time to see a furred form in rapid descent. He leapt out of the way as the Ungol dropped from the sycamore's limbs, landing lightly on the ground despite its vulgar size. The necromancy of Dol Guldur had coddled this creature well, for less than a fortnight had passed since the eggs had been pitched into the forest, and already its dark body had swelled to the size of a boar's.
Taurnil shouted in surprise, stumbling backwards and barely managing to get himself out of the way of the falling spider. The twanging sound of a plucked bowstring heralded an arrow's flight, but the spider was equipped with a queer facility for moving in inconceivable directions. The flights did naught but graze two hairy spindles, prompting an eerie hiss of umbrage. Taurnil was too close to get off a shot himself. He continued scuttling backward, his hand cautiously reaching for his sword. Another bolt sped past his shoulder. This one found its target, the turgid, fleshy abdomen. The Ungol let out a furious shriek, rearing backward and waving its forelegs in a pained rage. It leapt forward, but already its strength had been leached by the wound. A sluggish gout of blood the color of nightshade pulsed onto the ground. Taurnil watched in morbid fascination as the creature stumbled and flailed, eight legs futilely thrashing.
He turned with a cheeky grin. "I shall alert Haldir you are in need of some remedial training. Had your second attempt gone as far astray as your first, I would have been in quite a predicament!"
By the time he heard the movement above him, it was already too late.
The grey destrier pulled up short, and Haldir lost his opportunity for a clean shot as the horse swiveled on his hind legs and darted left. It would have made no difference for him had he fired; the Easterling was dead, engulfed in flames. A lake of fire widened across the ground, punctuated with intermittent bangs as the heat shattered the other vessels and the charred shell of the wain collapsed in on itself. The liquid flare flowed down the grade of the land, filling in the runnels left by the war engine's heavy wheels, a trail of flame creeping toward the wood. The firepot held in the trebuchet's sling remained intact, ready.
Most of the Yrch surrounding the machine had fled, their cowardice for once greater than their hatred of the Elves. A few remained, however, and a single arrow from a single enemy was always enough to kill. Haldir turned his head against the blaze and squinted through the shimmering air, his burned legs raging as heat recalled heat. Across the wastes, he could dimly see Feredir and his men closing in on the third engine. Beyond him, Celeborn drove forward at a measured pace. The echelons needed to draw together around the army of Dol Guldur, but their comparatively paltry numbers demanded they destroy as many as possible at a distance first.
Behind him, Haldir's outriders gathered, awaiting his order. He appraised them, red-faced from the heat. "Maethor, Badhor, and Gormegil, with me! Orophin, stay with the others and destroy this thing. Disable it at all cost!"
With his men behind him, he sped toward the middle of the field, where the second engine trundled steadily in range of the wood.
A mere six to take out a war machine guarded by more than a score? This is madness!
Feredir closed his leg the bay mare and she snorted in commiseration, dropping her head and opening her stride. His men snaked out behind him, firing at will. An Orc-bolt whizzed darkly past his ear and he cursed under his breath, returning an arrow of his own and sneering when his would-be assassin pitched backward off the axle of the trebuchet.
A cry resounded behind him and he did not need to turn to identify the source. He cursed again, louder this time. It was not until he had come around a few strides more that he saw the downed horse and the body of one of his friends crushed beneath it. It galled him-and always had-that warfare did not afford the simple civility of a moment to mark the falling of a friend. His lips curled in a vengeful scowl and he took aim again.
It was an unexpected surprise to find the Yrch so poorly armed. Those who guarded the siege engines wielded mainly swords, pikes, and flails. They relied on the ranged weapons of the forward ranks to shield them. They had not counted on their nemeses assailing them so closely. Even as he watched, one of his men danced easily out of reach of a studded club. 'Tis the only score in our favor, Feredir thought grimly, pulling off a shot that garnered him a hit but no kill. Should the warg-riders turn from their business with Celeborn's men, they would be in dire danger, for a horse could scarce outrun a warg, and horses did not have mouths full of daggers and a taste for blood.
The enraged bellow of the Cave-troll resounded and Feredir craned his head to see the beast swatting at the arrows that bounced uselessly off his green-scaled skin.
"Save your shot!" Feredir's order barely registered over the tumult. "We have no bolts that will prick his hide!"
Then, an idea. "Throw me the end of your rope," he called to the rider beside him, who swiftly slipped the knot of the hithlain coiled at his waist and tossed one end to the lieutenant. It was not as long as he had hoped, but it would serve.
He gestured with a long, lean arm before securing the rope around his waist. The warden looked and nodded, tying his own end tight. Feredir dug his heels into the mare's side, feeling her flinch beneath him as she surged into action. The other Elf waited until Feredir passed in front of the Troll and then sped off in the opposite direction. They passed shoulder to shoulder in front of the Troll's enormous, toeless feet. They rounded back behind the troll and Feredir heard an agonized howl as his partner received an arrow to the thigh for his trouble.
"Do not stop!" he demanded, seeing the warden grimace, one hand on the rope at his middle, the other gripping the shaft in his leg. The horse understood and pressed on, his rider grunting with every stride. They circled again, and the rope tightened around the Troll's ankles.
"Aware! Here it comes!"
A third pass, and the rope had reached its full length. They pulled as best they could, cinching the circles as the Troll raised his back foot to take a step. There was a moment of suspense before the ropes caught and the creature lost his balance, unable to put his hind foot down as the hithlain shackle bound him. He roared, a sound like thunder in the earth's bowels, and Feredir clamped both hands tight around the rope, holding his breath and waiting.
At last, the Troll toppled, and though he was ready for it, the jerk that yanked him from his horse was abrupt and painful. He had envisioned himself landing on his feet, but the stunning force slammed him bodily into the fallen creature's immensely solid leg. He struggled to stand, dazed by the impact, and felt a searing line around his middle where the rope had pulled across his skin. But no matter, it had worked. The Troll had fallen, and even now his men were rounding on it. An Elf with a long spear approached at speed and sent his weapon through the Troll's eye and deep into his brain. The wheels of the trebuchet lurched to a halt and did not roll again.
Nearby, his compatriot was breathing in exquisite pain, his face ashen with shock. He rolled up glassy eyes at the lieutenant.
"Ribs," he rasped, and Feredir nodded, quite certain he was correct-at least a couple of the rider's ribs had been broken when he had collided with the solid wall of Troll. With help, the Elf was moved onto the ground between the dead Troll's legs. There was no time to move him off the field, or to imagine they could do so without being shot dead, and the mountain of unmoving flesh was as good a cover as any.
He had only a moment of smugness to appreciate the success of his scheme. One of his men called to him, and he turned to find an Orc he had shot and left for dead scaling the frame of the engine. A white-fletched arrow stood out between his shoulder blades, but still he crawled, and in his dying moment, threw himself against the trigger-arm of the trebuchet. The Elves cried out, full of fury and horror, but the counterweight dropped with sudden finality and the arm of the engine arced over them, pulling behind it the firepot in its sling. They could do nothing but watch as it hurtled through the air toward the outer flank of Celeborn's cavalry. The ranks broke as riders scattered every which way, but not all of them escaped the conflagration that enveloped the field. The scream of dying horses and Elves was a vile, discordant song.
We have done what was asked of us, Feredir reminded himself as he hewed through the ropes and pulleys to permanently disarm the machine. Here was one less engine headed toward the wood. But though he weighed the number of lives saved in Caras Galadhon against the number of his fellows burning before him, and while he knew he had served the greater good, it was a bitter victory, and one bought dear.
The archer did not need two shots to take out the second Ungol, but a single arrow flying true was too little, too late for Taurnil. The creature's stinger had still found the soft flesh of his stomach and pierced him like a blade even as it made the high-pitched whine signaling its death.
Taurnil's body responded instinctively, the last of his strength spent pushing the dying thing off of him. He vomited, tried to rise, but his legs went out from under him and he crawled jerkily, his limbs no longer responding to his body's commands. Beneath him, the blood of the Ungol pooled in an oily slick on the surface of the ground; the earth refusing to drink its poison.
"Be still!" his partner exhorted, a note of panic turning his voice shrill. "Be still, friend!"
Taurnil saw the Elf's lips move, saw the leaf mould kicked up in his wake as he bounded away in search of a healer, yet he heard naught but a distant hum. He opened and closed his fingers in weaker and weaker fists but he could no longer feel them, could no longer feel his legs, and his body grew cold and colder, as if dunked in the Bay of Forochel. At the last, he could move no longer. He collapsed on the ground, his eyes turned skyward.
He could not say (for he could not speak) how much time had passed when, with dimming sight, he saw Galion's face above him. He closed his eyes and smiled.
The Troll plodded forward with mindless steps, any sign of slowing bringing an immediate lash from the Orc who menaced him from the frame of the trebuchet.
"Take out the rest of the escort," Orophin directed, lining up a shot even as he spoke. Only a few Yrch remained, and if they were conquered while Celeborn's men engaged the others, they stood a chance of success.
A terrific roar raised his head, and he watched the far side of the field explode in a red-orange burst and a symphony of screams, at least a score of warriors and horses vanishing in the sudden flames. His nostrils flared reflexively and he spared a moment to thank the stars his wife had gone over the sea, though in that moment he would have done anything, anything, to feel her presence in his mind, to feel the rhythm of his heart strengthened by hers. He pushed the thought aside and turned his focus to the matter at hand.
The lash-wielder had dropped his whip and was scrambling now for the back of the machine, reaching for the lever that would loose the arm. Either he saw the first engine shoot and thought he had been ordered to fire, or he saw the futility of his position and sought to make his end as murderous as possible; it made no difference which. Orophin was drawing back his bowstring when one of the others let fly a shot that toppled the Orc off the engine. With the Troll's next step, the rear wheels rolled over him, severing his legs below the knees, black blood welling up on the ground ere the spreading balefire touched it and set it, and the Orc, to burning.
Finally, they had the machine free and clear. Orophin rode up close beside it, careful to stay out of the Troll's line of vision. He swung his leg over his horse and dropped easily onto the axle. With squirrel-like agility, he shimmied up the pole-arm. The counterweight was far too heavy for him to trip the machine thusly. He pulled his dagger from his belt and sawed at the ropes of the basket. It dismayed him to find that Orcish cord was near as strong as hithlain and just as hard to sever, but he persevered. One by one, the strands gave way and the ropes began to unravel.
Below him, one of the others was shouting. "Come away! Come away before it snaps!"
Hearing the groan of the strained fibers, Orophin slipped back down the arm and vaulted back onto his horse, steering the animal away from the engine as the final strands began to break. He waited.
Nothing. Though the basket swung precariously, the firepot did not fall. The Troll trudged on.
He pulled an arrow from his quiver and took aim, but he could hardly see the joint of the ropes. He shot, and the arrow pitched wide. He cursed and aimed again. Another miss.
Rúmil would drub me for my poor showing, he considered ruefully, exhaling in a slow, steady stream. He slipped another bolt on the string.
I will not miss, he silently promised, and loosed the string.
"Taurnil!"
Galion dropped to his friend's side, wiping beads of sweat like blisters from cooling skin. He prized open the Elf's eyelids and found the orbs beneath cloudy and pale, as if a caul had slipped over them. A dark stain showed on his belly where the Ungol's sting had entered him. It was a small wound, nothing compared to what an arrow might have done.
Yet it is enough, Galion inwardly moaned.
Milky purge frothed on the Galadhel's lips now and his body convulsed, back arching hard as if his spine would snap in twain, hands twisting up like claws.
"I can do nothing for him here," the healer barked at the warden. "Help me carry him."
Though his body was not heavy, they stumbled as they ran.
Above, the clouds swirled threatening and grim and Haldir almost expected to be sucked skyward by some foul updraft. Fires raged bright ahead of him and bright behind, and still one siege engine remained, lurching forward toward his homeland with the Troll's every stride. Badhor and Gormegil were two of his best archers (though Rumil's sure skills were sorely missed) and they had dispatched the enemy envoy with ease. The Cave-troll, however, proved impervious to their arrows; it did not so much as growl as the bolts bounced off his hide. The chains binding him to his task were beyond their means to break, and thus the trebuchet was not so much a burden to the thrall as an extension of his enormous body, a tail carried behind.
A lethal tail, at that: a wain loaded with firepots had been chained to the rear axle. It would be no simple matter of killing an Easterling to stop the forward progress of this lumbering inferno. The gap between Celeborn's men and his own was closing rapidly. If he did not strike now, he risked destroying dozens, maybe hundreds, of warriors, for if the firepots exploded or the machine was triggered, the cavalry would be too close to escape.
His only plan seemed precipitous and foolhardy, but he hardly had other options. Pressing his gelding up beside the trebuchet, he leaped onto the front axle, grabbing the Troll's chain for balance. A slap to the backside was signal enough for the horse to move well clear of him. He steadied himself and unsheathed his sword. Even in the storm-dark of the battle plain it gleamed, hungry for blood.
You have served my house well, friend, he spoke silently to his blade. Serve me again today. Aid me in the keeping of my vow.
As it had on the eve of the first battle, the inscription on the blade appeared limned in blue light, and Haldir was encouraged. He wasted not a moment more, but took three precarious steps up the taut links harnessing the Troll to the engine. The Troll's back was scored with oozing stripes where the hide had been laid open by an Orc-lash, and it was at one such raw site that he aimed his first jab.
Haldir barely managed to maintain his balance on the chain when the Troll roared and jerked. Another jab and the enraged beast turned, a cloud of fecal breath preceding its outraged bellow. It took a swipe with a meaty fist, but Haldir leapt from the chain back to the axle and ducked the blow, ducked again, before daring another slash at the wounded skin. The Troll stopped in his tracks and craned its head around, seeking its tormentor with dim eyes. Out of reach now, Haldir nocked an arrow and drew back, aiming for a particularly cruel wound high between the monster's shoulder blades. Though the arrow did not stick in the skin, it clearly aggravated the injury, for a shudder rolled slowly up the mountainous back followed by more noises of rage.
The Troll reversed his path, following Haldir's retreat with thunderous steps and Haldir jumped back onto the ground, fearing that if the Troll struck the trebuchet, the jolt of it might cause the machine to fire. He edged backward, staying only barely out of range of the Troll's furious blows. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maethor riding close behind.
"Go!" Haldir's voice sliced like a blade through the din. "Get away from the wain!"
Maethor did not even nod, simply pulled his mount left and sped ahead to where Bathor and Gormegil rode hard toward the Eastern side.
Cautiously, with a step light as a wren's, Haldir climbed the side of the wain and stepped into the wagon bed. The clay eggs rattled against each other as the assembly rolled over the uneven terrain. A momentary loss of balance, a misplaced foot, and he might shatter a vessel and make of himself a living torch. He took a breath and thought of Galion.
He knew his next deed might be accomplished at the cost of his life, and though he rued the thought of it, there was naught to be done but make good on his oath that he would extinguish his own light that the light of Lorien might burn on.
He took his shot. The arrow lodged in the creature's eye, and the sound of his pain and fury was terrible to hear. He charged toward Haldir with fists swinging and Haldir crouched, swallowing hard. He waited until those furious fists loomed above him, ready to crash down upon his head, and when they began to fall, he leapt.
Even as he closed his eyes, it seemed as though the clouds had cleared, and he hoped with a fervid desperation that the fleeting glimpse of blue he caught through tightening lids would not be his final glimpse of sky. Already his burns were screaming in anticipation of the fire to come.
Celeborn jerked the point of his halberd out of the warg's gaping mouth, a red spume erupting behind. The echelons had closed around the ranks of Dol Guldur and the column of foemen had splintered under the slam of the Galadhrim trap. All sense of order was lost now, a melee remaining, a dread chorus of blades and screams filling the air around him. He had seen at a distance the destruction of one trebuchet where it stood, and a second stripped into uselessness, though only after it had unleashed its fatal ammunition. The losses from immolation on the field had been hard to stomach, but they were a fraction of what might had been had the engine rolled another league further.
Now he saw the last of the engines as it fell. Strange… it seemed as if the giant thrall that hauled it had gone mad, had begun to break the firepots with angry blows. The balefire caught light and roared into blazing life, oily flames leaping across the Troll's arms and chest, spreading over its body. Crazed with terror and pain, the beast had tried to flee, making in clumsy haste toward the Anduin, dragging the trebuchet and the flaming wain behind.
Water will not aid you, stupid creature, Celeborn thought with a mixture of pity and animus. Sure enough, the Troll jumped into the rushing river, but the flames that cloaked him were not extinguished. The weight of the wagon and the trebuchet pulled him under to drown as he burned, greasy flickers dancing on the surface to mark his passage down and away toward Rauros' mighty falls.
A shiver seized him, shook its way down his spine and left fine hairs standing erect beneath his armor in its wake. Something had happened. He let his mind reach out, a silver thread, to the Mirror grove, and as that strand of his sentience drew into the woods, he found that he did not feel the prickling resistance of his Lady's wards. Panic filled him.
Fear not, beloved, came the answer he sought, lighter than eiderdown. It is done. Splendor of Eru, it is done.
Halberd in hand, absently thrusting at an Uruk-Hai soldier, he could hardly even begin to fathom her meaning.
The wards?
Fallen. Nenya's power is no more.
This, too, was blessed news to him; long had they required the Ring of Adamant to strengthen and shield them, but he had never wished his wife to bear a Ring of Power, and he had not a single tear to weep for its loss. His Lady read this from his silence, for she had no more to say. There would be time for words later. There would be time.
A rider-one of Feredir's men, though Celeborn could not see who-- broke away from the phalanx and sped toward the place the last engine had stood when the Troll had wreaked his havoc. Only then did he spy a dash of red, a Marchwarden's cloak, spread like a pool of blood across the ground.
Feredir pressed his horse, fingers of one hand knotted tight in a shock of dark mane. Ahead of him, he could see the Marchwarden rolling painfully to his hands and knees. Though his leap had been perfectly timed, the force of the blast had sent him sailing and his landing had been brutal. Even now, he was unsteady on his feet as he struggled to stand, and, dazed, dropped back to his knees.
Feredir called Haldir's name once, and the Elf looked up just in time to see his lieutenant barreling towards him, arm extended. He struggled to his feet once more and reached, letting the momentum of the horse's stride propel him up and onto her back. He slumped in relief against Feredir, anchoring himself at his law-brother's waist as he shook off the last of his dizziness.
"Yet again I have cause to thank you for handing me my life," he shouted against the wind. He felt Feredir's body jerk in a scoff.
"I do not save you for your own sake, you know," Feredir returned with mock severity. "Rúmil would cast me out of his bed if I did not return you alive. I serve my only my own interests in this."
Haldir laughed, though his battered ribs and back chastened him for it, and clapped a hand on Feredir's thigh. All around him, the enemy were scattering, Men and Yrch looking less fearsome now, and more frantic. Only the Uruk-Hai seemed indifferent to the chaos and dedicated to their violence.
What luck is this, Haldir wondered. Is this a retreat? Do they finally flee from us?
"Are you fit to ride or do you need a healer?" Feredir asked him.
An image of Galion flitted through his head and he forced it back. "I need only my horse," he said.
Once more astride his grey gelding's back, it became clear to Haldir that some monumental change had occurred.
"Sauron has fallen!" Celeborn's voice held a note of unfettered joy Haldir had never before heard it carry, and it energized him. "The One Ring has been destroyed!"
The Galadhrim sent up cheers as suddenly their foe became desperate and craven. The trebuchets destroyed, it was now simply Elf against Orc, against Uruk, and against Man, and Haldir set out to dispatch the remainders with glee.
A ferocious noise signaled the death match of two wargs. Their riders downed, they had no commands to obey and turned on each other with snarling alacrity. To the West, Feredir had rejoined his men and they drove scores of Yrch into the marshes, hunting them down and slaughtering them as they fled.
And thus, the final push on the Gladden Fields was made. His arrows expended, Haldir slipped from his mount's back and bid him make haste for the forest where he might rest his brave and weary bones. He drew his sword and waded into the fray, spilling the blood of each creature who challenged him with a fearlessness that bordered on cavalier.
He found Badhor with an Orc who as yet seemed unwilling to concede defeat. He moved to assist his comrade when something caught his eye. There, dangling from the creature's crude armor, was a long, pale braid, a thick plait of Elvish hair clotted with blood and filth. He knew on sight what it was. Or, rather, whose: the hair belonged to Estadion, the sentry whose throat had been slit in the pines, whose locks had been cruelly shorn by his killer. Estadion, the first man to die on Haldir's watch.
Engaged as he was with Badhor, the Orc did not sense Haldir's proximity until the Marchwarden dealt a blow to his sword-hand that knocked away his scimitar and lopped off his first two fingers. He howled, black blood jetting from the stumps. Haldir grabbed a handful of coarse, grimy hair in his fist and jerked the Orc's head back, pressing his dagger tight against his throat.
"Mercy, Lord Elf," the foeman screeched, "you have me prisoner, show mercy!"
Haldir chuckled darkly as he saw the Orc's hand move with attempted stealth toward his own dagger.
"Nay, I think not," he crooned softly. "You showed him no mercy." With that, he opened the Orc's throat, drenching the ground at his feet in a torrent of inky swill. He released his grip and let his lifeless body fall, wiping the filth on his breeches. He yanked the braid from the corpse. He would weave Estadion's hair into his bowstrings so that each shot would carry his sentry's revenge. Sometimes, there was simply no room for mercy.
Across the battle plain, victory cries rose like a new dawn. It was over; the mighty Galadhrim had won.
Soon, he told himself. You will see him soon, and you will know his heart.
For though the battle was over, Haldir had a private victory yet to claim.
Come, Taurnil, Galion sent silent thoughts to his fallen friend. Defy Mandos with your laugher!
A buxom young healer pushed him brusquely aside and swabbed Taurnil's brow with single-minded dedication.
Do you not hear the singing? It is over. You have won! I would hear your voice rise with the others, dear friend.
"Oh, Taurnil…"
He had spoken aloud this time, and the elleth looked at him disdainfully.
"I might better care for him if you were not in the way," she sniped, and turned her back waspishly to make a poultice of comfrey and rue. Galion took two steps back, but did not leave the tent.
You offered me love that I was a fool to decline. I had a sterling heart that was mine for the asking, yet my own heart was given to a fool.
The pointed clearing of a feminine throat brought his eyes back into focus.
"There are others who need your assistance, Galion. I will keep watch over Taurnil."
It took him a moment to understand he was being dismissed. He watched the healer stroke Taurnil's face and discerned there was little of healing in that touch, and much of a different sort of tenderness. His heart seized just a little, out of surprise, and also out of jealousy, and remorse that he could never find it in himself to claim what his friend had offered.
Outside the tent, there were other wounded, other dead. He helped where he could, feeling that all around him the joy of victory was tempered by the devastation of loss. He worked long into the night, and into dawn the next day, and all the while he was haunted. He knew Haldir lived, had seen him moving among the wounded. He rejoiced at that first sight of him: bloody, ragged, his red cloak torn and singed, yet the sight of him also made his stomach clench, for he had not forgotten what Haldir had asked of him, had not forgotten the choice that lay before him.
He had not forgotten, and for all the world, he did not know what he would do.
Next chapter...
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Mettarë = The last day of the year in the Elvish calendar. It correlates to 25th March in the Tale of Years, and in 3019 it was the day that marked the end of the War of the Ring.
Muindor = Brother
Pen iaur = Ancient one
Hithlain = The slender but incredibly strong grey rope woven by the Galadhrim.
Elleth = Female Elf
A/N: Once again, I am beholden to Marnie for some of the conventions found in this chapter-namely, the trebuchets (once again), and the idea of a cavalry of archers. I will say again: I am spoiled that she allowed me such free rein with her work, and I cannot recommend her own writing enthusiastically enough.
A word about dates: The three attacks on Lorien came on March 11th, 15th, and 22nd, and I have used the dates as given in the Tale of Years, rather than their modern equivalent, and then converted them to the Reckoning of Rivendell as per the Encyclopedia of Arda. However, some discrepancies appear in the Encyclopedia regarding dates, so I ask you to give me the benefit of the doubt and chalk up any discrepancies here as a touch of artistic license.
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