Like a black tide, the army of Mordor spread across the plain beneath Eowyn. Campfires pierced the blackness and the cries of fell beasts filled the air, mingling with the tortured screams of captives amid the encampment. Somewhere below, the Black Captain rested, relying on the fear he kindled in the hearts of men to cripple the pitiful forces that had appeared to flee before him yet again. A grim smile flickered over Eowyn's face at the thought. Fear did not matter to those who were dead.
Windfola shifted restlessly beneath her, eager to be moving. It was easy to sympathize with her gray steed, these last moments were by far the hardest to take. Deep inside, something cried out in protest. But what hope was there when Shadow covered the land?
Even now, little was known of what, exactly, had occurred at Minas Tirith. It had been some time before even the city's destruction had been confirmed, as there had been no survivors to bear the tale. For many months afterward, Eowyn had believed that Sauron had recovered the Ring from the ashes of Gondor. A late night talk with Merry over a keg of ale had dispelled that idea. As the last of the nine Walkers, he knew very well of the desperate stratagem that had been attempted. As for how it had failed, they would never know.
A stray moonbeam pierced the darkness to gleam off her sword as she raised it. A mighty roar filled the air, and, ever so slowly, the first of the ranks began to move forward. Elven archers gave cover to the ranks; where dwarves strode next to men, who in turn stood by the sides of those few orc tribes who had rejected Sauron's offers so long ago. The remaining free peoples of Middle Earth rode forth in a last defiance of the Shadow.
For no less than two years, they had fought. But for every inch of land that was wrested back from Sauron, a hundred miles were lost. And there had come a day when the remaining Rohirrim had looked forth and realized that their final defeat lay close to hand. No options were left open; even the elves no longer dared flee to the Morning Lands, for fear of bringing the Shadow after them. Messengers were sent forth to other pockets of resistance, and men, women, and even children had answered Rohan's call. They would die, yes, but at least it would not be cowering to the ground like animals.
The thunder of hooves and feet alike shook the ground. Eowyn could see the camp before her stirring to frantic life at the realization that they were under attack. The winged beast of the Black Captain stood tethered in an empty circle, and its ugly head swung from side to side as it struggled to free itself. A sudden scream echoed over the thunder of the galloping horses and the creature reared in agony, a wing broken in its attempts to escape. Eowyn screamed back, triumph mixing with defiance. And then the two armies met.
There was no time for thought. Spears on both sides shattered as horses and orcs alike were impaled upon their lengths. The army of Mordor had the advantage of size; but they were disorganized and tired from their march earlier in the day. And even now, the roar of water spoke of a grave miscalculation by the Dark Captain. The fore of his army was above the waterline, but the vast reaches of it had camped lower down. The Ents had rechanneled every river for many miles to this valley. A wall of water reached outfor the enemy.
Water surged around Windfola's fetlocks as Eowyn drove him into the orc camp. Already her eored had nearly reached thespot where the Dark Captain's beast writhed in mindless agony. A massive wing smashed into a line of orcs rushing to meet their attackers and Eowyn's eyes widened. An order, shouted from an already hoarse throat, gave instruction to leave the beast alive. The following hail of arrows gave evidence of hasty re-aiming.
Less than a quarter of their opponents remained, some cut down, many others destroyed by the eager current of the new river. Even one of the Nazgul had fallen, the desperate slash of an orc-blade removing the hand on which his ring had dwelled. But the Black Captain still remained. A high scream writhed in the air as he strode forward, and many Riders found themselves mastered by terror and were born away by their steeds.
Windfola screamed and reared, but did not flee...not quite. He had faced this demon before, and the fey mood of his rider strengthened him. Flailing hooves reached out for the dark figure, who responded with a mighty blow from his mace. Bone shattered, and the stallion shrieked as he fell. Even as Eowyn sprang from the saddle, she flung her shield up in a reflex that snapped her arm as the mace connected.
A sick feeling lay upon her, and it was hard to meet the Nazgul's horrible gaze, yet she did so. Fury radiated from him, and fear dropped away from her as she realized that she was the cause. Her hand clenched tightly around her sword hilt as she stood before her foe.
Eowyn saw the massive weapon striking forth once more, and she hurled herself to the ground to dodge it. She realized her mistake even as her arm blazed in agony, slowing her just enough for the Dark Captain to swing the mace in a backhand. But the blow went astray as a horse and rider slammed into him from behind. Merry was knocked to the ground by the impact, and his steed fell beside him. Eowyn's hand gripped her sword as she prepared to charge, but the memory of an orc withering to the ground gave her pause. If it was death to touch a Nazgul...She had no conscious memory of dropping her sword, nor of picking up the battered shaft of a nearby spear. As if shown by a flash of lightning, she had one glorious glimpse of the weapon in flight, just before it sank into the narrow opening of his visor.
A great scream pierced the air, but was followed by a sudden blaze of moonlight as thehaze over the battlefield began to break up. The foulest of Sauron's followers had met his Doom; brought down not by the kings he had destroyed, but by a Halfling and a woman. Such was the irony of fate.
Eowyn stared about as if lost in a dream. The battle was ending, but with a very different result than any had thought. No one had anticipated such a large number of the enemy perishing in the Ents' attack, nor had they believed that the accompanying pair of Nazgul could fall. Here and there, isolated pockets of orcs, likely encouraged by the sight of their kind fighting by the sides of men, were throwing down their blades and suing for mercy. Nearby, an orc Warg-Tamer, dwarven apprentice at her side,looked over the broken wing of her new charge. Her expression indicated that the injury was serious, but that she thought it could be healed. Eowyn could think of several in her eored alone who would be willing to learn to ride the thing. And they already knew its battle capabilities.
A groan from where Merry lay called her back to her surroundings. A leg was trapped under his steed, and the marks of battle adorned him, but nothing looked immediately mortal. Even as she helped him from beneath his horse, her gaze lifted once more to the moon now gleaming brightly overhead.
The land was covered with a silver light she had never thought to see again. Later, perhaps, the darkness would reach out once more and enshroud the home of her forebearers until time ended and the world crumbled. But for now, Eowyn allowed herself the forgotten luxury of hope.