AN: Hey, told you it'd be fast. I had encountered an oil spill of inspiration from out of nowhere, so I sat down and typed away. My family wasn't really happy that I spent literally hours in front of the computer, but I got 'er done. This is the big battle between Rohan and Narnia, so expect blood-and-guts. I hope you enjoy this chapter!
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything. Except what is mine. Do lawyers even read this site?
DISCLAIMER PART TWO: BEWARE OF PURPLE PROSE.
The white horse on the field of green once again fluttered in the breeze as the Rohirrim gathered upon the river banks and propped their banners high. The warriors were assembled along the shore of the River Isen, all atop sturdy horses and bearing long lances that had served the people well across the centuries. The frontal defense was seven thousand strong, the best men Rohan could muster from its vast dominion. They were tall, fair-haired, of noble stature, and skilled in the art of horsemanship. They sat upon their saddles proudly, their golden helmet tails fluttering with the wind. They were the Eorlingas, the descendants of one of the greatest men Middle-Earth had ever seen.
None had ever been so afraid in his life.
The Fords of Isen was to be the battleground between Peter's advance force and the Rohirrim. The region was already interred with the bones of knights and orcs that had torn each other apart in the War of the Ring. Saruman was dead, the Uruk-Hai all but eliminated, and the Fords had experienced a relatively peaceful period through the years. However, the day would soon bring a time when the blood of the Rohirrim would soak into its soil once more. Before them was a wide grassy plain, dotted with numerous trees and foliage. Behind them were dozens of boulders, tinted with a mossy green. The river ran through most of the rocks. The main force was centered in the Fords, ready for battle.
King Èomer urged his horse across the front lines of his men. He ran his sword along each of the jutting spears, testing the strength of the wielders, as his uncle had done before him. Through each tap of a spear he could feel the soul of his men, and he knew their hearts were weak. Èomer understood this; the enemy's tactics were virtually unknown, and many had not even lain eyes on a Narnian in their entire lives. Valar, give my men the courage to halt the enemy tide, he prayed fervently as he continued to ride, let them remember the fierce blood of Eorl in their veins. He rode more, taking care to test each member of the front lines. He finally stopped, satisfied. The beat of hooves drew his attention to the right. Gamling, looking old but seasoned in his worn Rohirrim leather, rode up to him with a stony expression on his face.
"My lord, the additional forces have been positioned, but I fear that we are stretched too thin to maintain a firm defense," he whispered to the king. "They will push us to the river before the sun sets."
"That will not happen," Éomer growled. "Peter means to attack me here and now; he will not care to spread his forces. If he does, I have handpicked the men who guard the north and south. They will not fall so easily…"
Gamling looked worried, but he nodded, conceding.
The first drums could be heard in the distance. It was a thunderous rhythm, promising swift and terrible retribution to the guardians of the river. Éomer could literally feel the terror oozing from the members of his army.
"Men of Rohan!" he called suddenly, pivoting his horse to face them. "Defenders of liberty and peace! Take heart; the age of men will not be so easily undone. Grip your spears and ready your horse! The halberd will strike into the flesh of our enemies, and the arrow shall pierce by the thousands. Death may feast today, but victory shall dine with us tonight."
The men cheered. The celebratory shouts thundered over the river valley, drowning out the ominous beat of the drums. Courage overwhelmed their hearts, for they knew their king would fight beside them. Gamling grinned at the nephew of Théoden, pride in his chest.
Suddenly, a shout arose from the ranks.
"They are coming!"
The very first spear tips peeked out from under the horizon, partially hidden from an incline rising up in the distance. Then, the first of the Narnian army appeared.
To those of a keen eye among the Rohirrim, he could see that the very first ranks consisted of stoic fauns, all dressed in the sturdy scarlet leather of Narnia. Their breastplates were polished to a brilliant sheen, causing the sunlight to glare distractingly off their armor. Their short helms covered most of their curly brown hair, but allowed their horn tips to peek out the top. They bore long spears, shorter than the Rohirrim's but just as deadly. Their cloven hooves looked sharpened to points; in combat they would prove devastating.
The fauns advanced, their footsteps commencing in a simultaneous rhythm. As they came, the satyrs appeared behind them. They were dressed in no particular uniform, but seemed to bear the clothing of their respective tribes. They looked savage and bestial, their matted fur and spiraling horns reminders of nightmarish beasts from the Void. The iron scimitars so common among the satyrs were now openly wielded and brandished, threatening their enemy of how sharp their weapon could be.
Then, looming in the horizon, were the giants.
The tallest of them, a brawny monster in bronze armor, stood taller than the tallest oak tree in the country. Most of them wielded wooden staves, crude but effective. They were not as large as the horrifying Mûmakil, but massive all the same. When they saw the assembled riders, they grinned nastily and stroked their weapons excitedly. Golden griffins, just as large as the giant eagles of Middle-Earth, circled in the sky above them, their harsh cries echoing in the air.
All in all, the enemy force numbered approximately five thousand.
Éomer could make as many inspiring speeches as he could, but the sight before them had felled even the most courageous of spirits. Suddenly, the prospect of victory seemed all too bleak.
/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\
The griffin landed in a flurry of yellow feathers and fur.
"My lord, they have arranged themselves before the river, all of them on horse. Their king stands at the forefront of the army, which my kindred have numbered to be a little over seven thousand. I estimate they plan a charge."
King Peter stroked his golden stubble thoughtfully. He was atop his unicorn, with Edmund beside him. The Royal Guard, all five hundred of them, was assorted in four phalanxes surrounding both kings. Their iron shields were locked in place, with the fauns and satyrs behind pointing their spears ahead. The High King was in a splendid mood, due to his morning bath and his numerical advantage over Éomer. Peter tapped his chin.
"They plan to charge, as is their custom. The Rohirrim are prone to implement their cavalry in heroic and dashing efforts. They rarely think in strategic terms. Am I right, Edmund?"
Edmund started, distracted from his careful observation of a floating butterfly. "Oh, um, yes, of course."
Peter rolled his eyes, scanning his army as they approached the Rohirrim position. He nodded to the griffin captain.
"Brilliant. Thank you, Rycro, that would be all. Good luck and good hunting."
The contortion of the intelligent beast's beak could've been taken as an excited grin, but it looked like he was sick. The griffin launched into the air, joining his brethren in the cloudy blue sky. Peter watched him go, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun.
"Victory is ours, Edmund, I can feel it."
"Oh, what? Er, yes, of course. Definitely."
/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\
The charge was imminent. The seasoned Rohirrim could feel it in their bones. Thoughts that ran through their ancestors' heads as they prepared for the fateful ride now swam through theirs. The charge was sacred in the Rohirrim; little boys grew up listening to tales of courageous plunges into the ranks of the enemy. The charge happened in nearly every battle involving Rohan, and usually ended in victory for the Rohirrim. The Rohirrim cavalry were not often used in the way many functioned: as tools to flank and disrupt the main enemy body. The Rohirrim would charge first, their spears and halberds in hand. The thunder of hooves and bellows of men would, most of the time, frighten the enemy into submission. It was a tactic that was gloriously honored and innumerably implemented.
King Éomer was not confident that the charge would go well.
"Gamling," he called, trying to keep the nervousness from showing in his voice. "Prepare the men. We ride soon."
"Aye, sir," the elderly man replied. He turned to the hundred ranks of the Rohirrim. "READY!"
The men roared in approval, but fear clung to them like a repulsive odor. The spears were lowered, and halberds withdrawn. Éomer drew his sword, the sword that had been set to rest with the bones of his uncle, but denied by Théoden himself. Herugrim glittered beautifully in the sun, crafted masterfully by the ancient smiths of old. The heart-shaped design in the center of the hilt was blood-red ruby, and the guard and pommel gold. He lifted it in the air and reared his horse, his form as glorious as the kings of yesteryear.
"FORTH EORLINGAS!"
He pointed his sword towards the enemy and rode forward.
He was alone in the field, man and horse joined in a frenzy of fright and courage, an adrenaline-fueled ride. Èomer's heart beat in his ears, and the vast foreign army before him was the only thing in his sights.
Then the rest of the army roared and charged.
/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\
The Rohirrim were like a tide of mottled green and brown accompanied by a symphony of roars, neighs, and hooves. They thundered over the plain, emerging from the river shore and fanning out into the grassy flatland. The spears borne by the front runners were gradually lowered, and the mobile archers drew back their bows and fired.
The projectiles shot across the plain and into the ranks of the enemy. Many found their mark; felling a faun through the eye or plunging into the sternum of a satyr. Dozens of the Narnians fell still holding their spears, but there were thousands more to take their place. They continued to march across the plain, pointing their spears at the oncoming horde. Despite their fear, the Narnians retaliated.
"ARCHERS!" an authoritative voice called from within the ranks. "FIRE A VOLLEY!"
Arrows erupted from the Narnians, rising and falling in a black hail. The arrows hit.
The near-vertical fall of the arrows proved fatal for many a rider. A knight screamed and fell, an arrow jutting from his neck and into his waist. The fallen were trampled by the hooves of the charging horses, and if any hadn't been dead, they were now.
The exchange was quick and brutal. Already a number nearing two hundred lay dead on both sides. It was too short, however, and the Rohirrim were close to contact. The Narnians gritted their teeth, halted their march, and stood firm. The front rank raised their pikes and knelt.
The riders came closer.
Closer.
Closer.
King Èomer gave an ear-splitting battle cry, and he and his horse leapt over the wall of spears and into the Narnian army.
The Rohirrim followed suit, and all hell broke loose.
/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\
King Èomer reared his horse and swung his sword in a downward slash. The satyr, who had hit his horse across the ribs with a club, fell backwards, his head flying off in a spurt of blood. The enemy was on all sides, attempting to hedge the Rohirrim in with their numbers. The Narnian front rank had been obliterated by the charge, but the army was like a swampy mire: there seemed to be no way out.
"Gamling! Hathfast! To me!" he cried, kicking a faun in the face. The two lieutenants rode towards him, mowing down everything in their path. Gamling reached him first, slashing at his foes with swift, skillful strikes that killed every time. Hathfast had been slow; three satyrs jumped onto him, stabbing viciously with serrated daggers. His screams rent the air.
Èomer snarled, cutting down a faun that had charged him with a spear. Gamling leaned over to him.
"My king, they are as numerous as the sand on the shore," he gasped, his age finally catching up with him. "We cannot hold forever."
"Take heart, old friend," Èomer answered, equally out of breath. "We will not be crushed so early. We have only begun."
He gave an encouraging smile, and was given one in return, albeit wan. Gamling was about to say something else when a shadow fell over his body. He looked up; his gray eyebrows up in question.
The giant grinned evilly and brought down his club upon the hapless rider.
"NO!" the king of Rohan exclaimed, but it was too late.
The old lieutenant was crushed instantly, along with his horse. The sickening crunch echoed in Èomer's ears. The club rose, globules of blood dripping off of its wooden hide. What remained of the throne's faithful friend resembled a revolting pile of mush. Èomer's heart grew cold with despair and sorrow, but was quickly heated with rage.
He cried out in fury, and charged the giant. At first, the monstrous man was confused. Would someone so little dare attack it? He scoffed and lifted his club.
Èomer took his spear from his saddlebag, aimed, and threw.
The spear hurtled through the air, swiftly plunging into the brute's thick neck. The giant gurgled pathetically, clutching his throat wildly. He stumbled forward, narrowly missing Éomer and falling onto a squad of surprised fauns. The giant twitched, and then was still.
Éomer said a quick prayer over the corpse of Gamling and rode on through the chaos. The Rohirrim were being slowly overwhelmed, he noted gravely. The momentum from the initial charge had been lost, and the Narnians had taken advantage of that. Èomer felt a sharp pain on his back.
He whirled to see a faun stabbing at him with a spear. The king growled and hacked at his opponent. The faun fell back, his face split in two. The Rohirrim, despite the roughness, seemed to be winning. All the giants had been killed; the riders knew how to handle a large enemy. There were many more enemies to kill, but the huge sea of Narnians now dwindled to a few hundred. The battle was finally going to their favor.
"Drive them back!" he exclaimed, rearing his horse to stand out in the battlefield.
He was met with a roar of approval from his men, followed by the urging of horses. The Rohirrim once again gained momentum, swinging their swords wildly at retreating Narnians. The green overtook the red, with their king in the forefront. Èomer pivoted his steed, watching as it whinnied, lifted a hoof, and bashed a satyr's skull in.
The Rohirrim yelled in unison. The Narnians were retreating disorderly, their rank-and-file a mess. They weren't done, however, and they quickly reformed the lines a way back. The front line, what had formerly been the fifteenth, wearily dropped their spears.
"Hold!" a voice called from the Narnian army.
Èomer gave a fierce grin and hefted his sword. "Forth Eorlingas!" he shouted. The Rohirrim once more charged in a thunderous stampeded, trampling the dead and dying in their wake. They had lost hundreds in the first hour of the fight, a testament to the bloody quickness of battle, but they were still many thousands strong.
A horn blew from the west.
As the riders charged, sunlight glinted off of silver steel as something approached from the horizon. Over the incline, large and majestic, came the centaurs. They were dressed in ornate steel, with red-gold kilts covering their equine chest. Some had their hair unclasped and free, while others covered theirs with polished helmets. They came in the thousands, bearing long spears or dual short swords. The approaching army gave a fierce battle cry. The resounding echo reached the Rohirrim shortly.
Èomer felt a twinge of despair. They had fallen for the trap. The Narnians had wedged them in, allowing the centaur reserve to clinch them in a pincer movement. The king had fallen for the oldest trick in the book.
"Take courage, men!" called the king. "FORTH EORLINGAS!"
The Rohirrim cheered, despite their fear, and charged. The right and left flanks detached from the main body, riding to meet the oncoming centaurs. The rest charged at the remnants of the former force.
The armies met at the last minute, in a scream of metal, man, and horse.
/XXXXXXXXXXXXX\
General Oreius swung his giant broadsword diagonally, and with a mighty bellow. The unfortunate Rohirrim knight flew off his horse, his torso cut into halves. The centaur flared his nostrils, admiring his work.
The centaurs were slowly gaining ground. Their biological frame allowed them better mobility than the human riders, thus they were able to kill faster and easier. Oreius was in the lead, carving a path through the enemy to get to his target: King Èomer. He would obtain the glory of slaying the enemy ruler, and he would present the body to his kings as a testament to his fighting prowess. He lifted his sword in the air with one arm.
"Clans! To me!" he yelled, rearing up in authority.
The gathered centaurs slew whatever knight they had been fighting and yelled back. Five of his sons, brawny centaurs at the cusp of their prime, flanked him. Oreius charged, his kin at his rear. The group mowed down everything in their path.
Seven Rohirrim, having taken down a posse of centaurs, spied the unstoppable entourage make its way to their king, who was hemmed in by a wall of spear-wielding satyrs. They roared and spurred their horses towards Oreius.
Oreius snarled and blocked swipe of a knight's halberd. Weak, he thought derisively. He lunged with his hoof, catching the Rohirrim in the gut. The rider gasped, bending down in pain. Oreius swiftly beheaded him. The rest of the riders were quickly dispatched.
"Father," one of his sons called. "The enemy clan-leader is-"
An arrow embedded itself in his forehead. The centaur's eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell in a heap. His brothers cried out in dismay, and a spark of anger flared in Oreius' chest. He looked to see one of Èomer's guard nock another arrow into his bow and fell another centaur.
"RAAAAAHHHH!" he roared, brandishing his sword and pointing it at the king. "You are mine, Èomer!"
/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\
Deremir dodged to the right.
The minotaur's double-bladed axe whistled through the air, striking the ground where the ranger captain had stood only moments before. Deremir twirled, drawing his short saber in seconds and slashing horizontally. The brown-furred beast bellowed in pain. It locked its red eyes on the ranger and hefted his axe over his gigantic head and horns.
"Too slow," Deremir muttered. He stabbed upwards, pushing the minotaur back as he did. The axe dropped from the creature's nerveless fingers. The minotaur dropped, Deremir's saber halfway through its chain-mailed sternum. The red-haired ranger exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow.
The rangers had been positioned south of Èomer's position. Their task was to defend the Fords from any Narnian force that penetrated the king's army. The first few hours, the boulder-infested shore they inhabited was quiet. The sounds of pitched battle up ahead were the only action they got. Then, out of the blue, a contingent of minotaurs had appeared out from the north, massive and bearing deadly battle axes. They had bypassed the king's men, and meant to stage a flanking attack. Well, they had to get through Deremir and his men first.
The rangers were accompanied by knights, thirty of the Throne Guard. They were adept at archery, as were most of their people, but the rangers still outmatched them. They were good fighters, and Deremir appreciated their help.
It was the rest of them that nagged at his senses.
Two hundred men and boys had held the position with them, but it was now down to ninety-four. Most of them were militia from the various villages and peasantry around the country. Their ages ranged from fourteen to seventy-nine, all of them unprepared for battle. They had been given cheap swords and armor to bring to battle, and most had never fought in their lives. Deremir had seen them flee in fright from the enormous minotaurs. Some had been cowering on the ground when they were cut down. He almost spat on the ground in disgust. These men and boys are not fighters, he thought sadly, they are common farmers. They should not be here. They should be tending to their land and cattle.
He felt a familiar hand grip his shoulder. He turned to see Elbarad, weary and dirt-stained, looking at him with understanding eyes.
"How are the others?" Deremir asked.
"Fine. Relatively unhurt, save for a few cuts and bruises," the ranger lieutenant answered. He motioned to the other rangers with his head. They were gathered around a large boulder, all still high on the adrenaline rush. Young Torin waved at them from his perch, his foot being attended to by a Rohirrim soldier.
"I hope that the king returns soon," he said gravely. "These farmhands will not last against Peter's fury in an hour."
"I give them thirty minutes, at the most," Elbarad replied, tightening his cloak about his wiry frame. "And I'm being gracious, here."
Deremir slung his bow over his shoulder. "Elbarad, you stay here. I'm going to take a quick look at the battle. Be vigilant, my friend. Kill anything that has fur and can walk."
Deremir looked up suddenly. The lion-like silhouette of a griffin wheeled over their heads once, and then flew back to the west. A few arrows were shot in its direction, but it was too far out of range. Deremir scratched his beard thoughtfully.
"You think that bird was an informant?" Elbarad asked behind him.
"Most likely. I have a feeling King Peter is about to hear some very bad news…"
/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\
"My lords," the griffin, Rycro, gasped. "The minotaurs have been killed at the Fords."
Peter froze. "How?"
"It seems the rangers were left to defend the river, joined by a group of knights and other men."
"Other men?" Edmund asked, cantering over to them. "What kind of men?"
"By my observation, King Edmund, mere boys and crones. They are most likely militiamen from the villages that signed the roster."
"Rangers and farmers," Peter mused. "An interesting match. Where are our annoying friends?"
"Just southeast of the main army's former position, my liege. They wait in a field of boulders, which provide them excellent cover."
Peter folded his arms across his chest, the gears in his head churning. He surveyed the rows of scarlet-armored Royal Guard waiting patiently around him. He came to a decision, turning around suddenly.
"Mesinthus!" he called out.
The short satyr came jogging out from the front ranks, coming to a kneel at his king's feet. He was dressed in his ornate armor, plates of steel overlaid with a chain mail sheet."Yes, my king?"
"Ready the Guard. We will finish off Èomer here and now. Then, when his army is dead, we overrun the rear defense. Edmund!"
His brother came galloping out from behind him, a hand on his scabbard. "Yes, brother?"
"We will fight with them."
Edmund grinned, and he rubbed his horse's head excitedly. "Hear that, Philip? We're going to fight again!"
The chestnut horse groaned. "Don't swing too crazily this time. You cut off half of my mane at that one fort."
The younger king chuckled. "Let's go!"
/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\
Èomer smashed the flat of his sword across the centaur's face, eliciting a pained grunt. He followed with a short slash to the beast's neck. Dark blood spurted from the fatal wound, dropping the warrior instantly. He backed his horse up from the corpse, eying his opponents as they surrounded him.
"Menathil! Svèntan!" he said to his remaining guardsmen. Forlon and Camet were killed by the centaur ambush. "Cover my back. Now."
The young Rohirrim positioned their steeds at their king's back, halberds shaking in their grips. The centaurs circled around them like sharks, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. One of the centaurs, the largest, pointed at Èomer with a broadsword that could've run through all three of them at the same time.
"You," he growled menacingly. "Foreign king. Your guard slew one of my kin. You and your protectors shall pay for that."
Èomer curled his lip and took off his helmet, much to the dismay of his last two guards. His long yellow hair fluttered freely in the wind, somewhat matted with sweat. "Turn those words into actions, man-beast. You and yours will be hard-pressed to slay the king of Rohan and his men."
The centaur guffawed arrogantly. "Your numbers dwindle, little king. Your corpse will be presented in our camps until the flies consume it all." He gripped his sword with both hands. "Now, fight."
The centaur's sons attacked the two guardsmen, while he himself faced the king.
Èomer lunged. Herugrim clashed with the broadsword in a flurry of steel. The king gritted his teeth as the centaur pushed him back. He could feel the creature's tremendous strength; it was nigh unbearable. Èomer gripped his reins with one hand and pulled his horse to the side. The centaur leader pitched forward, his opponent having evaded him too fast.
Èomer snarled and swung. The centaur blocked it, and slashed. They went at it more, alone in the chaos of the battle around them. Èomer noted the dim screams of his guards as they were cut down by the brute's sons. The Rohirrim were falling all around him, but he pressed on.
He saw the centaur's fist, but he was too slow to escape the swift punch to the belly. He gasped for air, dimly aware that he had fallen off his steed in his pain. The grass below him was stained with the blood of Rohirrim and Narnian alike. The shadow of the centaur appeared over him, a mask of determination and admiration on his tan face.
"You fought well, son of Adam. But one does not incur the wrath of Oreius and live. Farewell, king of Rohan."
An arrow flew out of the blue and landed on Oreius' side.
The general cursed, dropping his sword as he stumbled to the side. Blood welled from between his fingers as he clutched the arrow and withdrew it from his body with a squelch. He roared in pain.
Èomer rose from the ground, running towards Herugrim, which had fallen beside his horse.
/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\
Deremir had arrived in the middle of the fray, using his short saber to make quick work of any Narnian who would dare cross his path. He knew the Rohirrim would be overtaken soon, it was inevitable. Thousands lay dead on the plains, and more were joining them. He stopped at a random boulder jutting out from the ground. A griffin's corpse was sprawled on the boulder face, a dozen arrows embedded in its limp body. Deremir shoved it off with a grunt.
He drew his arrow, looking for any valuable targets. He suppressed a gasp. King Èomer was on the ground, and standing over him was a large centaur with a broadsword. Said broadsword was in the air, ready to deal the killing blow.
Deremir had never shot an arrow so fast in his life.
/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\
Èomer lifted his sword and sprinted towards the stumbling centaur. His back was turned, so Oreius never saw the king jump and whack him upside the head with the flat of his blade. The general slumped to the ground, unconscious. Èomer sighed, lowering his sword a fraction.
"Vile monarch!" a hate-filled voice said from his right. "You slew father!"
Èomer went into a battle stance as four young centaurs surrounded him. They brandished their short swords. "ROOAAAAH!" one of them shouted. The centaur charged and swung. An arrow zipped through the air and landed on his throat. The others met similar fates as a hidden archer cleanly dispatched the sons of the general. Èomer was both impressed and saddened. The archer was very skilled, but the centaur, Oreius, would awaken to a sad scene.
However, he was thankful for the help.
Battle cries drew his attention to his left. His eyes widened in shock.
The Royal Guard was marching across the field, violently slaughtering any Rohirrim that got in its way. The king could see that their strange formation allowed no cavalry to break its ranks in a direct charge. They could be taken from the rear, but Èomer's riders were few. At the forefront, dealing death and destruction in their wake, were the kings of Narnia.
/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\
Peter blocked a flying halberd that had been launched by a wounded knight. He caught it as it fell and returned the favor. The soldier fell back, the short axe lodged in his skull, straight through the metal helmet. He pivoted his unicorn, rearing it as three Rohirrim charged him. One of them threw a lance, which missed him by a hair. Peter's steed kicked one of the knights in the face, ending him.
The king faced the remaining two, twirling his sword in preparation.
One of them spurred his horse forward and struck. Peter parried, only to be caught in the shoulder by the other warrior. He winced, but evaded another blow. The High King swung his sword in a vicious arc. The second soldier dropped to the ground, beheaded.
The last knight roared in challenge and rained three strong blows on the king. Peter blocked them cleanly, ducked, and split the other's belly open. The soldier groaned in agony, falling to the ground with his horse. Peter ended his pain with another slash.
"Brother!" Edmund called from the distance. "How goes it?"
"Excellent, Edmund! How do you fare?"
Edmund was moving Philip like an expert. He pivoted this way and that, outmaneuvering even the experienced Rohirrim that pursued him. He leaned backwards, escaping a slash that would've lopped off his head, and struck back. The knight twitched spasmodically in his saddle, his chest cavity having been torn open. Mesinthus and five fauns leapt atop the other Rohirrim, stabbing ferociously at the surprised warriors.
Peter looked away. Some things were just too much, even in battle.
Before he knew it, someone tackled him out of his saddle. Peter growled, kicking his opponent away and using his pommel to nail him in the chin. The man fell backwards, and the light of the sun shone upon his face.
"Èomer!" Peter called almost jovially. "Did your horse leave you, or did you decide to fight as a little boy today?"
The king of Rohan looked terrible. His leather-plated armor was torn in dozens of places, and his helmet was missing, revealing grime-stained yellow hair. His face was red with exertion and fury, and he walked with a slight limp. His sword, a beautiful blade stained crimson with the blood of his foes, was gripped in one hand.
"Peter," the monarch gasped, his eyes fixed on the noble-looking young man in front of him. "This is between you and me."
Peter shrugged. "So be it."
He started with an overhand strike aimed towards Èomer's head. The king dodged the blow, slashing horizontally at the Narnian's steel-armored waist. Peter parried it, and struck once more. They fought across the field, each one well versed in the art of combat. They were left alone; no would dare interrupt two kings in anything, whether it be fighting or simple conversation. Edmund gave a worried look at his brother, but galloped away.
It was soon, however, when Èomer's sword hand began to flag. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and he stumbled when pursuing his calm opponent. Peter clucked his tongue is disapproval and promptly disarmed Èomer with a flick of his sword. The king of Rohan fell to his knees, his beloved Herugrim landing a few feet away. He stared defiantly at Peter, his chest heaving.
"Do it, boy," he said calmly. "Kill me. Kill a man who has done you no wrong."
Peter stood silently, the tip of his sword resting against Èomer's throat. He stared at the fellow king with his unfathomable blue eyes, eyes that were as cold as a glacier.
"Give me back my sister," he snarled, his eyes suddenly blazing with a fiery fury. "Then we'll talk."
He gave a fierce battle cry and slashed downwards.
Èomer fell back, a wide line of scarlet etched onto his breastplate, running from his left shoulder to his right hip. Flecks of blood flew away from his still body as it touched the ground. Red rivulets ran from the horrid wound, dropping to the grass below. His eyes were closed, his face pale.
"Peter!" a voice said.
He turned to see Mesinthus looking at him with a strange expression of revulsion and pity on his face. He slowly approached him, his paws up.
"What was the purpose of killing him?" the satyr captain asked, one eye twitching as blood from a wound on his forehead ran down on it. "Did it satisfy you, my liege?"
Peter's eyes cooled, and he shook his head as if shaking away a mosquito. He looked troubled; the king looked from Èomer's limp body to Mesinthus, confused.
"I-I didn't…I wasn't meaning to…Look," he sputtered, his sword falling from his fingers. "I didn't kill him."
Mesinthus tilted his head, puzzled.
A tortured cry came from the distance. "Èomer is dead! The king is dead!"
The screams rent the air, screams of despair and anguish. The screams tore through Peter's soul, and he knelt in sudden weakness. "I'm sorry," he whispered quietly. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen."
The cries kept going; however, they didn't seem to stop. Peter clutched his ears, trying in vain to block the terrible noise. Mesinthus' warm hands wrapped around his shoulders, and he whispered words of encouragement to the king. "Do not fear, my king. The battle is won."
"Not yet, satyr," a weak voice croaked. "Not yet."
The captain of the Royal Guard whirled to see Èomer on his hands and knees, blood dripping nonstop from his wound. He smiled, and withdrew a curved horn from his belt. He stood, shaking as he did, but he stood. With all the strength he could muster, the king of Rohan brought the horn to his lips and blew.
The sad sound echoed through the flatlands, stopping everyone in their tracks. It went on and on, stopping finally in an almost reluctant fade.
Then, Rohan's trump card went into effect.
The distant beat sounded like thunder, but the combatants of the plain knew all too well what it really was. A dust cloud appeared from the east, growing closer and closer until what caused it could be seen in the shining sun.
Four thousand Rohirrim riders rode into the battlefield, led by tall figures in mottled green cloaks. They stampeded in a rushing tide, destroying any Narnian unlucky enough to be caught in their wake. Their terrifying battle cries rent the air, amplified and quickened by the breeze. They smashed into the Narnian's left flank, disrupting any form of order they had maintained. The Narnian army, the grand, enormous, skilled Narnian army, had been routed.
Peter looked on, completely dumbfounded. A pair of strong arms gripped him, followed by more as the Royal Guard rushed to drag their king to safety. He never seemed to notice them as his dreams of victory and conquest seemed to fall apart before his very eyes. Peter was roughly turned around, and blue eyes met yellow as Mesinthus stared intently at him.
"My liege, we must retreat. They will cut us down; they have gained too much momentum." As he spoke, another horn blew from the south, and thousands of riders were coming in, using the same tactic that Peter had so confidently used. "They mean to pincer us into submission and take you and your brother away. My king, we must go now!"
The logic and sense in Peter kicked into action, and he pushed himself away and mounted his horse in one fluid motion. He lifted his sword, calling out to his army.
"Sound the retreat!" he said to Mesinthus. "Do it, now!"
Mesinthus blew the horn, doling out the tune of retreat that all Narnians either despised or savored. The Narnians reformed ranks as orderly as they could, falling back to the west in a frenzied state of fear and anxiety. Horns blew quickly, rushed to the point of confusion. Peter pushed all of the soldiers away from danger, his sword in hand.
"Go!" he cried desperately. "Go to the camps, due west! Run!"
He turned his head this way and that, searching for and finding the one he sought after. "Edmund!" he called. "Retreat!"
His brother spun in his saddle, his face pink with exertion and excitement. The younger king turned Philip about, galloping over to his brother quickly.
"Brother, they are hemming us in! We have to-"
Time seemed to slow for Peter as the arrow traversed the ruined landscape and hurtled towards the back of Edmund. He reached for Edmund, his hand outstretched. "Edmund!" he cried out desperately. "MOVE AWAY! TURN AWAY!"
It was too late.
Edmund's confused expression slowly faded to one of pain as the arrow landed through his right shoulder, and clean out. He growled in pain, lifting his sword to cleave through his offender. Another arrow came and hit him through the side.
Another landed on the small of his back.
One flew so hard it pinned his left shoulder, throwing him off his horse and to the ground.
The last hit him under the ribs, causing a fountain of blood to erupt from his torso. He screamed.
It was a scream that Peter would remember for the rest of his life.
"NOOOOOOO!" he shrieked in anguish. "Edmund!"
His body was still, right beside the prone figure of King Èomer. Dismounting, Peter clawed his way through the retreating throng of Narnians, making his way to his fallen brother. He turned him around, gravely noting his pale face and bloody frame. "No," he whimpered. "No…Don't die on me, brother. Not today."
Mesinthus raced over to them with two satyrs bearing a stretcher. He helped Peter carry Edmund and place him onto the white litter. They ran gingerly, being careful not to drop their injured king. Peter mounted the unicorn, his attention locked onto Edmund all the time.
"Hurry!" he said to Mesinthus. "Get him back to the camp."
As they sprinted away, Peter felt a pair of eyes watching him. He fixed his gaze on a tall figure in a gray cloak standing next to a boulder. He bore a long bow, with an arrow placed into the nock. Peter knew the man. It was the ranger who had stopped them on the road so long ago, and who had defied Narnia at every turn in the Forodwaith and in Arnor. He memorized the red beard and hair, the gray eyes, the tanned face. He would remember it until it stared sightless at the sky, dead by Peter's hand.
"I'm coming for you," he mouthed.
Peter turned and rode away.
/XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX\
"So," Elbarad said slowly. The rangers were inside a stuffy tent, the fire at the center their only source of light at night. "Èomer had arranged for Faramir to gather any remaining riders in Rohan and lead the two thousand men he had left behind to ambush the Narnians at the sound of the horn?"
"Seems like it," Deremir sighed, staring intently at one of the arrows he had plucked from the battlefield. Every part of it was crusty with dried blood, indicating it had ran straight through its victim. "It was a foolish move, but it won the day. Well, more or less."
"How is the king doing, anyway?" a ranger, Larsen, said from the back.
"In grave condition," Deremir answered. "Peter's strike had nearly tore him in two. The healers will have a long night trying to get the man to recover. Larsen, check on him now."
The middle-aged ranger nodded and exited the tent. The room was silent for a few moments after his departure. Torin cleared his throat, his green eyes somber.
"Will the High King continue his campaign, or will he quit? After you killed his brother, I mean, who would?"
"Don't be so sure," Deremir interjected, throwing a stick idly into the fire. "From what I've seen, the kings of Narnia are made of strong material."
"You stuck him in a hundred different places, of course he's dead." Elbarad scoffed. "You should be happy, son. You've stopped a whole war."
Deremir fixed his old friend with a gaze that chilled him to the bone. "I don't think so, Elbarad. I have a feeling that this war is just beginning."
AN: I have trouble writing big battle scenes, so if it's not to your taste, blame me. NO FLAMES POR FAVOR and please R&R! If you have any questions about typos or mistakes, PM me or review, because there's bound to be some mistake of some kind. I'm not the best writer out there, so bear with me (starting to become my favorite phrase). Anyways, have a happy rest of the week (might not update in a while. Finals and all that). Till then!