Usual disclaimers and thanks: Nothing is mine, etc., etc.
Thanks to my betas, eekfrenzy and Rose—and thanks also to my reviewers.
Reviews are my only reward. I like them a lot.
By now Minas Tirith is really getting close! (That should make Hugo the Diabolical Penguin happy.) For the Merry-fans amongst us (and who isn't) this time Merry is a real part of the team—not just hauled up by the scruff at the last minute and dragged along. He's a hobbit with a mission!
Chapter 11 The Welcoming Committee
The next morning, as he'd promised, Bëor woke us well before dawn, when the eastern sky was barely grey. We dressed hastily, doused the coals of the campfire, and washed down Serindë's last two lembas cakes with cold water.
Since we were going to Minas Tirith as representatives of Rohan, Princess Éowyn carefully tied Haldred's messenger tabard over her hauberk to cover the White Tree of Gondor. She was just about to mount Windfola when Serindë came up with a long scabbard in her hands and presented it to Éowyn.
"A great quest requires a great sword, Princess."
Startled, Princess Éowyn unsheathed Serindë's blade and held it up before her. It was made of a strange pale metal and was covered with runes. Even in the pre-dawn, the sword seemed to glisten.
"Isn't that a barrow blade?" Merry asked nervously.
"This blade is no barrow spoil—it is a sword of Gondolin," Serindë answered frostily. "The Elf who wielded it against Saruman's army now needs it no more."
As Éowyn swung the sword in the air, it sang like a plucked harp. "I cannot take your sword—it is too rich a gift."
Serindë stared at Éowyn. "Princess, if you would succeed in the task you have set for yourself, you can refuse no advantage. Lord Aragorn too was offered an ancient blade by an Elf, but he did not reject it."
Embarrassed by the comparison to a man she considered a hero, Éowyn resheathed the sword and stowed it in her bedroll. "Then I will take it. What can I do to thank you for this great gift, Serindë?"
The Elf's reply was terse. "Win."
That issue settled, we mounted up and moved out to Minas Tirith.
It had gotten pretty warm by the time we reached Mount Mindolluin, the last peak of the White Mountains. We crested one more bump in the road and we all stopped at once, because there it was—the White City. Serindë and Bëor had seen it before, but the rest of us gawked like rubes. As Merry put it, "Oh! Oh! Oh!"
Minas Tirith is shaped like a giant multi-layered wedding cake. Long before it became the capital of Gondor, it was a guard tower on top of a hill, and as the population grew, the inhabitants kept erecting more walls in concentric circles. Gondorians sure do love to pile up massive heaps of stone, and this was the biggest pile I'd ever seen.
Between our company and the city of Minas Tirith lay the Pelennor Fields—about seven or eight miles of empty prairie grassland. The whole city—fortress really—was buttoned up behind the walls. In the U.S. there would have been subdivisions sprawling into the foothills, and even in Rohan, where they're used to being pounced on by orcs, we would at least have seen horses grazing and farmers tilling the spring fields. But here, nothing.
Was the White City dead, or had its people just given up?
As I was wondering all this, Bëor pointed out a large closed gate set in the middle of the frowning stone walls. "That is the Great Gate of Minas Tirith. We shall arrive there very soon."
Yes, very soon indeed. Little did we know…
The seven of us had ridden about a third of the way into the Pelennor Fields when we spotted a group of horsemen riding toward us from the east lickety-split. At first I was scared, but Serindë said calmly, "The riders wear the White Tree of Gondor."
Princess Éowyn made a quick command decision. "Then they are our friends and allies. We shall go forward to meet them."
We'd gone about halfway to Minas Tirith when we heard yells and screams and saw another group of riders chasing after the first one. I recognized the gait of the pursuers' mounts instantly. If you've seen warg riders once, you never forget them.
"Ride for the city, everybody!" Éowyn shouted. "Ride as fast as you can! Stop for nothing!"
She didn't need to tell us twice!
Elric was clinging to Nifredil's neck like a jockey, frantically urging her to run. As the horse shot forward I screamed, "Faster! Faster! Make her go faster!"
"Don't fall off!" Elric yelled back at me. "Whatever you do, Barbarella, don't fall off!"
Spitting out Elric's hairbraid, I gasped and squeezed his chest. As I bounced and jostled, I wondered whether I'd fall off at the next jump. Maybe in my panic I'd stave in Nifredil's ribs with my knees!
In a flick of a glance, I saw Éowyn and Merry galloping alongside us on Windfola. Haldred and Bëor were right behind us, and Serindë was lagging at the rear. Our horses could run the distance, but Minas Tirith was so far away! And what if the defenders didn't open the gate?
From somewhere behind us there was a terrible, bonechilling scream, and I did what I should never have thought of doing—I turned my head and looked back.
This time the orcs had dragons. No, not dragons. Pterodactyls—evil pterodactyls. Not that it mattered. Their wingspans must have been nearly thirty feet wide!
A flock of monstrous flying reptiles hovered ominously over the fleeing Gondorians. Even as I watched, one of the dreadful creatures banked swiftly and snatched a rider right off his horse. The poor guy struggled madly in midair for a few seconds and then the pterodactyl let him fall to the ground from about forty feet up.
We were cooked. Oh, we were cooked. Those things were so super-fast that they could easily pick us off one by one.
Cooked or no, I yelled, "Faster! Faster!" at Elric. We couldn't just give up. As Nifredil galloped even harder, I saw out of the corner of my eye that Serindë's horse was dropping back and she was pulling out her shortbow. No, no, Serindë—don't stop to shoot! It's suicide!
In that moment the Great Gate of Minas Tirith opened wide and a big white horse and its white-robed rider charged out toward us. It was Gandalf! Gandalf was coming to our rescue!
"Fly! Fly, you fools!" he shouted as he rode past. None of us paused to wave at him.
Gandalf pointed his staff toward the pterodactyls and zapped them with a beam of some sort of magic light. I don't think it was lasers or lightning bolts, because none of the pterodactyls fell down all crispy. But they started to fly off, and I'll settle for that.
Our little group barrelled pell-mell through the open gateway in much less time than Bëor must have anticipated. I got a jangled glimpse of a courtyard full of soldiers wearing platemail, pale stone apartment buildings with more soldiers staring down at us from their balconies, and—oops!—a big equestrian statue looming right ahead of us.
I really, really didn't want to crash into that statue! Elric yanked at the reins and we swerved left just as Princess Éowyn swerved right. Finally Nifredil came to a dead halt on the far side of the stone horse.
Oh, this was a mess! My heart was pounding so hard that I almost couldn't breathe. Before I had a chance to catch my breath, three soldiers ran toward us. One swept me out of the saddle onto the ground, while the other two grabbed at Nifredil's reins. Elric was still clinging to Nifredil's neck, so she didn't buck or bite.
Unlike most Gondorians, the guy who'd grabbed me was very blond. His unlined face and feathery little mustache made him look too young to be a soldier, but I'd be getting a nice crop of bruises from slamming into his steel breastplate. Glaring up at him, I gasped, "Hey!"
Puzzled, the young soldier pulled his hands away from my waist and stared down at me in astonishment. He took a few steps back and cried out to his comrades, "It's a woman!"
"No, really?" Yes, I was wearing boy's clothes, and yes, my tunic and trousers were grubby, but still!
"What kind of woman rides into Minas Tirith in the middle of an attack by the Enemy?" he demanded incredulously.
Like that was the most important thing happening at that moment!
Of course none of his comrades were paying any attention to us. After all, Minas Tirith was in the middle of an orc attack! I looked around frantically for the rest of my companions. At least I knew where Elric was—he hadn't moved from the saddle. It wasn't hard to spot Haldred—he was half a head taller than the soldiers surrounding him, and Bëor was standing next to him. But where was Éowyn?
Before I could panic, Princess Éowyn strode toward us leading her horse, with Merry safely ensconced on Windfola's back. My poor soldier's jaw dropped. Another woman, and this one in armor!
My boss took in the situation in a glance. "I am Princess Éowyn of Rohan. I thank you for your assistance to my counsellor Barbarella. What is your name, soldier?"
Rattled, he replied, "My name is Beregond, Princess. I am a soldier of the Citadel."
Only Serindë was still not present and accounted for, and I'd last seen her doing something really stupid. That's when our Elf rode toward us through the crowd, bow strung and ready on her back. For the first time since I'd met her, Serindë's elven enchantment was blasting out full force, bright and beautiful and merciless. She was an Elf on a mission of vengeance and her aura felt like Death. Around her the soldiers of Gondor were falling back to the left and right.
Beregond's jaw dropped but he stood his ground, even when Serindë jumped from the saddle right in front of us and announced matter-of-factly, "I shot down a taerodrake."
"A what?" Éowyn said blankly. The word meant nothing to me, either, which was kind of odd.
"One of the flying creatures that pursued us. It is the name that Barbarella was shrieking, anyway."
If she wasn't going to bring up the nature of her aura, I wouldn't either. "Don't you Elves have a name for them?"
"I have never heard of these flyers before but clearly they are Sauron's creatures." Then Serindë confided to Éowyn and me, "Some of them bore Black Riders on their backs. Not the one that I killed, unfortunately."
So now the Nazgûl were airborne! Before I had time to let that fact sink in, the Gondorian riders we'd seen on the plain came clattering into the courtyard. Gandalf was riding in the lead, holding up his white power-staff, and Pippin was perched right in front of him. But oh, there were so many horses that had no riders!
In all that hubbub, I barely heard the sound of the Great Gate slamming shut, but I did hear one man loud and clear above all the others—an auburn-haired officer whose voice had the carrying capacity of an opera singer. "The orcs broke through our defenses. They've taken the bridge and the west bank. Battalions of them are crossing the river even now."
Under his breath, Beregond muttered, "It is as the Lord Denethor predicted! Long has he foreseen this doom!"
After everything that Rohan had been through, that sort of talk annoyed me. I whipped my head around to face him and snapped, "You've got a cute face but a bad attitude."
He flinched, but made no answer. What possible justification could a brave soldier offer for defeatist talk like that?
Beregond wasn't the only one who reacted to my statement. When Gandalf heard my voice, he reached me in three quick strides. "Barbarella! What are you all doing here?"
Why was he asking me that? Nobody had put me in charge!
Before Princess Éowyn could explain, Serindë replied sharply, "We came to fight. What else?"
Gandalf scowled at her and she scowled back. "I have no time for this, Serindë. I must speak with Prince Faramir to discover what has been happening since last I came here. I will speak with you later."
"You may say what you will," she answered coolly. "What is done is done."
Waving one hand in dismissal, Gandalf stomped back to accost Placido Domingo Junior—Prince Faramir-who was talking softly but animatedly to Pippin.
From the tightening of Éowyn's lips, I could tell that she didn't appreciate Gandalf's brush-off. She sucked it up and moved on. "We came here with a purpose of our own. We need not wait to speak to Gandalf."
Merry had been staring over at his friend Pippin. When Éowyn said this, his face fell but he said nothing. Perched upon Shadowfax, Pippin was easy enough to see, but it didn't look like Pippin had even noticed Merry in the midst of this great crowd.
Éowyn said to Beregond, "I would have you tell Lord Denethor that Princess Éowyn of Rohan wishes to speak to him at once on a matter of importance."
Alarm flickered in Beregond's eyes, but he replied, "I shall do what you ask, but it may take a little time."
Éowyn considered this answer for an instant. "Then first find a stable for our horses. They have been ridden hard all the way from Edoras."
"That can be done more speedily," Beregond said with an expression of relief. He looked to the left and the right, but every soldier in the vicinity was obviously far too busy to run an errand for somebody else's princess. I was wondering who he was searching for when Beregond whistled up at a dark-haired young boy who was leaning out of an upper window. "Bergil! Bergil!"
Bergil, whoever he was, shinnied down a drainpipe and ran quickly in our direction. When he reached us, Beregond tousled his hair and said, "Bergil, you young rascal, I have a job for you. You must take our guests from Rohan to the mansion of Lord Húrin and find a place for their horses in his stable."
Turning to Princess Éowyn, he explained, "My son will make sure that your horses are well cared for. Bergil and I are both members of Lord Húrin's household."
For a couple of seconds Elric and Bergil eyed each other like a pair of terriers meeting for the first time. Elric, boy-warrior of Rohan, proudly drew himself up and stood on his dignity. The 'young rascal', on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the idea of taking charge of a group of grownups. Bergil grinned up at Beregond, then said to us, "Let's go!"
And that was basically that. We'd been chased to the very gates of Minas Tirith by warg-riding orcs and killer pterodactyls, but apparently, this hardly merited comment. Nothing to see here, folks, move along.
What sort of crazy place was this, anyway?
Young Bergil took us away from the Great Gate and led us down a cobblestone road that reminded me of the tiny streets in Philadelphia's Old City. In the beginning it had probably been planned as a two-lane thoroughfare but so many crates and barrels were crammed on both sides of the street that a good bit of the right-of-way was obstructed.
By then it was mid-day, but there weren't many people around. I suspect that the 'taerodrake' story had spread through the populace and that everyone was afraid to go outdoors. From time to time one of the few pedestrians would stop and stare at us—particularly at the two redheads, Haldred and me.
Most of the women were swaddled up in black robes like Italian Madonnas, while most of the men wore leather or steel armor. Bergil fit right in, but his father's fair hair made him look like an Ugly Duckling. The people of Minas Tirith look more Mediterranean than anything, with brunette hair and dark liquid eyes.
For the first time since I'd shown up in Middle-earth, I was seeing multi-story townhouses and apartment buildings. Minas Tirith is a walled city, and as is usual in walled cities, the inhabitants had built their dwellings vertically—up to five stories high, I'd guess, which is probably all the stories that you'd want if you hadn't invented elevators.
Éowyn was striding along beside me, and these tall buildings seemed to make her a bit claustrophobic. Well, of course they would! Nothing in Rohan could have prepared the Rohirrim for a place like this. We were passing by a tall marble edifice that had a rooftop garden with potted trees, and Éowyn stopped to stare at it. "In all your travels, Barbarella, have you ever seen such a wondrous city, or such a large one?"
Large? At a distance Minas Tirith looked gigantic, but in terms of square footage it wasn't terribly big. From what I'd seen it wasn't heavily populated, either—not in the middle of the siege, anyway.
"Minas Tirith is bigger than Hershey, I'll give you that. It's about the size of the city I went to school in." Tripping over a broken cobblestone, I muttered, "Boulder has better roads, though."
Éowyn tore her eyes away from the tree-topped building and smiled with relief. Once she knew that Minas Tirith didn't make her 'counsellor' feel small, she didn't have to feel small either. From the way Haldred was rolling his eyes, I doubt that he really believed my 'tall tale' about Boulder, but at least he was able to see that I wasn't overawed. And Elric? I'd said it, so my kid believed it.
Sure, Minas Tirith is an incredible city. I can't imagine how its builders managed to pile up those tremendous stone walls without any power tools, and the city structure as a whole is beautiful and imposing. This wasn't my first capital city, though. If you ever get to Denver, Colorado, you'll see that the dome on the capitol building is actually covered with gold. Like the Golden Hall, only much bigger.
Later I found out that the cobblestone road that we were walking on circles through all seven levels of the city. Each level is surrounded by a thick granite wall and you can only enter the higher levels through a constantly-guarded gate.
That sounds kind of paranoid, I know. But the meaning of 'Minas Tirith' is 'Tower of Guard.' Mordor is nearly at its doorstep. It's not paranoia if they're actually out to get you!
After a few more blocks we entered a flagstone plaza that was full of people—men, women, and children who were milling around aimlessly, sprawling out on sacks, eating food they'd bought from pushcarts, or sleeping on rush mats rolled out on the cold stone.
It was clear enough what these people were doing in the plaza. That's Castle Defense 101. In times of war you collect the people outside the wall and bring them inside. Remembering the Battle of Helm's Deep, I just hoped they'd brought enough food. But who were they?
At first the refugees seemed so normal to me—a twenty-first century American—that I had to look twice to realize how abnormal they really were for Middle-earth. This particular crowd was…multicultural.
Nobody in Middle-Earth really likes foreigners, but that's what these people were—many different kinds of foreigners. Burly Viking-types wearing leather aprons and not much else, bearded sailors in white linen uniforms, swarthy men and women draped in cotton robes. Once I even saw a black woman covered head to toe with a scarlet burnoose and veils.
They'd turned the area into some kind of open-air market. Little clapboard booths in the middle of the plaza offered wares that were probably foreign also and were mostly unfamiliar to me. One booth had several strings of dried fish hanging from its awning. They didn't look appetizing and I doubt that they were sanitary but I was still glad to see them. We wouldn't be starving just yet.
As we shoved our way through the throng, I noticed that many of the permanent shops along the inside wall were boarded up but that a few were still open for business. Apparently some of the local merchants were also trying to scrape a little profit out of the general catastrophe.
When we got there, I found that Lord Húrin's residence may be centuries old, but it's really just a fancy marble-faced townhouse. It's five stories tall, although it's only about forty feet wide, so 'mansion' really is a good word for it.
Our ultimate goal was Lord Húrin's stable, which takes up half the ground floor of his townhouse. Not every Lord in Minas Tirith keeps a stable, but according to Bergil, it's a point of pride for Lord Húrin to ride his own horseflesh. When Bergil led us inside, we found stalls enough for a dozen horses, but only three horses in the stable, and none of them were warhorses. A lone stableboy was shoveling straw, and I could tell by Elric's bristling that he didn't like the stableboy's technique one little bit.
Lord Húrin's stable had fine stone floors and stalls with oaken walls, but it was chilly and dark. While Éowyn gazed doubtfully around this cavernous place, Elric whispered to her in Rohirric, "I can fix it up some."
Éowyn responded quietly in the same language, "We will have to make do."
Understanding their expressions if not their words, Bergil explained defensively, "The men of Lord Húrin's household have all been summoned to arms and most of the rest of the household was sent south for safety. But I have no mother to protect so I am going to stay with my father. When I grow up I want to be just like him, a valiant soldier of the Citadel."
It occurred to me that this was a good time to clear up a point that had bothered me. "Bergil, your father said that he would arrange for Princess Éowyn to speak with Lord Denethor. How exactly will he do that?"
It was a tough question for an eight-year-old boy to answer, but after Bergil considered it for a while, he answered, "I think he will go to Tower Guard Headquarters on the seventh level and ask his commander, Captain Ascar, what he should do."
I went to a state university; I know how bureaucracy works. Pulling Éowyn away a few paces, I said in Rohirric, "I don't care for the sound of that. We could sit here forever waiting for your request to go through channels."
Princess Éowyn is no stranger to delay either. "I do not care for it either," she said softly, then spoke to Bergil in Westron. "I appreciate your father's assistance, but I wish to speak to his Captain myself. Can you take me to the seventh level?"
Bergil gulped hard. "If that is your wish, Princess."
"It is," she answered. "Haldred, Elric, put our horses in stalls and see that they are fed. We can walk to the seventh level."
"Ummm…" Grabbing one of my saddlebags, I sidled into an empty stall. "If I may give counsel to my Princess in private for a few moments?"
By the time that Éowyn followed me into the stall I was already unpacking her best gown. "Give me just a few minutes," I bargained desperately, "and I can dress you to look like a princess."
"Is this really necessary?" Princess Éowyn demanded.
"You can never undo a first impression." Éowyn's blonde hair, although a bit tangled, looked pretty good—but she'd been wearing those clothes and that sweaty leather armor for five days.
Unfortunately, hauling off armor is not something they teach you in handmaiden's school. Not that I ever went to one! Éowyn's leather armor was molded to her body and its fastenings were so stiff that I couldn't release them. In one minute I broke three fingernails.
This was bad. If I couldn't get the job done quickly, Éowyn wouldn't want to stick around. I was about to blow up in sheer frustration when I noticed that Serindë was watching us over the door of the horse stall.
"Let me handle that."
Without waiting to be invited, she stalked inside, set down a bucket of water, and silently began to undo the silver frogs on Éowyn's leather hauberk. Éowyn was so frozen with shock that she couldn't open her mouth to protest. Neither could I. Here was an Elf of Lothlórien acting as—well, as a menial—to a mere mortal!
"I was a handmaiden for more years than your House has existed, Daughter of Eorl, so I know what I am doing," Serindë said calmly. "You too should put on other clothing, Barbarella. Those trousers will not do for a meeting with the Ruling Steward of Gondor."
Uh, yes, that was exactly right. Frozen shock turned to frenzied activity when I realized how nasty I looked. With lightning speed, I skinned out of my boy's clothes, washed up in Serindë's waterbucket, and changed into my nearly-clean green linen dress. If I'd had a watch, I'm sure I would have clocked in at fifteen minutes.
Serindë beat me easily. In less than ten minutes she managed to clean up Éowyn, dress her in the gold-trimmed brown wool gown that I'd packed, and put up her hair nicely. You can't beat a professional.