Chapter 23: Fear behind them Fate before them
The host of the free people had arrived at the Black Gates, going from marching formation to battle grouping, on their right flank the Riders of Rohan formed the long wing, with Aragorn to lead the center, Boromir was on the left wing of the formation, not that he actually hoped to keep any semblance of strategy going through the first encounters, in these grounds the battle would become fractured easily, which was the reason why the most seasoned commanders had been split up on a wide area, to not loose coordination of the field prematurely.
Standing on the broken hillside Boromir hardly heard Aragorn's speech to the armies, though his voice carried far enough for them all. It was a good speech all in all; something to rouse the men and carry them into the battle to come, yet the Captain had no ears for it. Deep inside, behind the carefully guarded mask of the Captain, Boromir was exhausted. He knew had he not stayed up the last night and tried to sleep the nightmares would have returned. The dreams of the ring had haunted every night for longer than he cared to admit, and without the steadfast support of his brother and friend, he'd have broken weeks before. But he was tired and determined to make an end. Here and now things would find an end, if through the destruction of the ring or through his own demise, probably both.
From afar he watched how Aragorn beheaded Sauron's mouth, and for the first time he truly cheered the King on, this was the way to deal with Sauron's demands. The wings of the black gate swung open fully and the host of the dark lands charged at the field, the battle had begun.
The first waves of battle were Orcs, myriads of them poured out of the black gate. Their first ranks cut down by the archers, but there were more coming, no matter how many of them were shot; there was no end to them. Boromir called his men to advance, they caught the Orcs storming for the heart of the army in the flank, much like the Rohirrim did on the other side. The clash of the armies was fierce, a thunder of steel and bodies, death and only the beginning of the end. Boromir's blade ate its way through the ranks of Orcs like sickle reaping ears, with them hopelessly outnumbered strength lay in attack, in relentlessy pushing the enemy. The Gondorian captain seemed to never stop, always moving, the sword finding one enemy after the next, always stabbing, slashing, always attacking and pressing forward, to his left he knew Veryan of Dol Amroth, covering his flank. He could not tell how long they had been fighting like this, against the endless Horde of Orcs, the endless black wave that got driven against them with the will and fear of the Nazgul, but the sun was already high in the sky when there was a break for the first time.
Boromir found himself standing on one of the foothills east of the black gate and the Orcs were pulling back for the first time in the day. He knew that could only mean the enemy was grouping. "Close ranks!" He bellowed, the foothill was a good point to take on the next attack. Their army had splintered into several groups, he could see that but there was little chance to reunite with them now.
"I'd bet they'll break out the Olog-hai and Haradrim next, Captain," Veryan's face was hidden under the swan helmet he wore, but Boromir could hear the grim humor in the man's voice. They had come without hopes and there was a brutal satisfaction in the price they'd extract from Sauron for killing them.
"They just wanted to clean out the barracks, because they'll breed Uruk-hai the next time," Boromir joked back, just as grimly. He heard some laughter among the ranks of his men, and felt a surge of pride. These were Gondor's best sons, those who would walk into the heart of the shadow for her and could still laugh at the danger.
It was not Haradrim that took the field, but Easterlings. Their black scale armors, the Morgul armor with the tabard of the blood flame, send a shiver down Boromir's spine. There came the best the black lands had to offer, and they'd fight to their deaths.
. . .
Idrakhár deftly jumped on the back of the winged terror that the Varigian rider had held ready for him. Two more Varigians were with him, but only to keep the beast alive, for he'd need it quickly again once his task was done. When they swooped down on the field where the Easterlings began to attack the enemy, the Varigian Khan pointed towards one of the smaller groups. "Look there, it's their damned Numenóran King, get me my arrows and we'll shorten the war a little."
"No Brazukh Khan," Idrakhár said sharply. "you committed two crimes in just one breath. Once you called this Ranger a King and you suggested to make him a martyr to our treachery. No, the enemy needs to see him defeated, humbled, crushed in single combat." He could see that the King was trying to reach one of the faltering groups of his smashed center and thus had exposed himself. Stupid, stupid, noble but a mistake. "Set me down," the Easterling ordered.
The fell beast swooped, causing Aragorn's horse to panic, the Ranger just managed to jump off before the animal fled in a panic. Aragorn drew his sword, Anduril glowing in the light of the spring day, but instead the expected Nazgul he saw himself faced with one Easterling fighter, drawing his sword in almost casual poise. "Did the Orcs slay your Royal Guard or did you leave them… oh I forgot you don't have one yet."
Aragorn ignored the mockery; he was far from underestimating the Easterling Captain. Any warrior who won that much of Boromir's regard while being the enemy had to be supremely dangerous. "I do not need guards," he replied as he went to attack. Their blades met and the Easterling broke the block in one fluid move, pushing Aragorn back. His attacks came like a hailstorm, with a speed and strength that forced the King to block and dodge swiftly. Had he had not been trained by the elves he would hardly have lasted through the first bout. This man was more than dangerous; he was one of the best swordsmen he had ever encountered. With desperate force he caught the enemy's blade in a block, Anduril sliding down the curved sword to hit the guard, Aragorn broke the struggle of strength with all the power he had, pushing as hard at his opponent. He managed to land one hard hit at his right shoulder, but the wound did not slow the man down, it seemed like he did not feel any pain or exhaustion. Again he stormed against Aragorn, their swords clashing, metal shrieking under the strain.
It happened faster than Aragorn could have seen it coming, the Easterling showed a flaw in his cover and the Ranger made use of it, intending to drive the blade through the man, but with lightning speed the Easterling dodged and in one fierce strike smashed the blade from Aragorn's hand. Anduril spun through the air and landed on the ground twenty steps away. Quickly the King drew his elven dagger, he knew his chances had just dropped, but surprisingly he heard the Easterling laugh. "Not so easy, King, I'll see you dead in my own time." He picked up the shield of a dead battle troll and tossed it, it hit Aragorn squarely, nailing him to the ground, trapped under the heavy metal that was ground into the bloody earth. The Ranger tried to free himself, but he felt something dark, like an icy magic in the metal that weighed him down to the ground. His sword drawn the Easterling approached and Aragorn knew the man would behead him, he met the enemy's eyes evenly, daring him to do his worst.
"Oh no, you won't!" Idrakhán's sword was blocked by Thoroniâr's blade, the Captain of the Tower Guard along with his remaining men had managed to fight their way past the Orc troops that had been cutting them off and the Captain stood between the Easterling and his King.
The next minutes Aragorn was forced to watch how the Easterling nearly casually slaughtered most of the Tower Guard, it was an effortless butchery that made the Ranger once more suspect that some kind of vile deadly magic had been worked on the Easterling. Thoroniâr on the other hand was not easily defeated, the Captain had seen his men go down, but never lost focus on the enemy, forcing the Easterling into a deadly dance, that cost him time at least. As fierce as their fight was, it came to a bloody end when Idrakhán send the brave captain to the ground, with several bloody wounds that had smashed his armor. "Well fought, Captain, just not good enough to save your King," the Easterling said. "No one can save him now."
"I'd dispute that."
Idrakhán cursed when he saw that the Ithilien Rangers had managed to reach them, most of them had closed ranks to keep the Orcs from reaching the King. But between him and Aragorn now stood Faramir, sword at the ready; the blade shone in his hand like day itself.
Faramir attacked with a determination few would have believed him capable off, neither fear nor hopes on his mind, his entire focus on the enemy he fought, each attack found its block with him, he parried even the fiercest attacks of the Easterling, neither the strength nor the speed of the enemy exhausting him and when he finally attacked in turn each hit of his blade was cutting through the dark enchantments strengthening the Easterling.
When Aragorn saw the opening in Faramir's cover he screamed a warning, but it was too late, Idrakhár's sword found its target, buried in Faramir's body. But suddenly the Easterling stumbled, breaking down, Faramir's sword having pierced his heart. In his fall he yanked his own blade free.
Faramir came back to his feet, hurrying to Aragorn, but when he tried to remove the shield trapping the King, he could not move it.
"Your sword," Aragorn gasped. "it cut through the spells before." He saw the hesitation in the Ithilien Ranger's eyes. "I trust you, break this thing."
Without further hesitation Faramir did as he was order, his blade smashing the troll shield, breaking the dark enchantment used to hold it. The Steward's son raised his sword; it shone bright like a star, white light flooding over the field. The Orcs surrounding them shrieked and began to flee from the light of the blade.
. . .
The light from one of the other foothills sent the Orcs fleeing, but neither Easterlings nor Haradrim paid it much heed. For a moment Boromir had felt a fierce pain, like a blade stabbed into his body that he could not understand. He had focused on the enemy, who was regrouping quickly coordinated by their General. For the first time during this battle Boromir could peg the enemy commander – a Nazgul on his beast, sitting right between the wings of the Black Gate. With the Orcs in total disarray, running scared from the light, the way was free. He looked to Veryan. "Time to cut off the head,"
"And you always said charging a Nazgul was crazy." The Swan Knight followed his Captain without any hesitation in spite of his words, the rest of the troop formed up with them.
"I learned better, Veryan." Boromir took point as they moved on the Black Gate. "Hope is the spark of Light. And Hope is the banner of freedom." Kili had taught him that, and he'd gladly die keeping to this belief, to this hope. They passed the field unopposed, the Nazgul, having sensed their approach brought his beast up and into attack. It swooped over them, grabbing and tossing a dozen of Boromir's men in the first attack alone. Coldly Boromir turned, there was no fear in him anymore, no horror, not even the black wings of the Nazgul could cause him to freeze any more. When the beast came down again he waited until it was right above him, ramming the black sword into the beast's belly.
The beast shrieked pained, trashing as it tried to get away, wings flapping in obvious pain but the Captain was not finished, he brought the blade about to cut off the beast's ugly wing.
. . .
Across the field Kili nearly broke to his knees when the old wound in his side flared in pain renewed and a wave of dark despair washed over him. "Dragon!" The panicked shout echoed over the field. Looking up Kili saw a huge form all but eradicating the Rohirrim formation to his right.
He saw long bright lance of eerie blue fire, hissing down from the hill. It failed to hit him only by inches, incinerating the stone ground all along the way, cold blue flames flickering from each stone or body it came in contact with. In the cold winter light of the burning stones Kili saw a gigantic shadow rise, with tall wings, a long neck and an ugly head rising above him. All in him froze from sheer terror. There was only one fire in this world that could burn stones and melt souls that would burn and still be colder than ice: nothing in this world or the next could stand against the winter fire of a cold drake. A dragon had come down from the dens of the Ered Lithui raising his head for another lance of cold fire to scorch the stony grounds under the Black Gates. Like a burning, melting wave, fear washed over Kili, the deep rooted, warning fear, the terror all of his kind carried ever since they first had ventured into the Grey Mountains or opposed Melkor's dragons. The drake leapt forward, faster than anything his size should be able to move, paws cleaving the air, swooping down at dwarven warrior. Kili saw the attack coming; he evaded it by jumping sidewards, more a reflex than a decision of his mind. Haleth, one of the Rohirrim still standing, got hit by one of the dragon's hindpaws and was thrown through the air like a leaf in late autumn. He hit ground somewhere near the flames. Éomer managed to barely evade a similar attack, but a strike with the dragon's tail he could not escape.
An icy cold feeling fell over Kili's mind, suppressing all feelings, fear, terror, even the ancestral horror of the drakes was drowned by it, nothing remained but a cold calm feeling. Like he could feel Boromir's icy calm in the face of danger from afar. From one moment to the other he saw the dragon and Éomer fighting him alone, like through a crystal, clear but cold. Few paces covered the distance to the dragon. He took his blade two handed and led a strike against the dragons paw. Clinking the blade was thrown back by the scaly skin of the dragon; the sword had not even left a scratch on the scaled skin. The throwback force alone made Kili nearly stumble. He might not have done any damage, but now he had the complete and undivided attention of the drake. With an angered evil scowl the dragon's head turned to him, glowing yellow eyes were sparkling dangerously at the dwarf who had dared to arouse the drake's ire.
Instantaneously he realized he was in biting reach of the dragon, and about to become a one bite snack to the unfriendly beast. He saw the open maw with the gigantic teeth and the snakelike tongue coming down on him. With an icy composure he waited for the drake's mouth to be close enough for a direct attack against the dragon's head. He had miscalculated slightly on how fast the cold drake moved, Kili's blade missed the target and hit one of the big glittering teeth instead. Thousands of splinters sprang in any direction, when the tooth smashed by the sword. In pain the dragon screamed and raised his head howling. From the corner of his eye Kili saw Éomer attack the beast again, but his sword was useless against the scales.
In the dragon's pained howl, Kili saw his only chance, leaning back to give his arm more force he threw his blade at the bright open eye of the dragon. The blade, thrown with all force the dwarven warrior could muster, flashed through the air and hit the amber like eye precisely. The dragon's deathcry shook the ground, his gigantic wings, ripped Éomer and Kili of their feet, throwing them through the air. The lashing tail broke the rocks of the hillside, stones raining down on them.
Finally the body of the dragon fell , his wings stretched out in death, as if he wanted to fly again, a last time he opened his mouth and a small blue firelance hissed from it, vanishing into the ground, lightening additional fires to all those that were already burning. But it was different this time, it kept on running through the vale, forming an oval circle around them. It took some moments before Kili understood that this was not last breath but a last spell of the dying dragon. Deep in his heart he admired the willpower of the dying creature to muster the strength for a last final spell. "If I can show half this strength and determination when it comes for me to die, I can be proud." He thought. The circle finished that moment, the ends it met crackling and hissing flames murmuring and muttering coldly.
Éomer and Haleth closed ranks with Kili, the three the only men still standing in this part of the field, A dry whisper flitted through the air, first it was drowned by the cracking of the rocks still on fire and the groaning of the dying dragon. But when the last light in the eye of the dragon flickered out, they heard the whispering drawing nearer from all sides of the fiery encirclement. It came from everywhere, echoing forth and back like soft voices whispering in the wind. Shocked Kili saw how the flames parted and creatures of burning stone rose from them. They reminded him of the Storm Giants he had seen long ago, only smaller and aflame with the cold dragon's fire. Many of them rose from the ring of fire. Kili gripped his blade firmly, this battle had just begun.
. . .
Boromir felt pain, like a jab in his side and a fear like a drowning wave; he shut both out, pushing past it. The Nazgul's beast was dead but the Rider had not fled but dismounted drawing his pale blade. Boromir stood alone, most of his men were dead or wounded, many tossed aside by the beast's wings. He swallowed hard, both hands gripping the hilt of the black sword. "Till hope dies and life is gone, till dawn fails and light burns out, on the last day to carry hope into the eye of the Shadow." He whispered the blessing he knew engraved on the black sword, as he faced the Nazgul, he would fight the fell creature to his dying breath, no matter if he had a chance or not.
. . .
"Spread out!" Dwalin shouted when he saw the drake, a second cold drake had come down from the mountains, opposite from where the first had decimated the Rohirrim. Dragons, he should have known. The enemy had had more chances to recruit than just Smaug, old miserable bastard that he had been. The dwarves reacted quickly, dissolving their formation fast enough to note give the beast an easy target. A fire lance shot down on them, cold and glittering. It woke memories in Dwalin, dark memories of the day Erebor fell, of the hopeless day that had started their long years of wandering.
The dragon swooped around his tail aimed at Dwalin, the dwarf only just evading it, he got tossed over the ground and hit hard rock. Drawing Grasper and Keeper, his two axes the warrior growled. He remembered the day the dragon came, he remembered Thorin leading the army against the dragon, standing strong in the face of the beast. Remembering Thorin's courage, his strength, Dwalin advanced at the dragon. He'd not let his King down.
Bofur's hammer came down on the dragon's paw, it may not have penetrated the scales but it definitely crushed a few bones. The dwarves were tackling the drake from all sides; Bifur's spear finding a weak spot and nailing the tail to the ground, others doing small damage where they could. But it was the dwarven warmaster who tackled the head of the monster. One axe in each hand, Dwalin fought with the fierceness of all his being and with the absolute disregard for his own life. The blades of the axes smashed the drake's maw bloody and battered the head scales. Both axes went blunt on the fight. Dwalin dropped them picking up a Haradrim sword, never ceasing the attack. When the drake tried to bite him again, he let it come and drove the sword through the roof of the dragon's mouth and into his skull.
. . .
Boromir did not know how he could have lasted that long against the Nazgul, but the black sword withstood the hits of the Morgul Blade in his enemy's hands like it had been forged for exactly this fight. The skies were already darkening around them and their blades still clashed, the Nazgul getting stronger with nightfall. Ducking under one fierce blow, Boromir brought up the blade like he was fighting a mortal man and not an immortal Nazgul. The sword hit the armor cutting through it like butter, the Nazgul shrieked, howling in pain as his body was ripped through and crumbled to ashes.
Pain erupted in Boromir's mind as the whispers of the ring became a fiery lash, scorching his very soul. A fiery light rose at the horizon, so bright like a second sunset. The Orcs screamed in panic, beginning to flee as parts of the Black Gates broke under the shaking of the ground. The searing pain in Boromir's mind grew, like a fire burning itself right through his skull, like something dark and vile, more sinister than all he had ever felt reached for him. Through his nightmares and the whispers he had heard for so long it reached to him, and much as he did not want that vile power any more he knew he could not fend it off on his own. He fell to his knees, shaking with pain, with horror, even as he saw Mt. Doom's fires rise in the distance, heralding the end of the Ring.
The darkness surged, filling him with a pain beyond anything he had ever felt. Boromir knew he would not last long before the escaping power of the Ring would take hold in him. Here and now on the field of death he saw that nothing, neither forsaking power nor setting aside his pride and ambitions could shield him against a darkness that had had a life long time to attack his very soul. His eyes fell on the black sword, there was a way out, he could deny the enemy a vessel for his fleeing power by simply ending it. He could die and be free of this evil. The Captain had never feared death, and when he took up the black sword it was with utter calm, even as his mind was lashed by the fiery whip of the dying darkness.
And then it stopped, the pain ceased and he felt something, a presence standing between his soul and the shadow. Wracked with pain, barley able to stand he looked up, and in the darkness he saw two figures, one tall, one short, both brightly alight in the shadow surrounding him. From afar, from across the field of death, the very souls of his brother and of Kili were with him, protecting him from the shadow.
In the distance Barad-Dûr collapsed, the black tower that had haunted the world of men for so long faltered and failed, crashing into the ground. Tears rose in Boromir's eyes as he saw it and he was not ashamed to cry. His whole life, from the day he had turned sixteen to this very moment had been dedicated to protect this people, protect his world from this pinnacle of doom and now… finally, it fell. It had not fallen from the hand of men, there never would be a host of armies to break Barad-Dûr, but Boromir was glad for it. He now knew with utmost clarity that no army could have conquered the fortress of darkness, no leader would have gone unchanged by its evil. The dark tower fell thanks to two Halflings, who had done the impossible.
The ground broke up, the black gate collapsed and the stones under Boromir's feet began to crumble, he struggled to his feet, trying to race away from the destruction but it was too late, the stones fell under his feet and he was tossed into the deep, falling into shadow he knew no more.
Author's Notes
Again I want to thank harrylee94 for patient reading and feedback on battle scenes. You really encourage me to write at such speed.
Olog-hai: Black trolls, with none of the old Troll vulnerabilities, created by Sauron by the end of the Third Age.