36 – THE FALL OF THE RÓMENTÁRI
Tíniel wiped sweat from under her vadi and ducked behind a pillar for a moment. The gates had broken down, and the army had entered the first circle of Minas Tirith. Horses were all but useless now, while the fighting went on in the streets, so Tíniel's variag fought on foot, viciously and to the death.
"Take a rest!" Tcharum said to her, slamming against the pillar beside her and breathing hard. "You've been going ceaselessly for more than an hour!"
"I'm taking my rest now," she said. "We can't afford to drop our guard."
He gave her a reproachful look – even here, in the thick of battle, at the end of the world, he was trying to tell her off – and shook his head. "Go to the higher circles. Take a look at the situation. We are fighting in the dark here, and we need to know what's going on."
She sighed. "You're right, of course."
"No surprise there."
"I'll be back as soon as I can," she said. "I promise."
He took her hand and kissed it swiftly, and then he was gone back into the fray. She pushed away from the pillar and took off at a run.
She found Gandalf muttering in a courtyard in the fourth circle, his eyes shut.
"Tíniel!" came a call, and she turned to see Pippin's pale face.
"What is he doing?" she asked, jerking her head toward the wizard.
"Spells, I imagine," Pippin said. "He's been like that for almost half an hour now. I didn't want to interrupt him."
Tíniel nodded tightly. "Have you seen Imrahil?"
"He was headed down to the first circle, last I heard."
"Denethor?"
The hobbit's face tensed. "Still by Faramir. And… it isn't boding well for him. The medicine was too late, they think." He hesitated and reached out to touch her hand gently. "Sorry."
She pursed her lips but made no further comment, moving over to stand before Gandalf, who showed no sign of realising her presence.
"Gandalf," she said. He continued muttering.
"Gandalf," she repeated. "Gods help me, or I'll knock your hat off."
Predictably, those were the words that jolted him out of his trance. "Tíniel," he said bewilderedly. "Where did you come from?"
"Below," she said. "How is our standing?"
"We are holding them off, barely," he said. "There is not a…" he trailed off suddenly, his eyes growing dark, and Tíniel frowned.
"There is not a what?"
His face sobered and he gripped his staff. "Go to the men," he commanded, his eyes on the roiling, dark sky.
"What? What men?"
"Any men! Any of our soldiers that you can find!" His piercing eyes found hers, and there was an urgency in them that she'd never seen before. "Now is your time, Rómentári! Here is the darkness, real and unseen! You are the light!"
Tíniel gaped at him, but before she could ask another question, there was a long, ear-shattering shriek.
"Oh dear," Pippin whimpered. "That can't be very good."
Tíniel turned and drew her sword in one smooth motion, but she could already feel the cold terror seeping into the very marrow of her bones. The mithiri dropped to hang limply by her side and she watched as the leader of the Ringwraiths rose ominously on his steed to hover before them.
"The Witch-King," Gandalf said hollowly. Around them, Tíniel was vaguely aware of grown men crying in terror, abandoning their posts and running for their lives.
"Tíniel," Gandalf said, his voice cutting through the reverie of horror. "Tíniel. Do you fear death?"
"No," she whispered, her eyes on the beast. "I have felt it coming for me today. But I do not want it."
"The worst this wraith will give you is death," Gandalf said, readying his sword. "So do not fear it. Go, and lead as you are meant to!"
She squeezed her eyes tight shut, fending off the icy chill that threatened to envelope her. "Gods," she whispered in Khandi. "Hamariag… if ever there was a time I needed you, it is now."
Immediately, she felt something strange and warm brush her mind, but it was quickly gone. The message was clear: she was on her own. They were watching her, but they would not be of any help.
She expected panic to come. Something terrible would happen to her today, she had felt the doom in the air. A beast from the depths of Mordor was in the sky right before her. She had asked the gods for help and they had abandoned her to her fate. She should have been afraid, despairing, but instead an odd kind of calm washed over her. This was the end, she was sure.
She opened her eyes and nodded at Gandalf, then turned away.
"You there!" she cried at a whimpering Gondorian soldier. "Give me your horse!"
Still cowering, he passed her the reigns, and she swiftly mounted.
"After me!" she bellowed, wheeling the horse around. One or two heads came up, but the rest remained hidden. The moans of terror continued. Gritting her teeth, Tíniel drew her two mithiri and clashed them together violently, momentarily breaking the spell of the Nazgul. Men let go of whatever they'd been clinging to in fear and staggered to their feet.
"Men of Gondor!" she cried, and now their faces turned to her. "Pick up your swords! The Enemy is upon us, but Gondor must not fall!"
They began to gather before her, dirty, tired and afraid, but she shook her head.
"There is no place for fear here," she went on. "We have only two choices here: to live in freedom, or to die. Life in slavery is no life!"
There were grunts of agreement now. Men gripped their swords with growing determination, and resolve began to creep back into their eyes.
"Follow me now!" Tíniel shouted, her horse sidestepping as she stood in the stirrups and brandished one of her knives. "Follow me to freedom, or to death!" There was a roar of assent now, and the ring of blades as they were freed from their scabbards. "For the free people! With me!"
She wheeled the horse and took off. Tens of men on horseback rode at her heels, and behind them ran tens more of foot soldiers.
"For Minas Tirith!" came the cries from behind her. "For freedom! Follow the East Queen! To death and to glory! Follow the Rómentári!"
Tíniel heard none of it. Her focus narrowed until all she could hear were the grating breaths in her throat and the rush of blood in her ears, and all she could see was the enemy. The first orc she saw lost his head before he had time to realise that she was there.
When they reached the wall, the sight of reinforcements provoked a cheer from the Khandi fighters. They began the task of pushing back the enemy that was pouring into the city, but even as she stabbed and swung at monster and man alike, Tíniel could see it was useless.
"To the fields!" she cried, unsure if anyone heard her. "To the fields! We can draw them out!"
She didn't know if anyone heard her, but she went out anyway.
Tíniel didn't know how long it had gone on. She didn't know what time it was, whether it was day or night; she didn't know where she was, though she knew it must be hundreds of yards from the walls, more than half a mile.
The red haze of focussed killing had faded into a weary grey. All she knew was the mechanical rise and fall of her blade, the squelch of the mud beneath her boots, the softness of Borund's vadi against her face and the screams of dying creatures.
It must have been going on for hours. She didn't know, but she was tired. Her muscles ached, and she knew that eventually, she would slow. The sense of doom, the knowledge of her death, sat heavily on her shoulders, an extra weight to bear. It would come soon. There were so many of them, too many…
At the edge of her conscience, she heard a horn sound. She forced her head to lift, to glance toward the sound, and her laboured breath caught in her throat.
"Rohan," she whispered. Unbidden, a tear escaped her eye. "They have come…"
With renewed shrieks of outrage, the orc army veered toward the new threat. Where before she'd been mired, surrounded by enemy fighters, Tíniel now stood alone, watching the battle unfold before her.
Rohan's charge tore through them. If she'd had the energy, she would have laughed; the green and gold of the Rohirric banners was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. From afar, she could see Théoden, and one she thought might be Éomer on his right.
We are saved, she thought. We are saved…
Then the feeling of fate that had been heavy in the air around her all day became a crushing weight, and she looked up, her chest suddenly hollow. The Witch-King flew silently over her, headed directly toward the king.
"No," she whispered, and suddenly new strength flooded into her. She ran across the fields, sword in hand, leaping over fallen men and orcs to get to her destiny.
But she wasn't fast enough. Even as she sprinted toward them, Rohan's army scattered before the Nazgul. Its beast landed heavily on the ground and with one swing of its mace, the Witch-King sent Théoden and his horse flying.
"Witch-King!" she screamed across the battlefield, trying to drag his attention away. For a moment, the great, metal helm swung around to see who had called, but it looked away just as quickly, dismissing her as no threat.
She needed to prove herself someone important, she realised. She needed to make him want to kill her, to need it. She had to draw her killer to herself.
"Witch-King!" she cried out again. She felt his cold gaze sweep over her, but she shoved the feeling of icy terror away. There was too much at stake to succumb to his spell now.
"I am Tchakhura, Khondyë of the Maruvikh tribe of Khand, leader of Northmen and Southrons alike, friend to Isildur's heir and Queen of the East!"
This time, the Nazgul turned to face her. Something cold slithered down her spine.
"I have crept beneath your gaze many times," she said, pulling her vadi away from her face and baring her teeth in a grin. "But this time I will best you face to face."
The Witch-King Slid off the back of his beast, and began to advance towards Tíniel, brandishing an iron-studded mace. Tíniel's mouth grew dry, but she began walking toward her enemy, determined not to show fear. She tightened her grip on her curved sword and drew one of her long knives. She only had to hold his attention for as long as she could, to give Rohan the best chance to do some damage.
"Gods be good," she whispered.
He moved first, swinging the mace up around his head and in a deadly arc until it slammed into the ground directly next to her. Tíniel jumped away, catching her breath, but she knew he had missed on purpose. It had been meant to scare her, and she would not be scared. She darted in, slashing at his knees with her sword. The metal shrieked against his black armour but did not penetrate. She scurried back just as quickly and waited for his next move.
Behind him, she could see Rohan regrouping, the wroth of the Witch-King no longer focussed on them. She gave no sign of celebration, but locked her eyes back onto her enemy.
He swung the heavy mace again, and this time it was headed straight for her. It was frighteningly quick, and she threw herself bodily to one side, rolling to her feet.
The Witch-King laughed, a horrible, grating sound. "Foolish mortal," he hissed, yanking the mace's head from its crater in the ground. "You must wish death upon yourself."
She grinned wildly. "I may be mortal, but the gods are not," she said, "and they are behind me every step that I take."
"No man can kill me," he sneered, readying his weapon again. "Not even one with imaginary god-friends."
"Not the first time I've had to do a man's job," she shot back, and dived out of the way of his next swing.
It continued without talking after that; he swung at her, almost teasing her in his arrogance, and she leaped out of the way. Her escapes got narrower every time, but between every swing, she would dart in to slash at his armour. He was a good foot taller than any man she'd ever seen, and his armour was impenetrable. The action was useless, but at least it infuriated him.
For a moment, he seemed to tire of his game. The next swing was lightning fast, and she barely escaped. One of the spikes on the mace caught the cloth of her vadi and ripped it off her head. She cried out and scrambled back.
"Tíniel!" came a cry, and she risked a glance back to see Éowyn running towards her.
"Get back!" she shouted, her eyes back on the Nazgul. "Go away, Éowyn! This is my fight, not yours!"
"Look out!" Éowyn shrieked, and Tíniel only just avoided having her skull crushed like a berry.
"You shouldn't even be here," she growled, getting back to her feet – but as soon as she did, she was forced to leap back again. "He is playing with me! Get away while you can, please!"
A sinister laugh from the Ringwraith only confirmed what she'd said, and she rolled desperately to the side as the mace thumped sickeningly into the ground beside her.
"I won't leave you," Éowyn shouted back stubbornly.
A cry went up from the direction of the river, and for a moment, the Nazgul's head turned to look. Tíniel scrambled in and slashed wildly at him, trying desperately to find a gap in his metal armour. There was none, and she leapt back quickly when he turned back to face her.
"Tíniel," came Éowyn's voice. She didn't turn to look.
"There are pirates," Éowyn went on, her voice tremulous. "There is a fleet of black-sailed ships coming up the Anduin. It is lost. We are all lost..."
"No, we aren't," Tíniel gasped, suddenly filled with hope. She didn't dare look away from her opponent, to lose focus, but this time she didn't let him move first. She leapt forward, and he blocked her powerful stroke with the mace. It sent an awful judder up her arm, but she ignored it and attacked again.
His next block came with some kind of pulse of power, and it threw her back several feet.
"Wait… Tíniel, they're attacking the orcs!" Éowyn cried, her voice alive with hope and disbelief. "The pirates – they're on our side!"
Tíniel shook the cold out of her bones and climbed out of the dust. She couldn't afford to listen, couldn't afford the distraction…
The Witch-King swung the mace and instead of dodging, she parried it with her sword and knife together. It was a mistake; the sword shattered, and the knife was struck from her hand. The terrifying chill shot through her arm, and she cried out, the pain forcing her to her knees.
"Tíniel, no!" Éowyn yelled. Tíniel looked up and saw the Nazgul raising his mace. She could see no face in the blackness under his helm, but she knew he was going to kill her this time. But just as he swung downward, something came between them.
"Éowyn, don't," she whispered, but it was too late. The mace came down hard on Éowyn's shield, and there was a sickening crack and a scream as her arm broke beneath it.
Tíniel groaned and pushed herself to her feet.
"No more of that," she ground out. "I am the one you want to kill, remember?"
The Witch-King growled at her flippancy. "Ready to die, East-Queen?" he snarled. She offered him a grin and drew her one remaining knife. She almost didn't see the mace coming down on her, but at the last minute she swayed to the side.
It wasn't enough. One of its spikes ripped through the left sleeve of her tunic, opening a gash that ran almost the full length of her upper arm. She screamed and staggered backwards.
She could feel the cold seeping into her blood like poison, but she didn't give in. She tried to use the pain as a way to stay awake, to keep her focus sharp, but blackness pulled at the edge of her vision.
"No man can kill me," the Nazgul said again, stepping forwards to close the distance between them.
"I'm no man," she returned, gritting her teeth and squeezing the hilt of her knife. A kind of odd, single-minded calm came over her, and she knew she could keep fighting, knew she wouldn't die just yet, knew she could hold his attention for just a moment longer –
"Tíniel!"
It was a voice she knew in her heart, a voice she would have crossed the world for, a voice she never thought she'd hear again. She turned to find him in the chaos around them, and she saw him instantly.
"Aragorn," she tried to call, but it came out more like a whimper. "You came."
She thought she saw his eyes soften, but it could have been her imagination across the distance that separated them. And then pain exploded in her side.
The mace caught her full in the ribs, the spikes tearing holes in her skin, and it tossed her bodily away.
Tíniel lay there for one second, two seconds, three. The pain was beyond any she'd felt before, and it raged through her body like a fire. She knew she couldn't give up; she knew she had to go on, but through the haze of that unbelievable pain, she only wanted relief. As four seconds turned into five, she gave in to the darkness.
She let the cold take her body, and it brought a kind of sickening respite. Her eyes fluttered half open, half closed, and the world began fading around her. She noticed things, but they slipped through her memory as quickly as they happened. She saw Éowyn plunge her sword into the Witch-King's head; she saw smoke rising from a fire nearby; she saw a man of Rohan lose his arm to an orc's sword; she saw Éowyn crumple to the ground.
Some part of her was aware of a shadow blocking out the lightening sky, a face hovering over hers. She was aware of the shouting, someone shouting her name. She was aware of the drops of warm water that fell onto her face. She felt him take her by the shoulders and shake her violently. At the edge of her conscience, she heard the desperate pleading.
But slipping into the cold was the easiest thing she'd ever done, and as the world faded to an infinite black, the last thing she saw was a pair of grey eyes.
