Boom! Boom!
The troll's hammer pounded against the gate like a heartbeat, constant and insistent. Each time the gate shuddered and groaned aloud. It was no less stout than had been the main gate to the city but there was no Grond to bring to bear against it. At least that had been quick, whereas this would be a long and slow but inevitable breach. Eventually, the hammer blows would bring down the gate. When that happened, the city's fall was all but assured.
As if it were not already so.
A few men stood ready with spears in hand should the worst come to pass sooner than expected, but most of those who gathered in the wide street to the second level were slumped over in silence, helmets removed. Captain Belegorn was nearby, face white and stare distant. He was the last captain remaining, as Dior had perished beneath the hammer of a troll down by the gate. No one spoke, listening only to the hammer upon the gate, the beat that steadily brought their end closer.
Nemireth was amongst them. She was sitting on a low stone wall in front of what might have been a garden but had since been trampled down into no more than mush. Her helmet sat alongside her, shield resting against her leg. Her hair was damp from sweat with droplets running down her cheeks, mixed with scarlet blood, stinging and sore. It felt like a splinter, but she had not the energy to remove it from above her eye. Pain had been her constant companion since the day and hour she had arrived in Middle Earth, from her shoulders to her ribs to her head. She could not remember a time when it had not been there. The fear of battle had gone, and it felt like the adrenaline was fading away.
In its place, a cold and clammy numbness gripped at her heart, making it hard to think. It felt like her mind had been emptied, thoughts stolen away by some magic of this world. Looking out over the plains of Pelennor, where Faramir had died just the day before, she could see the army of Mordor still spread out amongst the plains. There were still so many to enter the city, so many to fight.
It had all been for nothing. All their plans, all their defences had fallen before the Dark Lord's advance. She wondered if he got any pleasure out of this; out of tormenting his enemies, allowing them just the faintest belief that victory might be gained only to snatch it away in the most violent manner?
The dawn had brought no army of Rohan. There was no Gandalf riding in on a white charger this time. They had snatched one victory from such impossible odds. It was asking too much of the fates for a second.
"Princess?"
Nemireth looked up to see a familiar figure approach, "Pippin."
His little hand was gripping his sword, the blade black and running with blood. Had he fought on the lower levels? Thank the Winds he seemed unharmed, though soon that would not matter.
The thought of him dying here, so far from home, so far from his family, stung at her heart.
He sat alongside her but said nothing. What was there to say? She had given what orders she could, to evacuate the people of the second level to the third but it was like fleeing up the branches of a tree burning from the roots. Soon there would be nowhere else to go.
"You did what you could," He said after a while, voice low and sombre.
"Thank you," She gave him a pained smile, "I only wish it had been enough."
A figure in white sat beside her, whom she had not even seen approach. Gandalf still held both sword and staff and when he settled it was with a heavy sigh that betrayed his own thoughts. Even Gandalf the White, the wisest and greatest of them all, knew that this was the end.
Boom! Boom!
The doors were bouncing back a little more each time. They did not have much longer to give.
So they sat together; a wizard, a princess and a hobbit. Three people whose paths had brought them together; a fellowship created first in name and then forged by the most terrible hardships the world could throw at them. Nemireth thought of Legolas, of Aragorn and Gimli, she thought of their riding to the doomed city and found herself praying they would not reach them in time. Let them return to their homes, do not let them throw away their lives for a fool's errand. The thought of their expressions had she voiced such made her smile, especially Legolas'.
"What are we going to do with you?"
One of the last things he had said to her. There was so much she wished she had said in turn, but there had never been the time, never been the place…
Now she supposed there never would be.
"I didn't think it would end this way…" Pippin spoke softly.
"End?" Gandalf looked at him with a wry little smile, "This is not the end. Death is just another path. One that we all must take. The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass. And then you see it," Gandalf's eyes were hazy, as if he were seeing beyond them all.
"What?" Pippin pressed him, "See what, Gandalf?"
"White shores. A far green country under a swift sunrise. Where peace is plentiful, and pain is a mere shadow upon the wall. Each breath brings new life and each night, new magic."
"Well," Pippin offered a smile of his own, a ray of brightness in such dark times, "That doesn't sound so bad…"
"No," The Wizard chuckled, "No it doesn't."
Nemireth looked away but felt the sorrow that had so shrouded her beginning to lift.
Death is just another path.
She met Gandalf's eyes and he nodded, "It has been a good life."
He was right. Gandalf had always been right and the Princess found herself wiping away tears from her eyes; "We have seen the halls of Khazad-Dum, we stood face to face with a Balrog of Morgoth," the wizard sighed at that part, "We slept beneath the leaves of Lothlorien, walked the forests of Fangorn and stood before the Hornburg. We have fought with warriors…" She thought of Boromir, "Kings," Aragorn came to her mind, "Dwarf lords," Gimli, "And…" She thought of Legolas and found she had no words for him, but she clung to that memory, "…and it has been a good life. As great as any I could have imagined."
The hobbit nodded, his own eyes glistening as he gripped his weapon tighter.
Boom! Boom!
The supporting beams of the door began to splinter and fragment.
The Princess shared on last look upon her friends, upon those who were as close to her as any kin, and then slipped on her helmet. It had been a good life.
Let it end well.
From beyond the walls, a horn blew.
It was distant but bold and proud. She looked out over the fields of Pelennor and saw a sight which brought a gasp from the Princess.
They crested the hills at the far end of the battle with the amber glow of the dawn at their backs, an army mounted upon horses of every colour imaginable. The wind swept through their banners, golden stallions upon emerald flags. The growing light caught the blades of their spears, their axes, their swords.
Rohan had come at last.
Their numbers were so much fewer than the army that remained even beyond the city wall, but they did not turn away. Even when they saw the odds that faced them, the inevitability of the day they did not back down. Even so distant, she could see a figure ride back and before the army. It had to be Théoden, King of Rohan, and, in that moment, she felt a joy that had been so distant, so foreign for so long. She longed to see her friends amongst them but even knowing they were there sent hope flowing through her tired mind.
A great cry went up from the army,
"Death!"
Their spears were thrust aloft, defiance in every voice, in every cheer.
"Death!"
They grew louder each time until Nemireth was sure that even the heavens themselves could hear.
"Death!"
The horns blew, all along the line they blew and the men of the Rohirrim trotted forward, onto ruin, greeting it as an old friend.
Even from so high above the ground, Nemireth could see the beating of those hooves upon the grass. The ground began to shake and tremble as men rode onwards towards their doom. The vast orc horde had turned to face them, a wall of spears and bows like that which had greeted Faramir's doomed attack. It was an army that had been built with a single purpose, who were dedicated to that single cause; to see the world of men burn at their feet. Their spears were dirty and rusty but they were sharp and ready.
The Rohirrim broke into a gallop.
The orcs were able to loose a single volley before the horses were upon them, men as fierce and as terrible as anything the Dark Lord could summon, whose bravery he could never have willed. The army crashed into the ranks of the enemy and carved through them as surely as an axe cleaved through silk, driving deep into their lines and putting them to flight.
Nemireth found her breath was taken, ears ringing from the clash of great forces beyond the walls of the city. She gripped her sword and picked up her shield the macabre thoughts swept from her mind. A fresh fire had been lit in her soul and she harnessed it, looking about frantically, "Karos! Captain Karos!" She called, "Get the men up, prepare to counter-attack!"
"Your highness!" The elder Captain looked at her, sure she had taken leave of her senses, "We cannot attack, this is madness!"
"We live in a world of madness, Captain. Do as I command!"
"The men cannot attack! They are not ready."
That much was true, she could look about the faces of the troops; men from Gondor and Aeanor alike. Defeat was etched in each and every one of their faces, their eyes spoke of those who had accepted their fates, like men going to the gallows.
"Listen to me!" She spoke aloud, clambering atop the wall so that all could see, "Does death come to the children of Númenor so meekly? Do I not see before me the bane of the Dark Lord? Do I not see the men who stood against the darkness time and time again when no one else would?"
There were murmurs from amongst the crowd.
"Then let us send him one final message! Let the Dark Lord of Mordor and all those who follow him know one final thing; the line of Númenor may end here but it will not end quietly! Let us make this a day that the Dark Lord will shudder to remember! That no orc may recall without fear in his heart! For they will remember you! They will remember what you did here today! In all the ages yet to come, let the truth be known from the highest heavens to the darkest pits; this is your city!"
A great cheer went up from amongst the soldiers. She could see the change wash over them, a spark of something new. Not hope, for hope was long extinguished but something else, something greater, defiance. They began to beat upon their shields with spears, with blades, with fists.
"For those you have loved!"
Bang!
"For those you have lost!"
Bang!
"For those who have gone before!"
Bang!
"For those who have yet to come!"
Bang!
"For Gondor!"
"For Gondor!" The men roared back.
"For Gondor!"
"For Gondor!" They were louder again.
"For Gondor!"
"For Gondor!" The word was drawn out, a battle cry, a scream to the heavens as men held their weapons tight, as Nemireth stepped forward so she was right before the gate with men bellowing their defiance and chanting at will, her command was barely heard.
"Open the gate!"
Nemireth had never once wondered what it must be like to be an orc. To see the world as they saw it, but she had to wonder then. How did they feel? How did they feel to see the gate they had been beating upon for so long opened before them? How did they feel to see not boys cowering before them and awaiting their fate but men? The blood of Númenor, the unbending, unyielding rage of a people with nothing more to lose.
Those same men washed over the orcs as a wave washes over a beach with the Princess of Aeanor at their head. Nemireth stabbed, she lunged, she parried, she punched, she bit. Everything before her passed as a blur, mere images lingering in her mind; an Aenorean smash back an orc with his shield in a mist of blood, a Gondorian whose spear had broken driving an orc to the ground with his bare hands about his throat. The enemy fled before them, unable to withstand the rage against them. She caught glimpse of Gandalf amidst the battle, cloak tossing around him while Pippin led the Guard of the Citadel, lunging and cutting as Boromir had taught him.
Then she heard the chanting. Lyrical. Haunting. Menacing.
The enemy had seen the city was being lost. They had sent forth their most dangerous troops.
The Dusk Guard now stood before them, row upon row of hooded and masked men. Their halberds and spears cut down any who drew too close.
Behind them, the orcs were gathering, regrouping. If the attack was stopped here, if they lost their momentum, those same enemy who had fled would overwhelm them and the city would fall.
This was no longer a time for fiery rage, but cold, hard discipline.
The Princess licked at her lips, put her whistle to her mouth and blew a single, loud shriek.
All about her soldiers formed up, her own troops and those of the city, shields and spears at the ready. She could give them only a moment before a single, exhausted cry; "Charge!"
With a roar they broke into a sprint, shields raised. The two lines crashed into each other in a cacophony of broken spears and screaming men. The line of Umbar rippled but stood strong. Then the axes came down upon them, great chopping weapons. The man to her left fell, his head carved in two like a pumpkin. The spears of the enemy were long and try as they might, there was no gap, no way through. Nemireth felt them glance off her shield, keeping them at bay and allowing the great axes to do their grisly work. More and more men fell. The Dusk Guard would win this battle, just as they had at the gate, their incessant chanting torture.
A whistling filled her ears. Dusk Guard twisted and fell out of formation as arrows fell amongst their ranks. Above the carnage of battle, she could hear a familiar voice; Damrod?
"Rangers! Loose!"
Another volley. The Umbarian before her took an arrow to the eye and tipped forwards. The Princess did not even think. She jumped into the gap he had left.
There was no space to move, squeezed on both sides by the enemy. An axe bounced off her shoulder, a spear caught her side and brought forth a scream but still, she lunged. She felt her sword bite into the man on her left before she brought her elbow against the skull of man on her right. There was nothing triumphant about this; no glory nor honour was earned here. No songs were sung of this. This was war; where survival begam paramount and men became animals. Right now, the Princess of Aeanor was as wild as could be.
An Aeanorean stepped into the gap to her left and was swiftly cut down. The second to take his place took a spear to the face and collapsed. The third took a Dusk Guard with him before he was felled. Two more took his place, then three, then four. Amidst their formation, the Umbarians were exposed. She could see panic in their eyes at the enemy so close and she felt nothing but a thrill at it.
"Step!" She yelled as loudly as she could manage.
"Anun!" The whole formation pushed forward. The Dusk Guard stepped back or were crushed under heel.
"Step!"
"Anun!" More of the enemy fell. Their formation shuddered.
"Steeeep!"
Nemireth drove herself forward with all her might, hidden behind a shield glowing a fierce blue.
The Dusk Guard broke.
Where once there had been such intense resistance, every step forward a challenge, their path was now clear. The Guard showed only their backs as they broke in rout. With their courage went the will of the orcs behind them and soon it felt like all the enemy army was in flight.
"After them! After them!" Nemireth screamed breathlessly, "Do not let them group!"
Men surged past her, bloodied weapons raised aloft and Nemireth followed. Any who stood before her were hacked down without mercy or hesitation. She may even have faced a troll at one point but how it was killed, she could not say for sure.
Soon she found herself back in the square, where the broken gates and Grond lay before her, the dead piled high beneath the gaze of Elendil. The streets were running thick and red with blood.
Arrows rained down from above the shattered doors, but the archers wore not the filthy rags of Mordor but the silvery helmets of Gondor. The gatehouse had held! Beyond she could see orcs gathering and even further afield, the Rohirrim rode back and forth, tangling with…
Winds forsake them…were those…oliphaunts?
There was only one way forward. Rohan had not forsaken them and now Gondor would not leave their allies to die on the field before the city.
"Damrod!" She called aloud, searching for the Ranger and finding him with bow in one hand and blade in the other, a wild look in his eyes, "Take your rangers into the market quarter, clear the rats out! Belegorn, your men to the gatehouse! Karos, your men to follow me! Militia! Seal the gate behind us! Do what you can to repair it! Are you ready?"
Fierce eyes met her own, stark white against the blackened faces of those who followed her. Their weapons were dripping with the blood if their enemies, pooling around them. Some had been wounded but it would not slow them as it had not slowed her. Their answer to her was a battle cry as fierce as any she had heard.
"With me! All of you with me!" She led them through the gate at the run, teeth bared in an ugly snarl as she raised her shield once more. She may have screamed as she threw herself upon the masses of the enemy, hacking and chopping without thought or care. She could see no Dusk Guard but the enemy was plentiful around them and there was no shortage of foes for her to bring her hatred against. Around her, the forces of the city battled, tearing through the enemy. Every man thrown from the battlements by fellbeasts, every house demolished by stones, every death, every humiliation was being avenged upon the enemies of Gondor.
And then, just like that, there were none before them.
She looked about wildly, growling in anger, cheated of her prey, only to see the most spectacular sight. The battlefield was awash with green...they could only be spectres? They were figures of decay and ruin, dressed in armour of a time long passed swept across the field in a literal flood. She would have proclaimed them agents of the enemy and laughed at this newest setback were they not cutting down any all allies of Mordor they could reach. They passed through the walls and into the city, clambered atop mighty oliphaunts to bring them down and, as a rain washed away the filth from stone, the battlefield was cleared of the enemy.
She heard a sound behind her and spun, weapon drawn and ready to kill only to find herself looking upon Aragorn. He looked as he ever did save for an expression of horror he wore about his fair features. The princess was coated in the blood of the enemy as if she had been bathing in it, her weapon's blade darkened from hilt to tip, hair matted down and filthy. She was sure she must have looked like some abomination that have clambered out from the darkest pits of Mordor.
They just looked at one another, the silence dragging on before she spread her arms wide; "Behold, my lord Aragorn," Her voice was hoarse and croaky, "As promised; the city of Minas Tirith."
The Ranger of the North could only stare in reply.
