Chapter 29 - The Battle for Minas Tirith Pt. 1
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Many of the descriptions and much of the dialogue in this chapter are taken direct from Tolkien's Return of the King, with amendments by me to fit my protagonist and tale. All credit goes to the great Mr. Tolkien.
It was dark and Elanor could see nothing as she lay on the ground rolled in a blanket; yet though the night was airless and windless, all about her hidden trees were sighing softly. She lifted her head. Then she heard it again: a sound like faint drums in the wooded hills and mountain-steps. The throb would cease suddenly and then be taken up again at some other point, now nearer, now further off. She wondered if the watchmen had heard it.
She could not see them, but she knew that all round her were the companies of the Rohirrim, and close at hand lay the small form of Merry. Éowyn had slipped away not long before. She could smell the horses in the dark, and could hear their shiftings and their soft stamping on the needle-covered ground. The host was bivouacked in the pine-woods that clustered about Eilenach Beacon, a tall hill standing up from the long ridges of the Drúadan Forest that lay beside the great road in East Anórien.
Tired as she was Elanor could not sleep. On the journey south with the Grey Company, she had had no difficulty in falling into slumber. She had ridden now for four days on end, and the ever-deepening gloom had slowly weighed down her heart. She began to wonder why she had been so eager to come, when he had been given every excuse, even Théoden's insistence, to stay behind. She wondered, too, if the old King had discovered the disobedience of the threesome and was angry. Perhaps not. There seemed to be some understanding between Éowyn and Elfhelm, the Marshal who commanded the éored in which they were riding. He and all his men had ignored them when they had spoken in their higher female voices, or seen them uncover their heads; Merry had been treated more as a piece of baggage than the person he was.
Elanor could see the loneliness in the hobbit's features as they had ridden throughout the day; he seemed to pine for Pippin, and withdrawn from what little terse conversation passed between the two women. Now the time was anxious, and the host was in peril.
They were less than a day's ride from the out-walls of Minas Tirith that encircled the townlands, as far as Elanor could ascertain. Scouts had been sent ahead. Some had not returned. Others hastening back had reported that the road was held in force against them. A host of the enemy was encamped upon it, three miles west of Amon Dîn, and some strength of men was already thrusting along the road and was no more than three leagues away. Orcs were roving in the hills and the woods along the roadside. The king and Éomer held council in the watches of the night, and Elanor knew Éowyn had gone to glean information in secret. Whilst concealment was still necessary, it irked Elanor that they were no longer privy to the councils of the lords of Rohan.
Elanor wanted someone to talk to, and her thoughts drifted to months past. No longer did she think of Amanda—her best friend from home—when in need of a heart-to-heart; more easily did her foster-kin come to mind, or Legolas and Glorfindel. Éowyn, good friend that she had become, had succumbed to the black cloud of despair which clung to them all. Gone were her warmer manners; she was sterner and colder than steel.
Oh, but I wish this were all over; and that the ending shall be good!
That prospect frightened her; that she might survive the coming battle, only to find those that she loved had not. The loss of Elladan or Elrohir, Legolas or Glorfindel—even Eärendur!—would cause her immeasurable grief. Somehow, the unbearable waiting and tension drove away worries of the future, but they would return soon enough she knew. For the moment, the thought that she was about to enter a battle, see death… blood… that was enough to process. Deal with grief and anger later. And, she reminded herself, it was more likely that she would fall in this tussle than any of her Elvish friends.
Elanor wished she were taller and stronger, like Éowyn; or better yet, Éomer, and could blow a horn and go galloping forth with at least a reasonable chance of survival. She sat up, listening to the drums that were beating again, now nearer at hand. Presently she heard voices speaking low, and she saw dim half-shrouded lanterns passing through the trees. Men nearby began to move uncertainly in the dark, and Merry sat up near her.
A tall figure loomed out of the darkness and stumbled over the unfortunate hobbit, muttering a curse about the tree-roots. Elanor recognised the voice of Elfhelm the Marshal.
"I am not a tree-root, sir," Merry said, aggrieved, "nor a bag, but a bruised hobbit. The least you can do in amends is tell me what is afoot."
"Anything that can keep so in this devil's mirk," answered Elfhlem, solemnly. "But my lord sends word that we must set ourselves in readiness: orders may come for a sudden move."
"Is the enemy coming then?" cried Elanor, drawing the Marshal's eyes to her form. She was enveloped in her blankets, and Elfhelm was struck by how young and girlish this "Aelfnod" appeared. The Lady of the North was far less warrior-like than their own White Lady.
"Are those their drums? I began to think I was imagining them, as no one else seemed to take any notice of them," Merry added, giving an involuntary shudder. Elanor was glad to know she was not alone in having noticed the drums.
"Nay, nay," said Elfhelm, "the enemy is on the road not in the hills. You hear the Woses, the Wild Men of the Woods: thus they talk together from afar. They still haunt Drúadan Forest, it is said. Remnants of an older time they be, living few and secretly, wild and wary as beasts. They go not to war with Gondor or the Mark; but now they are troubled by the darkness and the coming of the orcs: they fear lest the Dark Years be returning, as seems likely enough. Let us be thankful that they are not hunting us: for they use poisoned arrows, it is said, and they are woodcrafty beyond compare. But they have offered their services to Théoden. Even now one of their headmen is being taken to the king. Yonder go the lights. So much I have heard but no more. And now I must busy myself with my lord's commands. Pack yourselves up, Master Bag and Lord Aelfnod!" With that, the Marshal vanished into the shadows.
"I do not like this talk of wild men and poisoned darts," muttered Merry, rising slowly from his bed and beginning to bundle his blankets together.
Elanor nodded mutely, joining him in preparing her own belongings. Waiting was intolerable. She longed to know when their time to ride would come. The Wild Men did not stir fear in her breast, now that she knew what the source of the haunting drums was. Still, it seemed fruitless to remain idle whilst Éowyn roamed about.
"Shall we go and find out what passes?" she asked, and vaguely in the gloom she saw Merry nod.
"It seems a sight better than sitting here with naught to do but twiddle our thumbs!"
Rising, the pair trod warily in pursuit of one of the dim lanterns they had seen before Elfhelm stumbled across them.
Presently they came to an open space where a small tent had been set up for the king under a great tree. A large lantern, covered above, was hanging from a bough and cast a pale circle of light below. There sat Théoden and Éomer, and before them on the ground sat a strange squat shape of a man, gnarled as an old stone, and the hairs of his scanty beard straggled on his lumpy chin like dry moss. He was short-legged and fat-armed, thick and stumpy, and clad only with grass about his waist. His attire reminded Elanor of traditional Polynesian costumes. She shoved the memory of her old world aside like it was a burning coal.
There was a silence as the two crept nearer, and then the Wild Man began to speak, in answer to some question, it seemed. His voice was deep and guttural, yet to Elanor's surprise he spoke the Common Speech or English, though in a halting fashion, and uncouth words were mingled with it. She paused at a little distance, conscious of her poor stalking skills and softly clinking chain mail. Merry, nimble of foot and clad in supple leather, moved slightly closer.
"No, father of Horse-men," he said, "we fight not. Hunt only. Kill gorgûn in woods, hate orc-folk. You hate gorgûn too. We help as we can. Wild Men have long ears and long eyes; know all paths. Wild Men live here before Stone-houses; before Tall Men come up out of Water."
"But our need is for aid in battle," said Éomer. "How will you and your folk help us?"
"Bring news," said the Wild Man. "We look out from hills. We climb big mountain and look down. Stone-city is shut. Fire burns there outside; now inside too. You wish to come there? Then you must be quick. But gorgûn and men out of far-away," he waved a short gnarled arm eastward, "sit on horse-road. Very many, more than Horse-men."
"How do you know that?" said Éomer.
Elanor rolled her eyes, feeling as if she would slap the Third Marshal of the Mark were she in the Wild Man's place. Éomer was well-meaning and proud, but came across as decidedly belligerent at times.
The old man's flat face and dark eyes showed nothing, but his voice was sullen with displeasure. "Wild Men are wild, free, but not children," he answered. "I am great headman, Ghân-buri-Ghân. I count many things: stars in sky, leaves on trees, men in the dark. You have a score of scores counted ten times and five. They have more. Big fight, and who will win? And many more walk round walls of Stone-houses."
"Alas! he speaks all too shrewdly," said Théoden. "And our scouts say that they have cast trenches and stakes across the road. We cannot sweep them away in sudden onset."
"And yet we need great haste," said Éomer. "Mundburg is on fire!"
"Let Ghân-buri-Ghân finish!" said the Wild Man, piqued, and Elanor cheered him on internally. "More than one road he knows. He will lead you by road where no pits are, no gorgûn walk, only Wild Men and beasts. Many paths were made when Stonehouse-folk were stronger. They carved hills as hunters carve beast-flesh. Wild Men think they ate stone for food. They went through Drúadan to Rimmon with great wains. They go no longer. Road is forgotten, but not by Wild Men. Over hill and behind hill it lies still under grass and tree, there behind Rimmon and down to Dîn, and back at the end to Horse-men's road. Wild Men will show you that road. Then you will kill gorgûn and drive away bad dark with bright iron, and Wild Men can go back to sleep in the wild woods."
Éomer and the king spoke together in their own tongue, exasperating Elanor. She wished she had time to learn the Rohirric language.
Perhaps, in Minas Tirith, with Éowyn…
If all goes well, you mean.
Thanks for your ever-present enthusiasm and optimism...
At length Théoden turned to the Wild Man. "We will receive your offer," he said. "For though we leave a host of foes behind, what matter? If the Stone-city falls, then we shall have no returning. If it is saved, then the orc-host itself will be cut off. If you are faithful, Ghân-buri-Ghân, then we will give you rich reward, and you shall have the friendship of the Mark for ever."
"Dead men are not friends to living men, and give them no gifts," said the Wild Man. "But if you live after the Darkness, then leave Wild Men alone in the woods and do not hunt them like beasts any more. Ghân-buri-Ghân will not lead you into trap. He will go himself with father of Horse-men, and if he leads you wrong, you will kill him."
"So be it!" said Théoden.
"How long will it take to pass by the enemy and come back to the road?" asked Éomer. "We must go at foot-pace, if you guide us; and I doubt not the way is narrow."
"Wild Men go quick on feet," said Ghân. "Way is wide for four horses in Stonewain Valley yonder," he waved his hand southwards; "but narrow at beginning and at end. Wild Man could walk from here to Dîn between sunrise and noon."
"Then we must allow at least seven hours for the leaders," said Éomer; "but we must reckon rather on some ten hours for all. Things unforeseen may hinder us, and if our host is all strung out, it will be long ere it can be set in order when we issue from the hills. What is the hour now?"
Elanor clenched her hands tight. She'd known this would come up—even befuddled by weariness as she was—and still the prospect of delays sat ill with her. The time taken to mobilise a six-thousand-strong force and get it along a trail and ready to fight had never been something she'd learned. Now, the delays rubbed on her fast-fraying nerves.
"Who knows?" said Théoden. "All is night now."
"It is all dark, but it is not all night," said Ghân. "When Sun comes we feel her, even when she is hidden. Already she climbs over East-mountains. It is the opening of day in the sky-fields."
"Then we must set out as soon as may be," said Éomer. "Even so we cannot hope to come to Gondor's aid today."
If not today… then in 24 hours… this time tomorrow, we ride to battle…
Elanor shivered. Her perception of the coming battle was that it would be like living through the most gory movie she had ever watched at home. Except these people would really be dying…
Merry turned and crept back to where she waited.
"Come, Lady Elanor; there is no more to be heard, and we had best prepare to depart."
The hobbit's good sense in the face of the terror warmed her heart, and Elanor nodded.
"Yes, Merry, let's."
It was night. On either side of the road the host of Rohan was moving silently. Now the road passing about the skirts of Mindolluin turned southward. Far away and almost straight ahead there was a red glow under the black sky and the sides of the great mountain loomed dark against it. They were drawing near the Rammas of the Pelennor; but the day was not yet come. Ghân-buri-Ghân had led them for the last day, and the army of Rohan had passed by ways unseen. Elanor knew they had come perilously close to being discovered by the orcs. She was relieved that the time for concealment was nearly past, even though it meant that battle was upon them.
The king rode in the midst of the leading company, his household-men about him. Elfhelm's éored came next; Elanor and Éowyn had left their places in the darkness and were moving steadily forward, until they were riding in the rear of the king's guard. Elanor, in truth, had done little more than follow her reckless companion. She had no desire to be in the thick of the action, but Éowyn was needed near the King, to defeat the Nazgûl. She would not interfere with her friend's destiny.
So be it.
There came a check. Elanor heard voices in front speaking softly. Out-riders had come back who had ventured forward almost to the wall. They returned to the king's side.
"There are great fires, lord," said one. "The City is all set about with flame, and the field is full of foes. But all seem drawn off to the assault. As well as we could guess, there are few left upon the out-wall, and they are heedless, busy in destruction."
"Do you remember the Wild Man's words, lord?" said another. "I lived upon the open Wold in days of peace; Wídfara is my name, and to me also the air brings messages. Already the wind is turning. There comes a breath out of the South; there is a sea-tang in it, faint though hit be. The morning will bring new things. Above the reek it will be dawn when you pass the wall."
Elanor craned her ears to hear above the soft jangling of bits and the heavy breath of their horses. Her stomach was clenched and unsettled, displeased with the light meal she had consumed in the saddle an hour ago. All seemed surreal. The darkness and the smell of sweating horses, combined with the grim light above and the sight of the king's forces marshalled just in front of her.
These men are going to die.
Not all of them!
…a lot of them. And quite possibly you amongst them.
Within her mind echoed almost-manic laughter, as if something within her couldn't quite believe the predicament she was in and chose to turn to crazed mirth instead. The chain mail on her arms felt alien to her fingers, the sword on her hip an unwieldy burden.
"If you speak truly, Wídfara, then may you live beyond this day in years of blessedness!" said Théoden. He turned to the men of his household who were near, and he spoke now in a clear voice so that many also of the riders of the first éored heard him.
Elanor took a deep breath, realising what she was about to hear. Despite her terror, she felt an irrepressible thrill.
"Now is the hour come, Riders of the Mark, sons of Eorl! Foes and fire are before you, and your homes far behind. Yet, though you fight upon an alien field, the glory that you reap there shall be your own for ever. Oaths ye have taken: now fulfil them all, to lord and land and league of friendship!"
Men clashed spear upon shield. Beside her, Éowyn's voice was also raised in a shout, and yet Elanor's throat was dry and silent.
"Éomer, my son! You lead the first éored," said Théoden; "and it shall go behind the king's banner in the centre. Elfhelm, lead your company to the right when we pass the wall. And Grimbold shall lead his towards the left. Let the other companies behind follow these three that lead, as they have chance. Strike wherever the enemy gathers. Other plans we cannot make, for we know not yet how things stand upon the field. Forth now, and fear no darkness!"
The leading company rode off as swiftly as they could, for it was still deep dark, whatever change Wídfara might forebode. Merry was riding behind Éowyn, clutching with the left hand while with the other he tried to loosen his sword in its sheath. For her part, Elanor had also loosened her Elvish blade, feeling her palm grow sweaty as she gripped the weapon. She recalled bitterly the words she had heard Théoden speak to Merry, and knew that as much was true for herself.
In such a battle, what would you do, Elanor? Apart from cling desperately to Fundanár, and hope at best to stay in my seat and not be pounded to death by galloping hooves!
Glancing to Merry in the dim light, she saw a similar expression mirrored on his countenance.
At least in this I am not alone.
It was no more than a league to where the out-walls had stood. They soon reached them; too soon for Elanor, who had begun to feel decidedly sick. Wild cries broke out, and there was some clash of arms, but it was brief. The orcs busy about the walls were few and amazed, and they were quickly slain or driven off. Before the ruin of the north-gate in the Rammas the king halted again. The first éored drew up behind him and about him on either side.
Éowyn kept close to the king, though Elfhelm's company was away on the right. Grimbold's men turned aside and passed round to a great gap in the wall further eastward. Far away, maybe ten miles or more, there was a great burning, but between it and the Riders lines of fire blazed in a vast crescent, at the nearest point less than a league distant. Elanor could make out little more on the dark plain, and as yet he neither saw any hope of morning, nor felt any wind, changed or unchanged.
Now silently the host of Rohan moved forward into the field of Gondor, pouring in slowly but steadily, like the rising tide through breaches in a dike that men have thought secure. After a while the king led his men away somewhat eastward, to come between the fires of the siege and the outer fields. Still they were unchallenged, and still Théoden gave no signal. At last he halted once again. The City was now nearer. A smell of burning was in the air and a very shadow of death. Elanor shoved down the desire to vomit, checking her helm was firmly on her head. The horses were uneasy, though Fundanár bore up with remarkable calm. But the king sat upon Snowmane, motionless, gazing upon the agony of Minas Tirith, as if stricken suddenly by anguish, or by dread. He seemed to shrink down, cowed by age. Elanor herself felt as if a great weight of horror and doubt had settled on her. Her heart beat slowly. Time seemed poised in uncertainty. The sight of Minas Tirith—her first real-life sight of the beautiful city—was tainted by shadow and flame. Fear struck her breast like an iron mallet.
Too late! Too late to help amend the damage I have done in coming here! Too late to save my friends… all those who have died…
The smell of death was even more putrid than it had been at Helm's Deep. Elanor's eyes watered as she desperately fought to maintain a visage of self-control. Beside her, Éowyn sat Windfola with remarkable resoluteness. Yet Merry's face was twisted in despair.
Is this what it comes to? Elanor thought, weakly.
As she gripped Fundanár's reins, she batted aside a desperate desire to flee. Every part of her revolted at the scene before her, and more so at the thought that they had come too late to help in this battle for Middle Earth. Without a victory at Minas Tirith, Frodo and Gimli would undoubtedly fail.
All is lost.
Then suddenly Elanor felt it at last, beyond doubt: a change. Wind was in her face! Light was glimmering. Far, far away, in the South the clouds could be dimly seen as remote grey shapes, rolling up, drifting: morning lay beyond them.
But at that same moment there was a flash, as if lightning had sprung from the earth beneath the City. For a searing second it stood dazzling far off in black and white, its topmost tower like a glittering needle; and then as the darkness closed again there came rolling over the fields a great boom.
At that sound the bent shape of the king sprang suddenly erect. Tall and proud he seemed again; and rising in his stirrups he cried in a loud voice, more clear than any there had ever heard a mortal man achieve before:
Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!
Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter!
spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,
a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!
Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!
With that he seized a great horn from Guthláf his bannerbearer, and he blew such a blast upon it that it burst asunder.
And straightway all the horns in the host were lifted up in music, and the blowing of the horns of Rohan in that hour was like a storm upon the plain and a thunder in the mountains.
Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!
Suddenly the king cried to Snowmane and the horse sprang away. Behind him his banner blew in the wind, white horse upon a field of green, but he outpaced it. After him thundered the knights of his house, but he was ever before them. Éomer rode there, the white horsetail on his helm floating in his speed, and the front of the first éored roared like a breaker foaming to the shore, but Théoden could not be overtaken. Fey he seemed, or the battle-fury of his fathers ran like new fire in his veins, and he was borne up on Snowmane like a god of old, even as Elanor recalled Oromë the Great described in the battle of the Valar when the world was young. His golden shield was uncovered, and lo! it shone like an image of the Sun, and the grass flamed into green about the white feet of his steed.
And then it came that Windfola and Fundanár leaped forward, the first time Elanor's Elvish-bred steed had acted without command from his mistress. Éowyn was leaning forward over Windfola's neck, urging her grey stallion to greater efforts. Fundanár matched him stride for stride. Elanor's sword was in her hand, held carefully outwards so she did not cut herself or her steed. Her other hand was buried deep in his blood-chestnut mane, knowing that to fall would to mean her death.
The sound of the thundering hooves was like an earthquake to Elanor's ears; she had never heard it's like, as the turf of the Pelennor Fields was torn up beneath the hooves of the Rohirrim. Her heart thudded frantically against her ribcage. Adrenaline pumped through her body like she was back on the Giant Drop at Dreamworld, fear coursing like blood in her veins. Despite her exhaustion, her mind was razor-sharp and clear. The world moved slowly before her eyes, the clenching muscles of the horse's haunches and the hair of the Rohirrim blowing as if in half speed and in sharp detail. Her mind jabbered frantically, and Elanor didn't know if the screaming came from inside her head or out of it.
She was utterly, terrifyingly mad.
And she was in a battle.
Raising her sword above her head, she shouted throatily, adding her voice to the din. Éowyn glanced across from Windfola's back; both she and Merry were taking up the battle-cry of the Rohirrim also.
Faster and faster they sped across the plain.
Towards battle and glory! Elanor cried, her body singing with the adrenaline which staved off both reason and fear.
And yet still, a cold clear voice rang through her consciousness:
Towards death.
Ok, I know this leaves you in a sort of cliff-hanger leading up to the Pelennor Fields, but I needed to split this. Part 2 is already in the works, and won't be long in coming. I just wanted to have the actual action all there together, without any horrible cliffhangers, and focus on Elanor's navigation of Pelennor and trying to keep herself from dying.
I don't think it really needs to be said that Elanor will survive the battle; this is, after all, her fanfiction. Apart from that, however, I will give no word. :)
Thanks ya'll for your patience! Reviews are welcome, and get keen for Part 2!
Please be honest if you have criticisms (specific) of parts of my story. I love receiving these. :)
Peace out,
Finwe.