A/N: Thanks, GreyLadyBlast and San Antonio Rose, for your reviews on 17, and Europa, Anya, Finch, arnytrek, and Lantarmiel for your recent reviews (and everyone else who has reviewed, too!).
Ch. 18: The Battle for Minas Tirith
During the ride, the riders pretended
not to notice Merry. The fourth night, they met the Wild men of the
woods. Worf went with Éomer and Théoden to speak to the
chief, who called himself Ghân-buri-Ghân. He spoke the
Common Tongue with a heavy accent and a deep, guttural voice. He spoke
in riddles, but told them many gorgûn, as he called the orcs,
blocked the way. "We fight not. Hunt only. Kill gorgûn
in woods, hate orc-folk. You hate gorgûn too. We
help as we can." As reward, he asked only to be left alone. "If
you live after the Darkness, then leave Wild Men alone in the woods and do
not hunt them like beasts any more."¹
The small man led them by forgotten paths
around the orc-host. Leaving them, he told them "Kill gorgûn!
Kill orc-folk! No other words please Wild Men. Drive away bad
air and darkness with bright iron!" With that, he touched his forehead to
the ground in farewell. Suddenly he perked up and exclaimed "Wind
is changing!" before leaving them to finish the journey alone.²
Sure enough, before long, all could perceive
the change in the wind—now a fresh breeze from the south with a sea tang.
Théoden turned and spoke to Worf, "Soon we will gather into three
éoreds for the attack on the city. Will you lead one
of these?"
Worf considered this for a moment.
After a moment, he said, "I am honored by your confidence, my king, but I
do not know enough of this world or battle here to lead a company. Instead,
let me ride beside Éomer and leave command to one who knows the battles
of this world better than I."
Théoden nodded slowly, then said,
"Very well. Let it be as you say."
With that, the company gathered into three
éoreds. Éomer's attack force would take the center,
and the other two would branch off in each direction once the battle was
joined. When they reached the out-walls, they found them scarcely defended.
The enemy did not expect attack from behind. The few orcs there were
quickly killed or driven off. During the short fray, Worf quickly realized
his skills in archery did not extend to shooting from a moving horse, so
he rode directly to the fray and used his bat'leth almost exclusively.
As they approached the city, the riders
could see fires and a shadow like death up on the city. It looked like
they had come too late. Théoden halted them and the years seemed
to weigh down on him once again. Suddenly, the wind picked up and the
southern sky began to clear. A great flash, like lightning, illuminated
the city for an instant; the towers shone white in the light. The weight
gone, Théoden stood in his stirrups and called them to battle in a
clear, loud voice, then blew a great blast his horn, splitting the thing
in two. Others took up the call and the plains rang with the sound.
Worf joined with a great battle cry.
The king rode off on his white horse like
a streak of lightning himself, Éomer and Worf close behind, but none
could overtake the king. The hosts of Mordor fled before them.
Soon they came upon a great force of the Haradrim, Southern men who served
the Enemy, and carried great curved scimitars. Théoden rode
to meet them and hewed down any who stood in his way. Worf and Éomer
followed close behind, leaving a trail of carnage in their wake. The
king took down the chieftain of the men, his spear splintering with his attack.
Tossing aside the broken weapon, he drew his sword and in one stroke, took
down both the Haradrim's black standard and its bearer.
In the midst of the triumph, darkness fell suddenly.
Horses went wild and the men they threw fell trembling to the ground.
Worf jumped off his horse before he could be thrown and held the beast's
reins. He stood tall, unwilling to submit to the fear, but he was alone.
It took all his will to stand. A great winged creature flew above,
like a giant, dark bat, or a dinosaur from earth's past, without feather
or quill, leathery flesh forming its wings. As it passed, it left an
evil stench. A dart from above felled the king's horse, and Théoden
fell crushed beneath the horse. The creature swooped upon its prey,
and on it was a black-cloaked creature—the Lord of the Nazgûl himself.
Worf had faced the lesser ones before, but now he was frozen.
Dernhelm alone dared to stand up to the
thing. The slender warrior had stayed near the king throughout the
battle. He been unhorsed in the Ringwraith's approach, but stood and
spoke, "Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion! Leave the dead in
peace!"
The Nazgûl replied in a cold, unnatural
voice, "Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey, or a fate worse than
death will await you! No living man may hinder me!"
With that, the warrior threw back the
dark hood, revealing long golden hair, and Éowyn said, "No living man
am I! You look upon a woman! I will smite you, if you touch him!"
³
The Nazgûl hesitated at this, but
soon gathered its wits again. With a great screech, the black winged
creature attacked her. Watching her face death alone, both Merry and
Worf were freed from the paralysis. Worf quickly grabbed his the Elven
dagger at his waist and threw it. It barely pierced the thick hide,
but the distraction was enough. Éowyn struck and beheaded the
creature. The Nazgûl glanced back at Worf, and he found himself
again unable to move.
"I will finish you later, alien!" The
Nazgûl screamed at him before turning to Éowyn. He struck
with his mace, and Éowyn met it with her shield. There was such
force in the blow that it broke her arm. Alone, she would have been
killed, but there were two others who had the courage to stand up to the
evil thing—one a small hobbit, the other a Klingon warrior. Worf overcame
the paralysis once again and pulled the dagger from his boot, and threw it
at the thing's sword arm It did a little damage, but not enough. As
the Nazgûl turned to face him, it stumbled forward, Merry's sword buried
in the sinew behind his knee. With the last of her strength, Éowyn
drove her sword through the Black Rider's neck, the sword breaking into millions
of pieces. The thing's crown rolled a few feet away, and Éowyn
fell forward, upon her enemy, but the black cloak that fell to the ground
was empty. A shriek sounded, then faded into a thin wail, and eventually
faded to nothing.
Worf dropped to his knees, exhausted from
the effort of resisting the thing, and Merry walked over to Théoden,
who bade him farewell. "Farewell! I go to my fathers!"
Merry, weeping, spoke again, "Forgive me,
lord, for breaking your command, but I have done no more in your service than
to weep at our parting."
"Grieve not! It is forgiven."
Éomer arrived a moment later, and Théoden King passed out of
the land of the living.4
The nearby warriors stood stunned with grief. Fate was
a strange thing: it had brought Merry this far, following his lord against
Théoden's orders, and brought
Éowyn, as well. Worf, too, was there
for some inexplicable reason that went far beyond a freak transporter accident,
and despite the strangeness, there seemed to be a purpose to it. The
Lord of the Nazgûl was dead. None
save the little hobbit and the now stricken young woman could have accomplished
this. Even Worf had been frozen until the thing attacked Éowyn. No man could have killed the
thing; it's prophecy said so, and but for their presence and a girl's courage,
it would have taken the city. Fate was a strange thing, indeed.
¹ p. 116-7, Return of the King
² p. 117-20 Return of the King
³ p. 127 Return of
the King
4 p. 129 Return of the King