*pokes out from behind Sarah*
Oh…Hi…um…So what if I were to tell you that I look (sound) a LOT like Hannah but I'm not actually her…what would you say to that?
…rats.
Okay, well so I did kill Meldir I'll admit and it WAS my idea, however there is a great amount of thought that goes into such-- well it was HIS fault! *points to Koth accusingly*
Right…so…blame it on him :D
None: Yeah, I don't care for him much myself ;)
PhoenixQueen: *I* didn't kill him! ;) And as to how Legolas is going to get out of this…um…maybe he doesn't. =O ;)
Elwen - StarMaiden: Oh…is that what it means? Well, okay Glorfindel I'll take your word for it :D
Lina Skye: *eyes go Frodo-Having-Tea-With-A-Nazgul wide* Oh my. I'm starting to think maybe killing Meldir wasn't the best idea in the world…although I STILL say I didn't kill him. :D *Watches as the Rohirrim finish cleansing the Cool-Whipped forest* Eomer, just out of curiosity, how did anyone survive BEFORE you got the brilliant idea of trying to take Lina south?
Gwyn: Yes *sniff* If he must die, at least he can die honorably : )
LadyIsabelle: I'm glad you're enjoying it! :D
RainyDayz: *tries to hand RainyDayz some tissue* I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! And I didn't do it on purpose! It was all Koth's fault! …really! Oh…Legolas and Aragorn? …oh dear. Umn…you may still have to wait a while yet RainyDayz….sorry?
e: Hmm….well we'll have to see how that all goes ;) Glad you're enjoying it e! : )
Jambaby1963: Yeah! He probably DOES need a hug!
Reginabean: Sorry? Well…we kind of HAD to kill him…except WE didn't kill him…nope we didn't. *tries to grin innocently*
Chloe: Nice name. Since when have you been named that? ;) Make YOUR angst look bad? Chloe if that day came I would--it wouldn't come is the long and short of it and there is NO way it's gonna happen NOPE. Thank you Puddleglum I can't tell you how much I appreciate that charming chapter title ;)
Krismarief: Well, if it makes you feel better, I don't really like sad endings either… I do write them occasionally, though usually on vignettes, and seeing that this is about 30 chapters I don't think you can count it as a vignette. :D
Mcat: Glad you're liking it, Mcat! :D
sabercrazy: Oh good! We like that chicken right there in the closet…*notices bit about lightsaber* AH! Um….I uh… must be going! *hides in the closet with the chicken*
Cassia: Hey! Nice to see you! :D Oh it doesn't matter if you're late at all! Just say you're fashionably late and no one will know =D Oh! I am SO glad you enjoy our detail! Sarah and I really do enjoy LOTR history and another thing: Geography! Somewhere along the line we got really interested in where everything was on the map and we always get excited when we find another little corner of land with a name (hence the appearance of Mount Gundabad in the previous story) ;D Yes, well, we are very lucky to be sisters of Chloe, we actually get to smack her with pillows (or pelt her with soggy cheerios in Sarah's case) when she does minor things like KILL ARAGORN. ;) Right, well I doubt we COULD do something that bad to poor Legolas! ;) I'm glad you're enjoying it! Can't wait for more SOH (HINT HINT) =D
Asen: Ah yes! Well don't worry Thorongil's coming right up here…for a while actually. :D Oh I'm glad you like regular posting, we try hard to post every other day unless we absolutely can't, and I'm glad you like it that way!!
Well everyone, thank you for the marvelous reviews! I'll shut up now and let you read! And this one's a bit on the long side… :D
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Thorongil
By Sarah and Hannah (Siri)
(disclaimers, explanations, and summaries
available at the top of chapter 1)
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Chapter 7
Attack on Two Fronts
The night sky was cloudless, giving an endless view of a canopy full to bursting with stars, and no moon to detract from their brilliance. A constant rustling of wind through long grass soothed the restless to sleep and melded with the flowing of the Anduin off to the east. On the battlements of the Rohirrim fort a tall man stood at attention, his blue eyes sharp from years of experience, his blonde hair bleached pale by the sun, and his face wrinkled with age and laughter. Now his expression was serious as he frowned into the blackness; he thought he had seen something move, but on this night of wind and shadows, one's senses could not be easily trusted.
"Is something wrong?" the voice of the marshal queried from behind him. The question was that of an equal to his friend, rather than that of a superior to an underling.
"I'm not—"
A trumpeting shriek split the air, as if some horrible monster, long silenced, was finally being given free reign. Far off towards the great river, a long row of torches suddenly sprang into life, revealing in a nightmarish flash of reality the vague shapes that had made their way through the dark and over the borders. An order was shouted into the air like the crack of a whip, too distant to be deciphered, and with the springing bang of taut ropes and wood abruptly released, four balls flame were thrown into the cool night air.
The two Rohirrim threw themselves to the side as one of the missiles found its mark on the battlements to their left, shattering on the stones and bursting spectacularly outwards in a lethal cloud of flaming debris.
"We're under attack!"
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With a gasp, Morwen sat up in bed, catching up instantly the dagger she kept on her bedside table. A larger hand wrapped itself skillfully over her own, restraining her, as a familiar voice broke through her sleep fogged brain.
"Steelsheen! We must learn to break you of this, or you shall murder me quite by accident someday. Assassins have never been known to knock before they enter, dearest heart."
She smiled weakly, laying the weapon aside again as her husband pulled his cloak about him and went calmly to answer the early summons. A messenger was waiting on the other side of the door and for a few minutes he and his lord held a short and fevered conference — in which the messenger became more urgent and the king more grave by the heartbeat. Finally, as the queen retrieved her own cloak and slipped from the large bed, a roll of parchment was passed in and with a nod Thengel closed the door and turned to her.
"Southrons. They attacked the eastern border of the Wold."
She stared at him, lighting the lamp as if to better detect a jest on his part. "Southrons? At our borders? But we are much too far north, husband—"
"Yet they are here," he assured her, beginning to dress quickly, "and rather more than that, they are no longer *at* the borders, they are past them. The forward fort, was unable to hold back their surprise rush and it was taken, forcing the Marshal, Bronweg, to fall back with only a handful remaining of his men to the forts behind. We are fortunate the enemy did not try to press their attack any further than they did that night, or they might very well have been amongst us today."
Outside their room the household was beginning to rise and behind them there was the creak of a second door opening, but Morwen did not rush for her dagger this time, as the door was only ever used by two people.
"Mother?" Theodwyn murmured sleepily, her golden hair in wild disarray about her small shoulders, and her face awed and frightened. "Why so much-" here she paused for a yawn, "noise?"
Taetho was directly behind her looking considerably more collected in spite of the late hour, and she took in her father's sword and her mother's pale face without a word. "Come, Theodwyn, you know you're not allowed out of bed."
The small blue eyes went wide with bewilderment as she pointed accusingly towards the sounds of people rumbling up and down the stairs of the great house, "Everyone *else* is!"
Thengel stooped, "Do as your sister says; she is right, it is much to early in the morning for you to be awake. I have to leave for a while, so you must mind your mother even more carefully than usual."
"I wish I could go." She sighed, yawning again.
"You are your mother's daughter," he murmured warmly. "Off you go now, little one."
The girl smiled lopsidedly, nodded, and, not yet awake enough to be too curious, allowed herself to be escorted out. Taetho returned a few minutes later, sliding her cloak over her shoulders. She didn't ask what had transpired, or where her father was going, but merely said cryptically over her shoulder on her way out, "Breakfast."
Morwen waited until her daughter was gone, then asked worriedly, "Can our forts hold them?"
"Not without aid. Men have already been sent to reinforce them from the outposts farther west and south, but this message is nearly two days old, and Ilúvatar only knows what may have transpired since then. I will have to gather reinforcements before I go."
His wife nodded. "And I?"
"You must remain and rule in my stead, Morwen. If the enemy at the Gap passes Théoden, and I do not think it will, you must take Taetho and Theodwyn to safety in Dunharrow. We are badly outnumbered in this fight, so I must take as many men as I can, but I will not leave any of our borders undefended, so make your mind at ease about that."
Now they were moving quickly down the stone steps, catching sounds of an even greater commotion in the stables as the king's own éored made ready to ride with him to war.
"Will that be enough?" Morwen asked, not truly wanting an answer.
"Nay, it will not, but I have also sent a messenger to beseech Steward Ecthelion to send us aid, and I have great hopes that the long alliance between our two lands will not prove empty now." He did not speak aloud what they were both feeling: that if the Southrons had reached the Wold, Gondor may have already been laid low. He spoke on forcefully, "*When* that help arrives, send it directly to me, with whatever extra supplies you deem necessary."
"I will do as the king commands." She answered gracefully, restraining her personal feelings in the presence of the soldiers.
His eyes communicated his trust as he turned and made ready to mount his steed.
"Father!" Taetho came suddenly through the heavy doors, a neatly wrapped gray bundle in her hands. "Your breakfast — it's as small as I could pack it."
He kissed his hand and rested it on her head, then took the offering gratefully, "My thanks; it was well thought of, daughter. Help your mother; you are eldest now."
"Yes." She nodded gravely, and stepped away.
Giving his wife one last look, he shouted the command to move forward. There was an echoing clatter of hoof beats against stone that rattled round the courtyard, a clink of bridle and bit, a short neigh, and they were gone.
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"Lieutenant, if you must insist on pacing, could you at least do so with a different expression on your face?" Thorongil's tone was mild, covering completely the frustration his subordinate was certain must be lurking there. Still, if the captain was not going to show his irritation, it was not Duurben's place to fume on his behalf.
"Yes, Captain." He came to a halt and straightened his face.
Thorongil's eyebrow rose, "If I may ask, what troubles you? Besides the obvious." His hand gestured briefly towards the valley. The land about them sloped in three different stages, first running flat, then dipping downwards, then running flat again — and here they had made their camp — then sloping down again, and finally leveling out into a large valley where the two armies had met. There could faintly been seen hints of it between the outcroppings of stone and patches of wood.
"Sir, I," the man hesitated, weighing the question over in his mind, then pressed on abruptly, "I am frustrated at the lack of respect given your experience — both on the field and off of it."
The captain's other eyebrow rose, surprised at his companion's vehemence, "What?"
"We all of us know that you are perfectly capable of leading the entire army, quite aside from any smaller companies, and it seems to me that the Lord Denethor is misusing you badly to keep you on sentry duty! Furthermore, to split up all but four of our company amongst the other captains as he has done—"
"Duurben!" Thorongil silenced him sternly, putting up a hand to stem the tide of angry words. "I thank you for your loyalty, but I fear it is growing misplaced. The reason we fight is to protect Gondor and its people, not to further the fame of Captain Thorongil. Never that." There was a pause before he added, "And in this task we are under the authority of the Steward and his son. If Lord Denethor deems it best to place us here, then this is what we must do, and to the best of our ability. To accept such orders is the role of captain as well as soldier, for an army is only as useful as its members are trustworthy. Do not forget that."
Duurben stood silently under the rebuke, feeling shamed and wondering how it was that this man, who was not native to Duurben's land, could muster such feelings for it. There had been a flash in his eyes, like a flame long buried beneath the embers of centuries, and it was a fire not often to be seen in the eyes of those have no home.
Thorongil sighed, looking older than the thirty years Duurben presumed him to be. "I must check the perimeter. Call Beren over to watch the center line; and then —"
His words were cut off by an ear-splitting battle yell, echoing down to them; Thorongil turned sharply, wrenching his sword free and staring in horror. A straight, unbroken line of Southrons, stretched the length of the rise behind them; now they charged as one body, their scarlet robes a premonition of the destruction to come.
And as they let out a second cry of triumph, a new sound echoed up from the valley over all: a trumpeting that shook the hearts of the enemy and demanded aid of the ally. The Horn of Gondor.
"Denethor." Thorongil breathed.
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The pale, but strong fingers of the future Steward played along his sword hilt, resting there with an experience bespeaking his skill in its use, and his steel gray eyes showed satisfaction. Ahead of him he could see the Southron line faltering, being pushed back before the onslaught of Gondor's troops. Whoever was commanding the apposing army had made at least three bad mistakes, and Denethor was growing hopeful that this newest group of attacks could be staved off within a week or more; he wished to return to his home as soon as might be.
To his left he heard a loud trumpet, and his gaze darted in its direction, picking out the gigantic Southron war beast amongst the trees and his own men swarming about its feet. Due to the first of the Southron general's mistakes, most of these monsters had been slain in the first assault, but clearly not all of them.
Calmly he summoned a messenger, "Tell the men there to back away; attacking the beast thus is pointless and will only endanger lives needlessly. Summon Captain Elfnar; he will dispose of it."
The messenger obeyed without question, and Denethor wondered whether now would be a fair time to inspect the battle line closer and encourage his men. Climbing briefly to the top of a convenient outcropping, he paused to survey the line from a better angle. A line of green: his own men, flush with a line of gold and scarlet: the Haradrim, and beyond a clean expanse of grass and trees, drifting off into the distance. Except where a new row of scarlet had just arisen—
The Southron general had not been completely incompetent: a second line of men, hidden until now by the foliage, was coming in to reinforce the faltering Southron troops.
With a mind numbing wrench the tables had been turned, and Gondor was fearfully outnumbered, with only Captain Magor's men still at the camp to aid them. Reaching suddenly for the one item of his gear he had seldom used for more than an ornament, Denethor put to his lips the horn that had been carried by his sires for generations. The one thing that could summon him the help he needed in so short a time. He gave a long blast, and turned his head, as if hoping to see his help already coming.
The only sight that greeted his eyes was a thin strand of scarlet, draped over the highest ridge behind the camp. He was surrounded.
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Duurben stumbled as he ran, the message he had to deliver still ringing in his ears with the familiar accents of his captain. It was only his legs, Magor's men, and Thorongil's plan against hundreds now, and the thought made Duurben weak at the knees. He had never been a positive man; more inclined to predict doom than peace, to grow angry rather than to accept a blow, and more likely to weep over a loss than laugh at a jest. But it was a fault he could not allow to deter him now.
Captain Magor was already mustering his troops, and to the man's credit, they appeared nearly ready to meet the ambush as Duurben panted up.
"What is it?" demanded the captain gruffly.
"Sir, Captain Thorongil says to deploy your men on an angle down the slope to that first patch of beeches."
"Oh does he? No reason given?" Magor's pace did not slow, but his forehead creased. He had a great respect for Thorongil, though the man *was* a foreigner... "Never mind, I will see to it. Anything else?"
"He says to make sure the line holds. That is all."
Magor had already barked out several short and direct orders, and now he nodded brusquely, "You can tell him that it will hold."
The painfully thin line of soldiers stood stretched on a sloping angle, their faces grim and their weapons held at the ready as the crimson attack swept through the camp and towards them, still yelling. Thorongil was on the end closest to the trees, Duurben and Beren on either side of him. With a ripple effect like an eddying current, the weapons of the defenders whipped up to meet the Southrons, and the line trembled under the impact.
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Denethor had leapt to his horse and now rode furiously up and down the line, shouting encouragement to his troops, and continuing to blow on his horn. Though he no longer expected help, it seemed to give his men strength to hear it, as if false hope was indeed better than no hope. With the added numbers, the Haradrim began to turn back the tide and drive the men of Gondor back towards the first slopes.
On the left flank, Captain Minardil was beginning to drift too far to the east and casting about for the first soldier available, Denethor sent a message to remind him of the swamps. Captain Elfnar was ordered away from disposing of the war beast, and was instead dispatched for the opposite end of the field to replace a fallen captain. Denethor had nearly reached the middle of the field when a sudden thought struck him and he turned hastily back.
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Duurben was lost in a maelstrom of sight and sound; flashing gold and clanging steel drowning his senses and only occasionally relieving him with a brief vision of Thorongil nearby. Not Thorongil the captain, but Thorongil the desperate; and his desperation seemed to lend his blade new strength and his mind new clarity. The change had come to Duurben as well, but he could not see it, and merely fought on, unable to spare a thought beyond 'the line must hold'.
Thorongil dropped low to the ground, ducking under another wide swing of a Southron scimitar and feeling the warmth of the sun in his dark hair as he slashed upwards. The brunt of the blow skipped off the Southron's helmet, but it knocked him full length on the grass and he was trampled by his own companions in their rush. A second man fell, stabbed once, followed by a third and a fourth. The fifth ran forward with his spear held full out in front, aiming for the captain's back, but Thorongil turned almost without considering, and as the smooth shaft passed him, he clove it in two, and then did the same for the man's helm. He saw Duurben, and then couldn't see him anymore, and as he fought on, he wondered if this plan could possibly work.
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"Just drive it, I don't care how," Denethor snapped, frustration tingling in every bone as the soldier gazed at him in shock.
"Y-yes sir," the young man stumbled on the reply, and clenched his spear in trepidation. The war beasts of the Southrons were terrible creatures, and this monster still carried the heavy stones of a war tower on its broad back. "Come, men," the soldier called, more strongly than he felt, "the lord wants us to return this creature to its owners."
The beast snorted and bellowed, shying away from the virtual forest of spears, and then with stumbling and earth shaking steps, it pounded through the one gap in the ring, its small eyes red and its small mind incapable of noting anything around it.
The ranks of Gondor opened up in shock as the monster pounded towards them from behind, but they got scarcely a glimpse of tattered scarlet before the creature had passed them and rumbled on.
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King Muindor was at the height of his blood lust as his scimitar sang in his hands, and the plume on his helmet waved in the sunlight. He looked up at the loud trumpet of one of his war beasts, and then suddenly the creature was amongst his own men. Everywhere there were terrified yells as the monster trampled over those who had once subjugated it, goring with its horns, bellowing its maddened animal hatred, and ripping great gaps in the lines of the Haradrim.
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Captain Magor had no notion what Thorongil had hoped to achieve with his tactic, but he had ordered his men to hold firm, and they had done so. Fighting with the strength of three or more, they filled the gaps when they appeared, and repulsed the enemy so effectively, that the Southrons began to ease down the line, searching for an easier passage. Soon there were none left fighting near the camp, and when at last the group nearest Thorongil's end of the line reached the trees, their leader made a sudden decision to leave these few men alone and move on to catch the larger army from behind before the intended ambush was ruined.
Duurben started as he saw whole groups of the Haradrim making their way around the end of the defenders' line and into the beeches, without Thorongil even seeming to notice.
"Sir!" he shouted, gesturing urgently, but Thorongil merely cut down another soldier and paid no heed.
The flow grew, and soon the bulk of the Southron company was running down the hill behind the men of Gondor, their way open to set upon the whole left flank of the army.
Captain Magor came running up, ordering his men to follow and cut them off again, his face red from heat and anger. "Hurry, before they clear the trees and reach Captain Minardil!"
Thorongil put out a restraining hand, catching his fellow captain's arm, "I wouldn't advise it, Magor. They will no longer be any trouble, not at that speed."
Magor stared, but cast another glance down the hillside and paused, as if a memory had come back to him. Slowly, he relaxed, letting his grip on his sword loosen just slightly. "No," he agreed, "not at that speed."
As the Southrons careened down the hill, the backs of their prey somewhere beyond the low trees before them, their first row found themselves tangled in wide, marshy thickets. Brambles throve amongst the brackish water and moss coated mud, and when the deep pits were discovered beneath the pools by unsuspecting feet, the soldiers were too encumbered with armor to pull themselves free.
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The enemy had not yet been driven back, however, and it was many hours of long fighting and death before Thorongil, Magor and Denethor met again.
Denethor had re-gathered his troops on his own horse, rallying the lagging flanks before they crumbled into a rout, and steadying the center when Muindor made a last attempt at a bold charge. His breath was short from winding the horn, and his horse was nearly dropping beneath him, but there was victory in his eyes as he recalled his successful retrieval of the day.
Magor and Thorongil had each taken a portion of Magor's men and deployed them as they saw fit, mostly by filling deficiencies in the lines, and occasionally by striking suddenly out at the enemy's weak points and forcing them to spread out their ranks. Magor especially had made many a bold move that day, and it was chiefly due to him that the enraged monster Denethor had so successfully unleashed had not come back to cause further damage to their own men. It now lay dead, a hideous rotting corpse amongst a field full of carrion. Thorongil was perhaps the most disheveled of the three, though he had done naught else but fight amongst the other men after the skirmish on the hill. He was bleeding here and there, but not too badly, and Duurben had managed to escape almost unscathed.
"I have heard that Muindor lost nearly a third of his men, sire," Magor announced briefly, "I do not think we have much to fear from him until tomorrow."
"You are sure he will renew his attack?" Thorongil asked, pushing his hair from his face and not seeming to notice that he had added more grime to it.
"Yes," Denethor's answer was clipped. "Muindor is not one to give up over a small matter such as loss of troops. We shall have to fight him to the last twenty men before he will decide to leave the fight for another year."
Duurben grimaced and glanced at Beren, who, with a few others, had been left in charge of the remaining supplies in the camp after Thorongil had been ordered into battle. Beren had used his time well and, while they waited for fresh supplies, had managed to collect enough food for all out of what had not been spoiled. It was this the captains now sat down to enjoy, and though they still had the job of preparing their army for another day of battle, they were glad the outcome of the day was not worse. Thorongil even managed a smile when Magor asked him why he ate his food so carefully, as if he had been raised in the court of a king.
When the messenger arrived on horseback, the three men were only just rising, and Denethor took his seat again to read the missive. Magor and Thorongil waited respectfully; Duurben wondered why Denethor's forehead seemed to smooth as he read, as if with relief. Finally he laid the message aside and announced calmly, "Captain Thorongil, you are needed in Minas Tirith. The Steward has an errand for you, and you must leave at once; you would be wise to take a horse."
Thorongil nodded, hiding his confusion as well as he could, and then he caught the look in Duurben's face and nearly laughed: there was a suspicious glint in his eyes, as though he again suspected that injustice was being meted out to his captain. Not necessarily a good frame of mind to leave him in…
"I will go at once, Lord Denethor. Perhaps, would it be acceptable for me to take my lieutenant with me? I believe another man of my company, Beren, can be safely left in command of the sentries."
Denethor glanced at Duurben, and perhaps caught the look in his eyes as well, for he nodded in agreement, gave orders for another horse to be readied, and Thorongil left. Duurben followed after him in bewilderment over what had just transpired.
TBC…