Hello, my name is Sarah. *snort* :P
Amanda: Sorry I missed ya! So glad you're enjoying this!! :D
Gwyn: Don't worry: morbidity is common amongst Aragorn/Legolas fans. ;D Yes, Thorongil rubs off on everyone he meets and Duurben is no exception. We're glad you're liking him!! :) And we felt it was about time for the ranger to limp a bit. Thanks for your approval! ;)
None: Gandalf's a bit busy at the moment, but we'll see what we can do… ;D Thanks!
Lil'layah: *hides behind chair* Sorry! Um. This is sort of the climax, you know — only six chapters left after this one — and what kind of authors would we be if we just sort of rattled off: Legolas saved Thorongil, Duurben survived, the Rohirrim beat the Southrons, and everybody went home; the end. You'd all be after our blood! And not just in our sleep. ;D Thank you so much on behalf of Aldor! He stands as another character that sort of worked his way into the fic when our back was turned. I like to think he lived on to participate in the battle of Helm's Deep — and survive, of course. :D
Mouse: Thank you on Aldor! He likes to be liked. ;D And yes, I'm afraid I must admit: we do like making things hard for him. But we don't like making them utterly impossible either, so have our Easter Eggs ready, kay?
saber crazy: Yeah, 'glomping' does sound painful. :{ ROTFLOL! Obi's law — that's great!! *notices saber staring at her* Um, I really like the Murphy's Law books. They provide just the sort of sarcastic, pessimistic humor that always makes me crack up. I never really thought about how applicable they were to our favorite tortured heroes, though… I suppose Aragorn's law would be: Anyone who might have a desire to get revenge on you WILL. :P
Maranwe: YES! Speaking as the person who generally writes the 'epic battle scenes' they are *very* hard, and I'm generally dissatisfied with them, or nervous about them. Still, they seem to keep working their way into our fics… ;P Mostly we just write Gandalf and keep our fingers crossed, though we do try to limit ourselves to smallish things when inventing new abilities for him, and otherwise use ones that have been already used by Tolkien in one form or other (appearing when needed, using fireworks, putting a shutting spell on the gate, etc.). Generally we try to keep Gandalf from becoming infallible — in spite of his ring and Maiar status — but as it is never stated explicitly where his skills end, it gets tricky. :) Thanks on Legolas and Thorongil! We always prefer them that way ourselves, in spite of the fact that they seem to be constantly getting split up in this fic… :P Funny you should mention the catapults! Stay tuned. ;) Chapter titles either come all in a flash (like 'A Warg in Wizard's Clothing'), are summaries of the contents of the chapter (like 'Brown Lands and Bad Nights'), are taken from a new character, or a line in the chapter (like 'Findel' or 'Oliphaunt Am I'), or else they are last minute decisions made by the authors when they realize they need to start posting and don't have time to concoct anything interesting or original (like 'Friend and Foe'). :) It's okay — we really don't mind questions! :D And our chapters don't seem so short anymore?? Whoa. Kewl! Wonder how long that will last…? ;D May as well enjoy it while we can!
Staran: *bows* Thankyousomuch! :D
Lina: *sighs and Lina slaps the wizard* Sorry, Gandalf — we ought to have warned you, but she's a little unpredictable at times… :P *Eorwine goes running past, the Southrons accurately on his heels* Eorwine: Yeah, no kidding!! :D LOL! Sorry, but that was a particularly vivid mental picture you gave us there: if I came suddenly out of unconsciousness to find a huggle-ready you, I might yell too! ;D *hugs Lina anyway* As for Mavranor… *sigh* Mayhaps it would be cheaper to lock her in the closet than to try to keep her protected. Not that Eomer's doing a bad job, but I think this assignment might be wearing on him — not to mention his horse… *glances surreptitiously at the head of the thread-protection crew*
Eomer: Ya know, cussing really gets you nowhere. An extra large supply of handcuffs: now *that* might actually be useful! Sorry if your men are feeling grudging, but let's face it: we don't have the reader clientele of some of the really good stories (i.e. anything Cassia/Sio write), and we just can't afford any more! FanEconomy is really a monster just now. ;D We hope you realize that your extra work has been both noted and appreciated immensely! Yours, etc., Sarah and Hannah p.s. we hope your horse is okay.
Saige: Okay? Sure it will be okay! Everything will be okay! Eventually… ;) Did we *really* keep you in suspense? Cool! I mean, er, sorry? :D Thank you so much!
w: Firstly: an extra special thank you on both the battle scenes and the benefit of a doubt! On the former: you know how we are (and especially *I* am) about battle scenes and wanting them to live up to their names. On the latter: our explanations would have likely been about the same as yours (fewer rocks, fewer people, bigger distance between guards, etc.); thank you for allowing us to fudge a little bit! :D Legolas crawling *is* a rather interesting mental picture, isn't it? Heh, blame Hannah. Ditto for poor Thorongil, though blaming *Mavranor* might be preferred in that instance. ;D Ooh, and I'm so glad you liked Eorwine! It continues to amaze me how many characters are already living in a fic when you begin writing it and what ways/times they choose to appear; needless to say, Eorwine was one of them. And yes, I liked him, so I wanted someone else to appreciate him as well! He's just so refreshingly pessimistic. :P We're glad Aldor was able to redeem himself! Don't worry: everyone has their pet peeves in fan fiction — mine are female elven healers — and the fact that he was able to come around to be a favorite moment for you is all the more gratifying because you didn't like him originally. :) My goodness, Gandalfy is really becoming a word for you, isn't it? *smiles brightly* S'okay, it's becoming a compliment for us! :D As for the raging debate of 'who will bite the dust'… I can't say. ;)
Now then, I must run! Our play performances are looming on the horizon and I'll probably be pressed for time over the next couple of posts. I shall make a valiant effort not to fall behind, but if I fail, you'll know Hannah and I are on a stage somewhere making idiots out of ourselves! ;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 24
Down Into Conflict
Nethtalt and Findel reached the stone enclosure at last to find that, true to their hopes, every Southron had abandoned his post for the supposed greater danger of a loose mûmak.
The young man quickly pulled his companion into the enclosure and found his father standing quite near. "Quickly," Kelegalen whispered, handing Nethtalt his travel sack. "The wizard's magic will aid us for a time, but we must not linger." Nethtalt looked around, taking in the many catapults they must destroy, and let out a long breath; how could they hope to destroy so many?
"Kelegalen," Stavhold hissed, "they must have hid more catapults elsewhere. We only have enough to destroy a portion of what they have here. Albeit the larger portion; but we will have to find another way to destroy those that remain."
Kelegalen gave a nod, his face grim, "You and Gálmod must get to your post, we will be apprehended before long, I am sure." Nethtalt grabbed his sack from Kelegalen and ran to the catapults sitting on the far left; Findel moved with him.
"Give me a task, Nethtalt! The danger will be no less for me if I stand idle, and I may be of some use." Nethtalt did not have time to answer, except by handing her one of Gandalf's devices from his sack. The objects resembled spheres, though they were pronged at the base so they could stick them into the ground.
Nethtalt lit the fuse with flint and steel then quickly pulled Findel back. The titanic explosion was simultaneous with an explosion across the enclosure and they knew Kelegalen had lit his own. The catapults burst into flame, sending shards of debris skyward. Clearly the wizard had devised them this way so as to keep the saboteurs safe.
"Here they come!" Stavhold called, drawing out his close combat blade and holding his spear high, Gálmod brought his bow up and drew an arrow, notching it firmly.
Kelegalen nodded and he moved down the line to the next catapult. This explosion was simultaneous with both Nethtalt's and Findel's as well as Thalion's and they all knew that every Southron in the camp had heard it.
Nethtalt turned his gaze over his shoulder in time to see the Southrons charging the enclosure in a confused mass. He heard them yelling orders in their own tongue, and drawing out their long scimitars.
"Nethtalt!" Findel called and he turned quickly back to her, lighting the third catapult. The explosion rocked the earth, filling it with red smoke. Another explosion as Thalion destroyed another of the war machines, and blue smoke mingled with the red.
At the entrance Gálmod leased two arrows in a row and both found their mark. Stavhold was forced to remain inactive until the enemy was directly upon them, but he did not need to wait long.
The Southrons were on them in an instant slashing at the two defenders with reckless intensity, but though this made them fierce it also made them careless, Stavhold brought two down with his spear, slashing the throat of one who tried to get past him. Gálmod leased his next arrow straight into the eye of one, then sent a second arrow into the heart of the next.
The Southrons still tried to break their ranks, but the two defenders stood firm against the onslaught. Another explosion shook the ground beneath their feet and Stavhold gripped his spear tightly; the blade in his other hand slid against the sweat of his palms but he shifted his hold and it steadied.
At last the Southrons realized their original attack was not strong enough and they fell back for a moment to regroup. Stavhold felt a twinge of fear in his heart, he knew that with their groups reinforced and order restored, they would not be so easy to defeat. Sweat began to trail into his one eye, and he felt his heart beat fiercely with adrenaline…but a moment later he shook his head and clamped his elbow against his side, his spear held tightly to him, just as the warriors began to charge once again.
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Before long, the battle reached even the rear of the Rohirrim and Thengel's personal guard were the only ones about him in a raging sea of crimson and green. The king's face hardened into an expression of grim satisfaction as he brought up his spear and caught the first attacker full in the chest with its finely honed point. He would not be idle this day.
Bronweg lost track of his king as the Rohirrim for a time fragmented — pieces of the line driving ahead of the others, or falling back in a misguided attempt to stay in formation. Rapidly, the marshal drove through the fray, his horses hooves pounding over the uneven ground as he tried to pull the men together. Out of the writhing mass of bodies, a hand caught at his saddle. A more daring Southron, incapable of catching the swift horsemen on foot, had pulled himself up behind Bronweg and now locked his arms around the marshal's throat. Bronweg caught the aroma of something, perhaps a sort of scented oil, and the stink of human sweat as the Southron pulled back, attempting to break his neck, and then his air was cut off and he began to choke.
The horse neighed loudly and bucked, resenting the extra weight of a second body, and Bronweg had not the breath to calm it, nor the strength to hold it steady. With a snort, the animal reared, spinning around as it dropped its forefeet again, and swinging its head back as if to strike its rider from its back with its head.
The Southron grunted something in his own language, loosing one arm to keep his balance on the frightened animal — which he was unaccustomed to riding — and at the same time Bronweg released his hold on the reigns, gripping with his knees in the manner of the Rohirrim archers. Reaching over and behind him, he caught the Southron's head and cracked it sharply against the back of his own. Unprotected, the Southron's nose was broken upon the marshal's helmet and the shock of the blow ruined his balance completely. For a moment longer, the browned hands clutched at Bronweg's mail shirt, and then the enemy fell away and Bronweg road on, waving his instructions to the men now that his throat was too sore to yell.
Thengel caught sight of the marshal in the distance, rallying the far end of the line, and he drove his sword downwards almost without thought upon another Southron. His spear had been broken accidentally by one of his own guards when the enemy had pressed too closely about to clearly tell which weapon sprang from which hand. The erring guard now fought on his lord's left, trying to protect the flank of the group. One moment, Thengel's eye passed over him to watch for the approach of one of the fearsome mûmakil, and the next the king felt something strike his leg and turned to see the man fall from his saddle, a spear sunk half its length in his stomach. He hit the ground head first and was dead instantly, his horse shying away from his body in fear and confusion.
Thengel swung aside to avoid the fallen soldier, and parried a blow from a low swinging scimitar. Another blow and the enemy fell to be trampled by the unmanned horse. Another scimitar and Thengel struck beneath it, his sword glancing off the armor. The Southron swung again, screaming a battle cry, and the king brought his sword down upon the soldier's scull. The heavily wrapped turban deadened the blow, and the helmet underneath deflected it completely. His body already swinging to the side with the momentum of the blow, Thengel was unable to parry the Southron's second strike. A fiery pain ran from his leg throughout his body as the scimitar cut a great slash across his thigh. For a single moment the king faltered and the look on the Southron's face became triumphant, and then there was the thud of impact, and a silver point appeared in the center of the soldier's chest. He fell forward, revealing the rest of the spear protruding like a mast from his back. Thengel's guard closed even more closely about the king as his rescuer came along beside him.
It was Bronweg. For a moment he caught his king's eyes, and Thengel saw there the haunted fear of what might have occurred if the marshal had stayed away a moment longer. Then Bronweg gestured outwards mutely. The men were once more assembled and at his command.
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Legolas pulled Thorongil quickly to his feet, hoping that his friend could gain his strength enough for flight. The man made a valiant effort, but he faltered.
"Come my friend, we must move quickly."
Thorongil nodded, but flinched slightly as he did. "I am ready."
The last thing the elf wished to do was press his friend, but he knew they must make haste. He pulled the human around from the wall of the tent and mapped out their escape. The only chance they had was to get to their horses, which meant they must leave the way they had come. Quickly supporting Thorongil as much as he could he pushed them both towards crumbling watch tower. They gained it only just too late; a Southron gave a shout and Legolas turned in time to see a group of them running towards the two escapees. The elf quickly dropped his friend down against the wall and Thorongil was forced to press his stinging back against the dusty stones to keep from falling completely to the ground. He looked up as Legolas drew out his bow. It would be a struggle to escape, and the elf knew it.
"Legolas," Thorongil hissed softly, "escape now; it is what I would have you do, for I am no help to you and their numbers are many."
"No," Legolas said, leaving no room for argument. "I will not leave you, nor will I let another friend be slain on my account." Legolas turned briefly to face the man. "You cannot force me." He smiled defiantly and Thorongil knew it was no use and nodded.
"Thank you, my friend," he whispered. Any further conversing was immediately impossible as Brerg's men gathered about them. Legolas did not wait for them to group in any form but sent leased two arrows at once: the strength of his shots each piercing through their targets and wounding men behind them. His keen marksmanship at such close range gave him an advantage and he wasted not a single arrow still as they charged him. Such methods would serve him only so long.
When at last the combat finally drew too close for his bow, Legolas fell back on his knives: meeting each as they came with a blade and soon slaying or wounding half their number. Determination drove him on, determination to escape them, to get his friend away from his tormentors. He would fight to the end, whatever end he must meet.
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Thengel held the field as long as was possible, and then, when it became clear that the result would only be foolish loss of life, he quitted the battle and withdrew behind his walls without hesitation. The jeers of the Southrons fell upon unhearing ears as the Rohirrim obeyed their king's command with laudable promptness.
Harnwe, unlike Fuinor, did not attempt to pursue them and breach the walls. He knew full well that he would not be able to affect an entrance by so small an opening as the rear gate, and it would be better to wait for the coming of Brerg with the catapults. Harnwe smiled as his men moved back into formation, and as his eyes raked the horizon, he paid no heed to the bodies of the slain. Brerg would have received his message by now. And when he arrived, the fair-haired barbarians would be trapped in their fort as neatly as rats in a hole.
"Bid the men rest," Harnwe ordered a lieutenant, "but do not disarm. We will renew our attack very soon."
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Eorwine looked over Medui's battlements at the ranks of Southron's. Whoever their commander was, he had apparently decided that an easy entrance could not be affected without reinforcements. It was a respite at least.
"Replace all the sentries and get the wounded down to the courtyard," the Rohirrim captain ordered, his lined face haggard.
"And so the wait begins," Gandalf commented from a little behind him. His voice was even, but a shade hoarse still after the confrontation at the gate. "I wondered when they would finally sit down."
"Let us hope Kelegalen has met with more success than we have; our fine plan had the unfortunate side-effect of retaining its workability for only a single attempt," Eorwine murmured, automatically grim. He made a loose gesture over the wall. "If the catapults come after all, we are trapped in here, and unless they be fools, they know it."
Gandalf tilted his head to look at the other, and seemed to see something he liked. "True. And even if the catapults never come, you are not free yet. Come, we must find someplace quiet to talk."
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Mavranor's rage over the escaped prisoner did not quite frighten Brerg, but he did not stay near the angry queen any longer than was necessary. Instead he sent his men to comb the camp and himself wandered a short ways off to pace restlessly along the partially destroyed northern wall of the captured fort. The Southron encampment within the walls had not stretched this far, but rather hung closer to the southern wall.
He was impatient to be off, and he was weary of the seeming confinement of the crumbling stones. As time wore on, Brerg was nearly ready to depart without orders or king — when the orders finally came, and with them the news that the king had already left. The runner's clipped message was to the point: Harnwe and Fuinor had lead afield the bulk of the army and had by now most certainly met the enemy. Brerg was to inform the Lady Mavranor, collect the catapults and join them immediately. Thus do, or be slain.
The standard conclusion to the missive was scarcely noted. Brerg turned back towards Mavranor's tent with all speed.
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The explosions began to deafen Nethtalt as he and Findel worked closer and closer towards Kelegalen and Thalion. There were only twelve explosives left if Nethtalt's count was correct and that would leave still six catapults to destroy in some other manner. All of the saboteurs were coated in soot, and though Nethtalt could spare not a moment to see how Stavhold and Gálmod faired at the entrance, he feared for them deeply. He could hear the battle raging behind him and felt his heart throb painfully, wishing, as he did, that he could run to their aid.
"Another, Nethtalt," Findel coughed breathlessly and in response he quickly lit the fuse. The blast sent a jet of green smoke into the air and Nethtalt crouched over Findel as he had each time in case of falling debris; as soon as the smoke had cleared they stood and moved to the next.
Stavhold's blade bit into the throat of one Southron and as he pushed the man away, another lunged in too quickly and found himself run through by the spear in the Rohirrim warrior's other hand. Gálmod worked quickly shooting down the enemy and grabbing back any of his used arrows that he could, but Stavhold could see he was running short.
The two defenders had managed to hold their ground and keep the Southrons from getting through the small entrance to the enclosure, but Stavhold knew it was only a matter of time; and he was correct. No sooner had the thought come to him than several Southrons charged him at once, forcing him back bodily and slipping past his lines. Stavhold gave a cry of rage and leapt in front of them again, shoving most of them back. A heavy spear thrust impaled one and went through the sword hand of the Southron just behind him; pulling the bloody weapon free, the Rohirrim slashed the other with his knife.
"Kelegalen!" Stavhold shouted as he cut down the man just next to him, but his call was drowned out in a huge blast as another war machine came to ruin.
Kelegalen watched to make sure that the fuse had lit, then ducked back as the catapult blew. In the shower of debris he caught sight of a warrior running towards the burning machines opposite himself. He felt his heart pound when he realized that two Southrons had slipped past Stavhold and Gálmod's defense. "Nethtalt! Findel!" he called. The two looked up at his call, but Findel's gaze fell first on what he was indicating.
"Look out!" Findel cried urgently and Nethtalt quickly handed her the flint and steel, then drew an arrow to his bow
"Set the next one!" he called back to her, loosing the arrow at the Southron. It brought him down immediately, but the other was still coming, two scimitars in hand, and he was upon Nethtalt before the young man could shoot.
The dark man slashed at Nethtalt's middle with one shining blade, making a cut towards his throat with the other at the same time. Nethtalt yanked a dagger from his belt and blocked one blow while he ducked out of the path of the other. The clash of steel made his ears ring.
"It's ready!"
"Light it!" he dodged a second blow from the warrior, but as he did this the Southron gave a swift kick in the young man's stomach, winding him sharply. The Southron turned from him and started towards Findel who was frantically trying to light the fuse. She saw him coming towards her and as he loomed over her she reflexively jabbed the thin steal into his leg just above his knee. Jerking it out, she stabbed again, blood trickling over her fingers. He stumbled back slightly and this gave her a moment, but he then raised his blade above her head.
Before he could bring it down on her he gave a sharp jolt and a gasp of surprise and fell backwards. Nethtalt appeared behind him and drew his blade out of the man's back. He dropped down next to Findel and searched her eyes hurriedly. "Are you all right?" he asked. She nodded and smiled wanly at him, and then without thought he leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the forehead. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, but an explosion drew them back instantly.
Nethtalt took the flint and bloodied steel from her, wiping the latter quickly on his leg, and swiftly striking a spark onto the fuse. The two drew back and watched as the last of their explosives sent the war machine to its ruin.
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Stavhold's single eye followed the progress of the Southrons; it was now clear to him that their assault would not be held back much longer. Both he and Gálmod had repulsed them for the moment, but even now they were regrouping and it would not be long before they brought their final attack. Stavhold yanked the hand dagger from his leg and winced at the stinging pain. Gálmod looked at him, his eyes penetrating…but something else. The man seemed frightened. The emotion reflected Stavhold's own heart and the older Rohirrim knew it, but he had to keep fighting; he would not let Kelegalen down.
Stavhold saw the Southrons preparing for their final attack. "Come Gálmod, take courage! We have strength yet in out bodies."
Gálmod shook his head, his eyes darkening, "I do not wish death on myself so readily as you do, Stavhold."
Stavhold turned in bewilderment to the man beside him.
"I know you do this only to gain favor with the captain, and you fancy yourself a brave hero. Well if death is your desire then may you take what honor it bears you to your grave. I will not sacrifice myself so thoughtlessly."
Stavhold shook his head in disbelief, "Gálmod, I do not wish to win any favor, nor do I feel myself a courageous man. I-I was a coward long before and I wish not to be so again. I will not run a second time." Gálmod took a step backward, Stavhold heard the Southron leader giving an order to charge. "Please Gálmod," Stavhold turned back to him. "Stand to the end! If it is our death that must come we should give our lives willingly for the sake of our people."
"Then give your life, Stavhold," Gálmod said and turned away at last. "Give it for what ever cause you deem worthy."
Stavhold watched in horror as the man ran from the battle leaving him alone in the path of the Southrons. Terror threatened to engulf him, but almost immediately after he exhaled it from him and felt his resolve return once more. Never again would he run. He would fight, and if he was slain then he would die for his country, for his people, for his king, and for his companions. With a great cry he pointed his spear into the horde of Southron warriors, whirling and stabbing, feeling them crush around him even as he fought.
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Legolas' stand was taxed as Brerg's men brought their full force to bear on him. If he could bring this group down, it would not take them long to gain reinforcements, but maybe it would give him enough time to reach their horses hidden in the tree line.
A man rushed Legolas heedlessly, trying to get past the elf to the injured human behind him. Legolas let the man pass him then slammed the Southron's head sharply against the stone tower. The man fell dropping his sword to the dust, unconscious before he had reached the ground.
Legolas gave a furious slash with his dagger and cut down another man close to him.
"No mercy!" a voice called clearly in the common tongue and Legolas wondered why, since many Southrons did not understand the common speech. Legolas found the man standing near the border of Southrons, his eyes on Legolas. "Cut it down like the mindless creature it is." Legolas felt his heart constrict suffocating and he drew back.
"Legolas?" Thorongil's tone was concerned.
"It is him Strider…the man who kill—" Legolas broke off, his eyes staring at Koth as the man drew out his blade.
The Southrons began to chant a battle cry furiously as they regrouped, preparing to overwhelm the two, kill the elf, and take back their queen's prisoner. Legolas looked from Koth to the Southron soldiers. But there was no fear left.
The air shifted subtly as he felt Thorongil stand up beside him, the fallen Southron's sword in hand, and his eyes almost fever-bright, but defiant as he stared out at the massing men. Though the man still steadied himself with one hand against the tower, his feet were planted firmly and his blade was held in readiness despite his bloodied shoulders.
Neither said a word; only exchanged a glance. Thorongil nodded once, and as the Southrons charged them, he drew his other hand from the wall.
TBC…