Good morrow to thee, oh faithful readers! What fine praise thou hast bestowed upon we, your humble entertainers! *Sarah shakes herself* Whoopsie, guess who had a little too much fun a the Renaissance Faire… :P Time to catch up now, but first:
EVERYBODY: A further apology! This chapter does *not* have our boys in it either *dodges rotting vegetables* WAIT, let me explain!! We are reaching the end of this fic and before we can quit, go home, and start on the next fic (yes Hannah, I'm going to work on my chapters like a good girl just as soon as I finish posting this) we must have our climactic battle scene. So. Here it is. After which you will have two lovely chapters of nothing but our boys! Will that work for ya?
FURTHERMORE: For those of you who have asked (and those of you who were perhaps curious, but didn't have time to ask) the complicated combat scenario we have unleashed consists of the following people: in the northern fort (Medui) we have Gandalf and Captain Eorwine against General Fuinor; in the southern fort (Ladin) we have King Thengel and Marshal Bronweg against King Harnwe. Sorry if we befuddled you all! ;)
I'm gonna do something else unprecedented now: Move the responses to the end of the chapter. With two batches of them there's just no room up here! :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 28
Up Into Victory
The king of the Haradrim gave a satisfied nod as his men reached Ladin's wall tops. Already they were making swift work of the defenders there, and even when they were not able to actively wrest the wall from the Rohirrim, there were quite effectually keeping the archers distracted. Whatever else they managed was a mere bonus.
Giving the signal to advance, Harnwe goaded his own mûmak towards the fort. The beast was young yet — the reason why Harnwe had chosen him to begin with — and it turned quickly at its master's bidding. Halting the animal, the king waited until all the others had been arranged before giving the second and final signal.
From the sides of the platforms upon the backs of the mûmakil, there came sliding out wooden ramps. One end remained anchored to the war beast, the other rested on the parapet, hooked once more into the stones. Even as they set down, the first of the ladders began to collapse past them, the men on them screaming and clawing at the air as the plummeted to their deaths. Mindful of the distance to the ground, the Southrons gave a great yell and ran across the ramps to leap down upon the heads of the enemies.
Elated for a time at the fall of the ladders, the Rohirrim were slow to realize that an even greater number of soldiers were approaching. Even when they realized what was happening, they could not at first credit their eyes; it seemed for a moment that the Southrons were approaching in midair.
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A young soldier gave a cry of fear and Bronweg spun about, wondering what was upon them now. He caught one glimpse of a pair of Southron boots at eyelevel, and then one of them caught him in the jaw with a short kick and he stumbled backwards, narrowly avoiding the edge of the parapet. The marshal brought his sword, attempting through reflex alone to block the next blow, as his vision was spinning too fast to see from where it would come. The invader's spear stabbed towards his body and he brought his sword down, knocking the point wide of his chest so that it passed under his arm without touching him. Instead of withdrawing the weapon and stabbing afresh, the Southron swung the shaft to the side, slamming it into Bronweg's chest crossways and throwing him down. Thengel caught up an abandoned spear and threw it, accurately piercing the Southron through a jagged hole in his chain mail. Carried backwards by the unexpected fury of the throw, the soldier fell off the ramparts to the ground below.
Bronweg rolled aside and got quickly to his feet again in time to greet a second Southron just coming off the ramp. This time his vision was clear and the man went down before he had fairly got his feet under him.
But there were far too many crossing onto the walls at once now. The few Rohirrim remaining were hemmed in on all sides, fighting desperately for mere survival. Even as large numbers of the Haradrim were swept from the wall top, others ran across the makeshift bridges to take their place. Several times an archer would take a wild shot towards the mûmakil, but very few reached their targets, and very few of the archers survived their momentary lapse in concentration.
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Harnwe watched his progress with satisfaction. Already he could make out that the number of his own men on the wall were beginning to exceed the number of the defenders. Even without the catapults, it was almost too easy. Underneath him his mûmak shifted uneasily, it's long trunk twitching as it shied, snake-like, away from the carrion beneath it's feet. The king frowned as he calmed the beast; the Haradrim made a practice of regularly exposing their animals to blood when they were still young, thus dulling the animals' reactions before they were ever brought near a true battle; had this one been neglected? But soon the animal calmed and moved forward under his direction once more and he relaxed. Its dark sides pressed between the men still on the ground like a ship moving down a current.
"Sire," a captain at his elbow murmured, "we have nearly taken the walls, but the defenders are firing at us from within and we are too high up to rush them."
"Distract them. Set fire to the buildings inside the fort's walls," Harnwe ordered and the man bowed and went to pass the command on. The king spared a glance for his new kingdom and wondered briefly if such an easy victory could possibly be considered worth acclaim; but such thoughts, like those concerning his uneasy war beast, did not occupy him long.
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Thick as red ants, the Southrons crowded about Bronweg, forcing him backwards down the steps. From beneath him the Rohirrim archers were firing upwards at the enemy on the wall top, and he hugged the stairs to avoid being hit by friendly arrows. Ladin seemed to sag beneath the onslaught. A large Southron, bolder than the rest, made a run down the stairs, a torch in hand. Swinging it in wide arcs that left smoke trails in the air, he thrust it into the chests of the defenders who stood in his way, setting their clothing alight. Bronweg, trapped on the edge with no way to avoid a collision with the enemy soldier, rolled off the stair case completely, landing hard in the courtyard below.
"Look to the stairs!" the marshal called desperately, pointing towards the danger, but too late. There was a last roar from the Southron as a Rohirrim spear found him finally, a clatter as he threw the torch, and then a whoosh of flame as the roof of the stable caught fire. The Rohirrim archers who had taken cover behind the building looked up in alarm as three more torches — these thrown from the wall instead — landed and spread their destruction. From within the building came the terrified shrieks of the horses as the roof over their stalls became an inferno, swiftly burning through the dry wood and spilling smoke in about them.
Indistinct cries filtered through the noise of battle on the wall top as some men called for the horses to be released, and others called for water, and still others shouted the alarm that the barracks building had caught fire as well. In the confusion archers left their posts and ran for the well, and refugees from outside the walls — sheltered within the fort as those in Medui had been — ran mistakenly into the fray, crying out in fear.
Torn in several directions at once, Bronweg felt his head spinning wildly, distorting the scene about him as he tried desperately to sort out the chaos. Grabbing the elbow of a passing archer, the marshal practically threw him back towards the wall, jabbing a finger upwards. The archer looked up in bewilderment, and then his eyes widened in a horrible shock and he collapsed heavily, his bow falling from his hand. Blood stained Bronweg's chain mail as he caught the soldier under the arms. Shifting his grip, trying automatically not to jostle the handle of the knife in the young man's abdomen, Bronweg shouted again the warning — the enemy were pouring in — but his cry went unheard.
"Fire," the wounded soldier gasped, his face white with pain. "Wood — ramps."
In quick response, Bronweg's head swung upward, his dirty hair slapping his face with the movement, and called towards the last remnants of the Rohirrim on the walls, "Light the ramps!"
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Thengel could not trace the origin of the words — perhaps it had been only his own thought — but he acted promptly. Turning his spear crossways to his body, he shoved forward, momentarily gaining a clear space in front of the Southron ramp. Leaning out precariously, his leg throbbing but temporarily forgotten, he thrust the spear shaft between the legs of another torch bearing Southron, tripping the man up before he could cross. The torch fell with a thud to the planks of the ramp — planks which were as dry as the buildings. In another minute, the flames had spread greedily, devouring in both directions until the Southrons were trapped upon the back of the mûmak, and all that remained attached to the wall were the iron anchoring hooks, sunk into the stone as the ladders had been.
No further Southrons could now replace those being hewn down on Thengel's end of the wall, and farther down other ramps were bursting into flame. Behind them no further help was coming from the archers, but with a dogged determination that had long since replaced glorious bravery, the Rohirrim held their ground and began to cast the invaders from Ladin's walls.
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When the second wave of arrows came from Medui, Fuinor expected them to also be aimed at his soldiers. Thus for a moment he stared in confusion, wondering if the fools really thought they could do damage to his war beasts. Again and again the Rohirrim bows sang, punctuated occasionally by a cry as an archer fell, pierced by a well thrown spear; or an agonized scream from the ground when a better-aimed shot struck one of the Haradrim.
As Fuinor knew they would, most of the arrows struck the mûmakil, but bounced off, and the few that found a softer target could not possibly do them serious harm. He stroked his beard and his eyes narrowed as he sat back.
The eastern wall of Medui gave another groan as the mûmakil strained at their chains.
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As the wall trembled beneath his feet, a single Rohirrim soldier, formerly a farmer by trade, lifted his arrow nervously. His palms were slick with sweat and his mind was full of racing thoughts. The last time he had attempted any sort of shooting had been when Nethtalt and Thorongil had set up a practice range some time before. He winced, even in the midst of battle, as he recalled how he had nearly slain Thorongil quite by accident with a poorly aimed shot. Now his arrow was much more deadly, and he could not afford such a mistake.
Pulling back, he aimed straight ahead for one of the lumbering mûmakil, and felt that surely this target was within his reach… Just as he was about to let go, however, his hand slipped. The arrow flew to the side once more, completely missing all the creatures pulling at the walls and speeding towards a different beast standing alone.
The soldier stifled a moan as he drew another arrow. Would this clumsiness never leave him?
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Fuinor watched the dust beginning to sift down from between the stones and waited eagerly for a sign of their complete collapse. So intent was he, that he did not see a stray shot flying in his direction.
The arrow caught him in the stomach, throwing him back from his seat and in amongst the other soldiers on the platform. For a moment, he was too winded to cry out, and then a strange feeling seemed to wash all through him. Beside him he was faintly aware of one of his lieutenants trying to remove the shaft, but it was too late.
Only a little later, Fuinor's mouth sagged slightly open and a slow trickle of blood dripped down his chin.
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It took some time for the overseer to realize there was something amiss with his mûmak. At first he was sure that the creature was merely tired, and then it began to sway, a low rumbling emanating from it's panting mouth. Shouting and cajoling, the Southron drove it forward anyway, watching in puzzlement as it strained in its chains. There seemed to be something dark dripping down it's lower tusks, spattering on the bleached winter grass of the plains. Was the creature ill?
There was a sudden pitching of the floor beneath the Southron's feet and he staggered to the side, just catching another one of the men before he was thrown off the edge. There was a horrible, gurgling trumpet from the beast as it stumbled, and then it's knees buckled beneath it and it dropped to the ground.
The earth seemed to shake at the impact, and then shook again as another of the monstrous creatures fell. Southrons screamed and ran as their own war beasts fell, like towers of stone, and crushed them in the ruins.
On the wall top, the Rohirrim felt the wall cease it's heaving, but were too tired to make a sound. Doggedly, they continued on, firing shot after shot at any Southron who attempted to approach the walls. Caked onto the tip of every arrow was a white, pasty substance. Normally diluted heavily for the sake of rats, so that horses could not die from it, this material was taken directly from the root.
Eorwine took a few men down to one of the side gates to prevent an entrance by several more desperate Southrons. Hacking at the wood, they had managed to damage the hinge pins and now were trying to slip past the Rohirrim and perhaps unlatch the main gate. In such a narrow opening, it was easy for Eorwine's soldiers to hold them back, though for a short while the fray was hot indeed.
Eorwine dispatched the last with a sword thrust, and only just sidestepped his enemy's final blow before it clove his unprotected head in two. He had lost his helmet hours ago and had not had time to find another. A shockingly searing pain spread all across his head, but he ignored it as he shoved the gate to.
"Stay here and hold it!" he told the soldiers sharply, running back towards the wall and only putting his hand to the side of his head when he was once more back at the wizard's side. Blood was streaming down the side of his neck and as he felt about, he realized half his ear was gone.
Gandalf had run out of stones and had turned to pieces of the parapet for his strange missiles, but now he looked up and demanded in a way that sounded irritated, "Where have you been?"
"Down by the southern gate," Eorwine told him, with equal shortness, struggling to staunch the bleeding.
Deftly the wizard took the cloth and bound it tightly about the captain's head, shaking his head in amazement, "You are fortunate not to be dead."
"Aye," Eorwine growled, "but there are still plenty of hours left in this day."
Gandalf tilted his head briefly towards the battlefield, "Actually, I would say the day is almost over."
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Harnwe glared in disgust at himself for having miscalculated so badly. His men within were faltering and dying in numbers that could never have been had they met the Rohirrim in a pitched battle upon the plains of Harad.
He realized now that he did not have as many alternative plans as he had first thought.
He realized that of the ones he had used, Mavranor had been the partial author, and she was far away in the captured fort, enjoying her revenge.
That the underling who was even now approaching him had some form of one of the strange illnesses the Haradrim had encountered in the northern lands, and who knew how many of the others were thus afflicted?
"Sire, the defenders are driving us back and we cannot send in more men without obtaining some form of bridge!" the soldier coughed in a stifled way, and looked about worriedly. No man standing beside King Harnwe ought to have any cause for worry!
Harnwe drew out his scimitar, "*We* shall go!"
"But Sire," the soldier protested, though he stood a little straighter, "there is too much danger!"
"You dare to speak to your king thus!" Harnwe roared, his eyes flashing. "Nothing may stand before us; they will be as chaff beneath our blade! Now come."
Harnwe guided the mûmak closer to the wall and the planks of the new ramp were drenched, making it impervious to flame. There was a clinking thud as the ramp dropped, and then a curiously altered battle yell, used only by the Southron king's personal honor guard. They charged across first, slaying two of the Rohirrim who attempted to dislodge the ramp and hinder their coming. As the second defender fell, the guard parted to allow their king entrance, and he raised his scimitar in a glittering salute. Down in the courtyard, his soldiers looked up from where they fought, and along the wall a wild yell rose up in approval.
Charging forward, his guard defending his back on the narrow space, the king clove through a staggering archer's helm, sending him plunging out over the wall to land in the bloodied grass below. The mûmak shifted uneasily as the body passed close to its small red eye.
Another archer the king slew, and laughed as his men rallied to him, their efforts redoubling. Behind him three of his guards had been slain by archers from within, who had by now returned to their posts, but this was nothing to Harnwe. He was a mighty king once more, no longer cowed by rivals or circumstances. Swiping his scimitar outwards again, he felt a shiver go up his arm as his opponent met it with a surprisingly strong parry. Looping the blade down in a curve, he frowned as it was blocked again, and then blocked again at head height as he made a swipe for the Rohirrim's neck. For a soldier long past his youth, filthy, and obviously wounded, this one seemed to know his work in an unnerving way. Again and again there came the rapid *clank* *sssshk* *clank* as the blades scraped jarringly across one another, curved scimitar tangling with straight sword. Then, even as the Harnwe raised his arms for a massive strike which, in his rage, ought to have cloven sword, helm, and scull, he felt a white hot pain stab through his chest. He looked down to where the Rohirrim's spear had stabbed him, knowing the wound was not mortal, yet marveling that it had occurred at all. Was he not Harnwe? King of a mighty people? His euphoria of but a few moments before threatened to abandon him. And in his brief moment of hesitance, the Rohirrim lunged at him again, jerking the spear free and stabbing towards his leg.
With a single stroke, Harnwe hewed the shaft in two before it could reach him, but now his breath began to catch, causing him to gasp. The spear, while unable to puncture his chain mail, had been strong enough to break several ribs. Now the bones pressed in upon his lungs — keeping them from expanding as his body demanded air — weighted ever down by the heavy gold finery. Stumbling even as he tried to withdraw without sign of weakness, Harnwe gestured to his men to remove the enemy soldier. The world shifted oddly about him and he realized that if he were to lose consciousness, all morale would be lost. Pulling his cloak about him to make his departure unobtrusive, he eased back onto the ramp.
Dizzy and deprived of air, he did not see that the mûmak had shifted instead of remaining where he had placed it. He did not see where the hooks had pulled free of the weathered stones of Ladin. He saw only sky as the ramp tumbled out from under him, and sky still as he fell, head first, towards the ground.
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Thengel, preoccupied with the remainder of Harnwe's personal guard, did not notice the retreat his enemy until one of the guardsmen let out a stifled cry. His filthy clothing clung to him as he looked up — the garments long since deprived of any emblem that would have identified him as a king to the Haradrim. And almost too suddenly for comprehension, Thengel saw the magnificently clad figure of the Southron king plummet like a fiery comet to his death. Eerily, Thengel felt the impact — even though, with the noise of battle still in the air, he could not possibly have heard it.
It was not then born in upon him that the turning point in the battle had come. Not until several hours later. Not until most of the Southrons within the walls had perished and until those without had discovered with horror the body of their lord did the realization come home. When it finally did, Thengel rested his bloody sword point down in the stones and sagged over it like one old beyond count of years.
It was there Bronweg found him, and there was silence between them for a long time. "The fires have been put out, sire," the marshal murmured at last.
"Good."
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By the time Mavranor's search was interrupted with word that the catapults had been destroyed, that Brerg had been slain just outside the walls, and that her husband was in need of aid, the news was several hours or more old. By the time she armed herself and collected together the rest of the soldiers, a dark shadow had begun to press at the corners of her mind. Impatiently, she pushed it aside, urging forward one of the few mûmakil that had been left in the camp; Harnwe was the greatest of all the Southron kings, and when she was once more at his side, he could not help but prevail!
But the shadow only increased as she drew closer. She saw bloodied soldiers fleeing back towards the camp from the direction of both the Rohirrim forts. She saw a wounded mûmak, pierced with arrows, come over the hill and then collapse suddenly and inexplicably, its huge body lifeless as stone. And when at last she arrived at the southern fort, she froze as still as a statue.
Above a dark mûmak plodding her way — one bearing the trappings that her husband's war beast always wore — there stretched a frame for a banner. But the banner was gone.
An emptiness, like plunging into an abyss, filled her.
The banner was gone.
Her husband was dead.
TBC…
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*sort of sniff* Poor Mavranor. :(
Now for chapter 26:
Belothien: Thanks! And we thought it was great you realized it was Duurben at that point!! No weird looks from here, I can tell ya; especially not since you called him sweet. :D *chuckles* That cat picture actually doesn't seem too far off, except that I expect Aragorn wound up more damaged than the average cat would have. ;) Thanks for sticking around too!
Lil'layah: Yeah, well, slips happen to the best of us. ;) As for the name 'Aragorn', there's nothing to say that he's *the* Aragorn, so he's probably pretty safe. Now if Legolas had yelled, "Aragorn son of Arathorn heir of Isildur look out behind you!!" we'd be in serious trouble. :P
None: Thank you so much! Yep, your boys are safe. Until the next fic, that is… :D
Mouse: *sighs in relief and calls over her shoulder* Don't bother packing anymore, Hannah, Mouse is keeping Strider at home! *turns back cheerfully* And thank you so much for the eggs! A little worse for being taken hostage, but not too bad. ;D
saber crazy: So you're seeing X-Men 2, eh? Tell us what you think; we're hoping to see it soon. :D Alas for Mavranor, we can only protect her when she is an active part of our plot. After that, well… *glances significantly at rampaging horde of readers* Only I'm afraid Galmod isn't in all technicality an OC (there's a hint for ya), so he's immune to BBQing. :P As for Duurben: I don't think he'd have any reason to know or make the connection that this particular 'Aragorn' is 'Aragorn II, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur'. Too bad, but consider this: Duurben's not nearly old enough to be dead when Aragorn finally becomes king, so eventually, he *will* find out. ;)
Saige: *hands Nethtalt ice-pack* Happy you liked it, Saige! ;D
Maranwe: Glad you liked Duurben's reentry there! I'm not quite sure what you're asking about Thorongil and his adrenaline/survival deal, but there's a good chance we flubbed something in there. :) I think that chapter was a page longer than usual, but no more. We're relieved the fic-comparison was favorable! ;) I could be mean and quote the words of Aslan, "I call *all* times 'soon'.", but I wouldn't have anything like the same meaning, so: 'soon' is 'whenever I manage to post in the morning instead of the afternoon of the posting day'. ;D
Lina: *duct tapes Lina's mouth shut* Watch your almost-language! ;D LOL! Yeah, Legolas, you've got it - that's Lina! A walking-talking-screaming-slaying distraction. Course, the Southrons might want to be careful about chasing her like that… :P *hands Findel a fire proof jacket, a bullet proof vest, and a shield* Just in case Lina's respect for her restraining crew's nationality doesn't hold up. And as for Koth: who cares so long as he winds up dead? ;D
Eomer: *attempting to be sensitive, Sarah hides any trace of might-have-been laughter at the Rohirrim in ponchos and armor* Sorry to do that to you guys, really! *hands out more hankies, chocolate, teddy bears, and other comfort items* :}
Gwyn: Thanks! Yep, Thorry is safe. For this fic, anyway… *evil laughter quickly stifled* ;D
Anarril: Nope, no one has guessed! Or if they have, they haven't mentioned their guess. And yeah, that is a bit of an advantage, but not if you aren't the type who notices names anyway. :) Happy Birthday, Merry Walking, and Good Luck on the Softball Game!! :D *blows party horn, hands out water bottle, and waves pennant*
w: Yeah, Hannah actually mentioned when I posted that chapter that she'd never really liked that aspect of their escape. Still, as you said (and I can concur because *I* didn't write that part!): she writes so well, even slight departures from reality are easily excused. :D Now then: Thankyouthankyou on Duurben's entrance, all those lines you took the time to quote, Harnwe's rage (especially the angle of it), and Thorongil and Legolas!!! Oh yes, and the praise for our dialogue was prized indeed! *rummages around in pocket for 'Favored Reader Chocolate'* And yeah, I cracked up over the 'how high we drop you' line as well. *grins at Hannah* She's brilliant and funny! ;D
And now for chapter 27:
Gwyn: Thanks! Glad you liked the proposal! And as for building up for a new one: yes and no. We're currently beginning work on our next fic 'Darkest Night', but it takes place before Thorongil. We do have another outline for one that comes after Thorongil, but whether or not we'll write it remains to be decided… ;)
Belothien: *bows and grins* Thanks so much! We were so pleased that our little couple managed to hit the right note there. :) Thanks also on Gandalf (I was rather fond of that line), and our battles! Glad they're understandable now. :D We only ever post prewritten stuff for the very reason that WIPs take so long to update, and sometimes wind up abandoned all together which is maddening beyond all expression!!! *pants a few minutes* Anyway, pleased you approve of our every-other-day schedule! :D
Maranwe: Hope that little note at the top of the chapter helped you out a bit with all the battling characters… Those sorts of scenes are very hard to describe coherently sometimes. :P Hope Jeopardy practice went well! LOL! ;) Also hope your story is still going well! I have the exact same problem with sudden inspirations and no notepads on hand… *sigh* And yeah, you are a little hyper, aren't ya? *wonders what did it: the writing, the reading, the biking, or the Gatorade* I'm sure Aragorn will survive your fic: he's survived almost everyone else's! *glares at Chloe* ALMOST, anyway. Thanks so much! :)
None: No problem and thanks! :D
Saige: If you mean 'will the battle ever end', it just did! If you mean 'will the fic ever end', it will in two more chapters! And thank you on behalf of our cute couple. ;D
Mouse: Thanx on our chaos and our cuteness; we're glad you're liking it! :)
RainyDayz: Hey, we missed ya! :) *pats Rainy on shoulder and produces hanky* Aw, you missed us too? It's okay! *huggles Rainy* Technical difficulties strike us all at one time or other! Glad your still reading; we'll look forward to your response when your computer finally chooses to behave. *makes motions preparatory to booting Rainy's 'puter into submission* ;D
w: Ya know, we may have already mentioned this, but the timing of your feedback is perfect! It has quickly become the highlight of our posting day, if for no other reason than that it reassures us that more is still desired. All last-minute worries fly right out the window and up goes the post with a smile! *smiles* ;D Seriously, thank you so much!! Particularly in regards to Aldor (we're so glad you've warmed up to him), Rokhiell, Gandalf (especially that one line!), Eorwine (a pet OC of mine), Duurben (brief, but oh-so-funny!), and OUR BATTLES! Let's hope we managed to hold on to our good track record in this post… We were so glad we didn't lose you in there — POVs, OCs, and all that jazz. Sorry if we busted the momentum a bit there, but pleased you still enjoyed our long-postponed proposal (blushing Nethtalt and all)! ;) Thank you for mentioning details as well as over-all things!
*whew* There ya go! Thank y'all so much for your marvelous feedback!!
- Sarah-who-doesn't-actually-speak-with-a-southern-accent ;)