Chapter Five
The Battle for Cordoba
This was fast becoming the most unexpected covert mission he had undertaken in all his years as Ranger, Faramir thought to himself as he stared at the Haradrim captain who was determined to have him enlist in the Haradrim ranks. The irony of it did not escape him but neither did the urgency of the situation since it did not appear that refusal was possible without giving himself away. Unfortunately, he could not allow himself to become a conscript in the enemy forces either. Pallando's expression was one of concern when Faramir looked to him because the wizard was debating whether or not using magic in a room full of people would expose them as surely as allowing the Haradrim soldiers to take him into custody.
Around the room, Faramir saw the other two soldiers scouring the faces present with just as much scrutiny, no doubt searching for any eligible candidate, whether or not they were willing. The Rangers had claimed that conscription was taking place in the capital cities but even Faramir had not believed soldiers would be scouring the tavern and the streets for recruits in this manner. He supposed that after the battle of the Eastern Eye, such measures were necessary though he could not condone it.
"This is a mistake," Pallando spoke, attempting to reason with the man before they were forced to adopt more extreme measures to extricate themselves for this unfortunate turn of events. "My friend is not of Harad, he is a visitor from Rhun."
"The First Born are approaching the Belt fast," the Captain declared tautly at Pallando, impatient by this lack of cooperation and growing even more suspicious because Faramir was holding his tongue. "If they are allowed to defeat us here, they will seek out those in Rhun as well. Your friend will fight one way or another. We need all the men we can find to stop them before they reach Mahazar."
Faramir tightened his grip around his blade when he came to the sinking realization that they were going to have to fight their way out of this. If they could escape the confines of the tavern, they may be able to lose themselves in the darkness outside. Pallando noticed the subtle movement and alternatively clutched his staff with equal readiness.
"Enough discussion," the captain reached for Pallando when suddenly, the man whose gaze he had met earlier had suddenly appeared behind the Haradrim warrior.
The soldier stiffened suddenly, frozen in the spot as the new arrival lowered his lips to his ear.
"He does not wish to go," the warrior hidden mostly beneath a cloak said quietly.
Pallando looked behind the soldier and saw a cruel looking dagger being pressed firmly against his lower back. Should it break skin, it would be a fatal wound.
"How dare you..." the captain began to bellow in outrage when he jerked straighter at the knife being pushed harder against his skin.
"Quietly," the stranger hissed. "Now we will all take a walk to the door and if you attempt to signal your companions, I will kill you where you stand."
The Haradrim soldier's face twisted in anger but could do little to protest. "I think we should leave," the man gazed at both Faramir and Pallando, speaking in perfect Adûnaic.
For a moment, Faramir thought he had been mistaken in what he had heard because the language spoken by the stranger had not been used since the second age. It had been abandoned in favor of Westron or Common Speech and the only reason he understood it at all was because many of the ancient texts found in the library of the White Tower where he had spent much of his youth, were written in Adûnaic.
"How can we trust you?" Faramir demanded, his words escaping him somewhat stiltedly because he had to remember how to answer the stranger in Adûnaic.
"You do not have a choice," the stranger returned and immediately turned his attention to the captain, whom he had prompted into moving.
Faramir and Pallando exchanged brief glances before reaching the mutual agreement that their rescuer was quite correct, they did not have a good deal of choice. The other two soldiers were still engaged in their search throughout the tavern for more recruits when they suddenly noticed that their leader was departing. Faramir was poised to attack, aware that their discreet exit was about to become extremely prolific when one of them called out to the captain.
"Answer him," the stranger ordered.
"No," the captain shouted and made an effort to break away that cost him dearly. The blade slashed open his flesh and he fell to the ground, proving himself to be even more troublesome in death then he had been in life as all eyes turned to the growing melee in the room.
The remaining two warriors rushed forward as their captain tumbled to the ground but Faramir was ready to meet them with his sword. The Haradrim soldier swung first, perhaps not expecting a skilled match and Faramir saw the anxiety in his eyes when a Westron blade was brandished. Their weapons impacted hard against each other and had the Haradrim been wielding anything other than a scimitar, it was possible that Faramir's broadsword would have taken it apart. However, Faramir did not rely solely on the blade to overcome the enemy and when their swords drew them close, struck out his fist and caused the enemy to stumble. The opening was all he needed to impale the Haradrim through the chest. The man let out a short cry as the blade did his work, and Faramir had barely enough time to extract his weapon from the body when the second Haradrim warrior closed in for the kill.
"DROP!" Faramir heard the stranger shouting at him in that ancient tongue and promptly dropped to his knees in time to feel something flying above his head as he descended.
His head snapped upward when he heard the wet gurgle of a scream as the dagger that had ended the Haradrim captain's life, embed itself into the throat of the last remaining soldier. He stood up abruptly; unable to waste any time when their actions had more or less assured that this place would be swarming with soldiers when the authorities were alerted to what had taken place here. He turned towards Pallando who had struck down a patron who was about to intercede on the behalf of the soldiers. The wizard was retreating in his steps while the stranger had vanished out the door already, waiting for Faramir to join him.
"Where did he go?" Faramir asked as soon as he reached Pallando.
"Out there," Pallando declared as the two men left the tavern behind them. Their mysterious savior was awaiting them in the street and though it was quiet for the moment, neither Faramir nor Pallando were under the illusion that the actions in the tavern would not alter that state of events soon enough. He was standing in the middle of the paved road when they emerged, his body poised for attack as he removed his sword from beneath his cloak. It was not that different from a scimitar but seemed lighter and possessed more curvature in the blade.
"We need to get indoors," he declared.
"We will go nowhere with you until we know who you are," Faramir stated.
"Fine," the man turned around and started to walk up the street, "you can remain and be killed. Introductions are the least of our concerns at this moment. There are many soldiers roaming the streets at this hour, seeking new recruits who will not come willingly. I have risked my safety to help you. If you still question me after that, we have nothing left to discuss."
"Faramir," Pallando said quickly before their new companion was too far away. "I believe we can trust him and he is right, we cannot linger here in the open."
Faramir cursed under his breath because he had to concede the point that Pallando was correct. "Wait!" He called out after the stranger, who paused. "We are coming."
The warrior paused and met Faramir's gaze with a slight nod, "I am glad. It would have complicated my situation if you have not."
Faramir fell into stride next to him as they put more distance between themselves and the tavern. As they hurried to the end of the street, they could hear someone shouting into the night. The excited voice echoed into the darkness and seemed to race up the numerous streets and winding corners. Faramir did not understand the content but he did not doubt that he and his companions were its cause.
"Someone has called for the soldiers," Pallando revealed to no one's surprise.
Indeed, even as he made the statement, Faramir could hear the pounding of footsteps, not their own, gaining ascendancy through the stillness of the night. Voices jabbered into being and running feet grew in number and intensity. Lights were coming alive in darkened houses and Faramir knew that if they did not leave the streets immediately, it would not be long before their pursuers found them. Considering that he and Pallando were alone in enemy territory, he had no wish to fall into the hands of the Haradrim.
Their mysterious companion took a series of turns through the darkened street, leading them on a route that seemed maze like in its complexity. They would turn up an alley, hurry down a short flight of steps, emerge by the river and then descend steps along the river's edge to the collection of river vessels he had seen earlier that day. It appeared that their refuge was to be a boat and that suited Faramir well enough since it meant that if necessary, they had means to make a relatively safe departure from Mahazar. The vessel was not very large, possessing enough space enough to carry four people comfortably though any more would affects its balance severely. Judging by the mast and the long oar half submerged at its rear, Faramir guessed it was a sailboat.
"In here," he ordered, stepping onto the craft's deck. The boat dipped a little at the weight but steadied itself in due course. The men of the west followed suit and accompanied their host into the lower cabin.
The confines of the cabin were small but it was sufficiently comfortable for them to wait out the next few hours until the search for them had lessened in intensity. However, Faramir did not delude himself into thinking that he would be able to move freely in Mahazar after the events of the past hour. In Minas Tirith, the killing of three soldiers would be cause enough for a manhunt and Faramir had no doubt that this was what he and Pallando were in for.
However, the situation had been unavoidable and he was capable of taking comfort in that, if nothing else. His only regret was that the mission to gather intelligence was no longer possible. Right now, their only course was to leave Mahazar with their skins intact.
Their host illuminated the inside of the vessel with a small oil lamp and took a seat on one of the cushions scattered across the floor. He gestured at Faramir and Pallando to do the same and considering that the Steward of Gondor had many questions for the stranger, Faramir obeyed readily enough.
"Was I wrong to intervene?" The man asked after producing a carafe of green glass from one of the chests inside the cabin. He uncorked the bottle and took a deep swig of its contents before handing it to Faramir who was never one to refuse a drink when in the midst of discussion.
"No," Faramir shook his head after the strong liquid disappeared down his throat, leaving a healthy tang in his mouth. The prince handed the bottle to Pallando before continuing, "your help was appreciated. It would have been little more than a second before I reacted in kind."
"Good," he answered, genuinely pleased by that. "I had no wish to intervene but when I saw you in the tavern wearing that cloak, I guessed you had not come to Mahazar for enlistment."
"This cloak?" Faramir's brow arched in question, wondering what about it that was distinctive enough to give him away.
"It is elven made," the man stated. "It look rather worn but the style and cut left me no doubt as to the tailors. I have only seen one other cut in that fashion in my life."
"Who are you?" Faramir demanded. His patience was finally run dry and he wanted answers.
The man lowered the hood of his cloak and once again Faramir was struck by his appearance. He was undoubtedly an Easterling with his dark skin and brown eyes. He was no more than thirty, Faramir estimated. However, there was something about him that looked familiar that Faramir could not place, and it was fairly driving the Steward mad with distraction at being unable to discern why. Around his neck hung a simple chain of gold that held a curious looking pendant that seemed not merely decorative but held some significance by its intricate design. Until this moment, he noted how the man had kept it hidden within his clothes as if there were a secret behind it. However, when Faramir saw Pallando's eyes widen in surprise at the sight of it, the Prince of Ithilien suspected that secret was about to be exposed.
"Wizard, what is it?" Faramir asked.
"You are of the Bors," Pallando declared ignoring Faramir's question and addressing their companion directly.
"Bors?" Faramir asked, not recognizing the name.
"Yes," he nodded somewhat taken back by the recognition. "You have traveled in my country?"
"Not for many years," Pallando replied, "I do recognize the sigil however. I saw it when it was worn by Adumar."
"Adumar lived three hundred years ago," the younger man pointed out, his voice full of suspicion. "Are you flesh or spirit?"
"Flesh," Pallando answered, "but wizards have their way of preserving themselves. Faramir," Pallando turned to the Prince, aware that the young man was no doubt filled with many questions, "you wanted to be able to speak as representative of Gondor, now is the time. This is the High Chieftain of the Tribe of Bors who dwell in what we call the Sunlands. They are descended from the Easterling hero Bor, who with his sons Borthand, Borlac and Borlach, died in the service of Feanor's son in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears."
"Wait," Faramir stammered, attempting to cope with the information he was being assailed with. The Bors, he thought to himself. This explained why the stranger spoke in Adûnaic. When Bor and his sons had lived, that would have been the common tongue of men. If his descendants had been sequestered away in the Sunlands for all this time, they would have no idea that Adûnaic had been discarded in favor of Westron. However, the name was familiar to him for more than just its affiliation to the hero Bor. He had heard it more recently but where? Suddenly, it rose to the surface of his mind from the depths of memory and forced an exclamation of surprise from his lips. "Melia's people?"
"Yes," the High Chieftain nodded, "Melia is my kin. Her father was my uncle."
***************
Aragorn could not sleep.
He lay on his bed thinking about everything that had happened since he arrived in Haradwraith and wondered if things would have been different if he had just sent Legolas back to Eden Ardhon when news had reached them of the eminent attack upon Lossarnach. It was entirely possible that they could have achieved the same victory without the aid of Legolas and his elves. It was Legolas' participation in the battle for Lossarnach that had led the Confederacy to the conclusion that the elves had chosen sides when all Legolas had done was aid an old friend. If Aragorn had done that, none of this would have come to pass and he would not lie here in his bunk, staring at the ceiling of his tent, unable to sleep.
Eomer was right, Aragorn sighed to himself. I should have believed him.
It was not as if he were unjustified in thinking otherwise. Legolas' behavior in Haradwraith had been questionable to say the least. However the memory of how hurt Legolas had been when he realized Aragorn did not believe him was burned into the king's memory and had plagued him with guilt ever since. If Eomer who had been ready to trounce Legolas within an inch of his life for what he had done, could believe him then why could not Aragorn? Legolas had been his friend since he was a youth. The elf had been in his life in one way or another for the better part of sixty years, and they had shared more together than most brothers did in a lifetime. How many impetuousness mistakes had he made in his youth for which Legolas had forgiven him?
More than enough to give Legolas his support when the elf had needed it.
There was no point in tormenting himself about what he did or did not do tonight, Aragorn decided. Tomorrow, he would find the elf and make amends and perhaps if Legolas knew he did indeed have Aragorn's faith, he may be capable of seeing reason. With this thought settling into his mind, Aragorn felt some of the tension easing from him and sleep came quickly upon its heels, lulling him into a much-needed slumber. His consciousness was already beginning to fray when suddenly a tremendous explosion of sound reconstructed his alertness with extreme speed.
Aragorn almost fell off his bunk at the detonation of noise and in the mad scramble to get to his feet, he heard a groundswell of reaction to it from the rest of the camp as men were roused from their sleep in the same abrupt manner. He had risen to his feet and was preparing to run out of the tent to investigate, when he was halted in mid step by another burst of shattering sound. Once again, it had caught him by surprise and as he hurried out his tent grabbing Anduril on the way, Aragorn saw that he was not alone in that respect.
"Are we under attack?" He demanded.
No one answered because no one knew for certain.
The camp was in pandemonium and the stillness of night, which had been all pervading a short time ago was well and truly banished in favor of mass excitement. Soldiers some dressed fully in mail, others attempting to do so were rushing towards the source of the noise. Small torches had been lit everywhere, illuminating the darkened plain that was the site for their encampment. Aragorn joined his men as they ran past the collection of tents when a third burst of sound heard. This time, listened closely and knew immediately that what caused it was not an explosion like he had heard at Helm's Deep. No, this was the sound of rock smashing against rock.
And it had come from the direction of Cordoba.
Aragorn reached the edge of the camp and found his men had halted in their steps to stare at the city in the distance. Their expressions of shock were coupled with murmurs of confusion as Aragorn witnessed the scene, he could well understand the reason for their bewilderment. He himself took in the sight of what was unfolding before him with a growing sense of outrage and cold fury. Had he only a few minutes ago thought that there might be a way to breach the gulf between himself and Legolas? Aragorn cursed himself because he should have known the elf would resort to this. Why would he not when Aragorn's lack of faith in his innocence had given him leave to think that he nothing left to lose?
The plain between the encampment and the city was filled with elven warriors, some on foot but most on horseback. Arrows were flying through the air as the trebuchets, all fully assembled, continued their assault upon the city walls. The devices were flinging great boulders of rock, transported there by wagons, against the great doors of the fortress. The impact created a growing pile of debris and was causing considerable damage to the wood. A continuous assault upon it would buckle them in a matter of hours if not sooner and the Cordoban soldiers positioned on the fortress walls, trying desperately to halt their progress with a barrage of arrows, were more than painfully aware of this.
"What has he done?" He heard Eomer demand as the Rohirrim king ran to his side. Eomer had been caught just as unaware as the rest of the camp and was in the process of fastening the buttons of his shirt when he reached Aragorn.
"He has laid siege to Cordoba," Aragorn answered in a low voice filled with smoldering rage, "against my orders and against my assurances to Satarin that we would not attack."
"Against your orders?" Eomer exclaimed in shock, unable to believe that the elf had gone this far. It was bad enough that he had caused numerous massacres throughout Haradwraith and given their army the reputation of bloodthirsty killers. However, even Eomer did not think him capable of flouting Aragorn's authority by calling this attack when it was Aragorn's wish to allow the women and children of Cordoba safe passage from their city before the onset of the fighting.
"Against my orders," Aragorn repeated himself, watching the assault continue and surmising that Legolas' plan was to create an opening through the doors before sending the elven cavalry through. Archers were assembled, trading arrows with the defenders on the wall, with fatalities on each side mounting. The Cordobans were suffering the worst of it though, and did not appear capable of mounting a prolonged defense if the intensity of the attack continued.
"So what shall we do?" Eomer asked, terribly aware of the menace and fury bubbling beneath the surface of Aragorn's restraint manner. He kept his own disgust at Legolas' behavior to a minimum certain that the situation was incendiary enough without fanning the flames further. No doubt when this day was done, the king of Gondor and the Lord of Eden Ardhon would have much to say to each other.
Aragorn felt silent as his gaze remained fixed on the elves before him, their faces dimly lit by the torches carried by some. He could not see Legolas but had no doubt that the elf was among the archers, sending a phalanx of deadly projectiles towards the wall. The attack was underway and there was no stopping it. If Aragorn were to force the elves to withdraw now, they would not only look like fools before the enemy but would also allow the word to spread that the armies of the west were easily divided and incapable of mounting a coordinated offensive. If he joined the battle, his authority would be undermined before everyone, including the soldiers under his command.
However, they were in enemy territory, where it was necessary to have every advantage. The behavior of the elves of late was not lost upon his men so the injury to his authority would be slight especially if Aragorn ensured that a situation like would not occur again, and by Elbereth it was not going to. He had not thought Legolas would risk their friendship to achieve his own ends in this manner but Aragorn supposed he had shown the elf how just much value he had in their friendship when he refused to believe that Legolas was innocent of murdering that child in cold blood. Legolas most likely believed he had already lost Aragorn's friendship and had little to lose by this action.
"We will join him," Aragorn said quietly after a lengthy pause. "This attack has started and forcing them to withdraw will not alter the fact that we have broken our word. The stain of this will not be washed away no matter what we do so it is best that we salvage what we can. As loathsome as what he has done, Legolas appears to be concentrating the assault on the entrance to the fortress, not the city within. That tells me that he is at least making an attempt to limit the casualties. With our assistance, our numbers can end the fighting quickly and further aid in that effort."
"My men at least will be happy for the battle," Eomer frowned, not liking the way they had been forced into it but unable to refute the sensibility of Aragorn's statement. He remembered Legolas' earlier threat of using fire and was grateful that the elf had shown some restraint in that regard. Still, he had undermined them both before their armies and that was not a slight easily forgiven. However, at present, pride was the least of their worries. "If he succeeds in creating an opening, we can ride in there and deal with the enemy quickly."
"He will," Aragorn said sourly, "if that is his intention, nothing will stand in his way of it becoming a reality."
As Eomer glanced at Aragorn, he sensed the king of Gondor was not speaking about Cordoba's walls.
*************
It would have been so easy to direct his elves to show no mercy but Legolas was vaguely conscious after he had set the attack in motion that he had crossed a line in his friendship with Aragorn and this time, it was not so easy to ignore. It was one thing to widen the gulf between them as friends but quite another to do so to one's allies. He could see the anxiety in the faces of his elven brothers and knew that they were aware that he was ordering to attack against the desires of their human comrades. However, like any disciplined army, they obeyed their commander without question and set out to accomplish the task he had set them.
Standing on the field of battle with the rest of the archers, Legolas cast his gaze towards the Gondorian and Rohirrim camp, anticipating that the humans would soon be joining their efforts against Cordoba. The instant the first rock hurled against the fortress walls met its mark; they would be awakened by the noise. Inwardly, Legolas braced himself for the inevitable confrontation with Aragorn, thinking up of all the things he would say to justify his position. Hours ago, when he had set these events upon their course, he had been flamed by anger and feelings of betrayal. Perhaps it was with Aragorn's sensibilities in mind that he had issued the order that they concentrated on breaking through the entrance of the fortress instead of burying the city beneath a pile of debris.
Meanwhile, the elven cavalry had taken up flanking positions, ensuring that they remained concealed by the darkness that stretched across the plain, broken up only by the occasionally torch that illuminated very little of its wide expanse. It becoming painfully clear that a skeleton force had been left behind in Cordoba while the bulk of its soldiers had been ordered to the Sanara Belt to protect the capital cities when the inevitable war machine of Gondor, Rohan and the elves reached it. The Cordobans were rallying an admirable defense but even this early in the battle; Legolas estimated that they would not be able to hold out for very long. He had assumed that the siege would last days and had sought to cut off their water supply, a vital resource in a climate such as this, by the obstruction of the river a process that would have taken at least two days to complete. However, this was now a redundant measure because they would take the city by daybreak.
If they truly desired it, they could march up to the fortress and attempt to scale its walls now, but that strategy would come soon enough and Legolas was in no particular hurry. The archers were reducing the enemy numbers sufficiently enough that when they chose to storm the fortress walls, there would not be enough soldiers to stop them. He would allow no elf to fall unnecessarily in this wretched land if it could be avoided. The enemy was being forced into a corner, and Legolas was poised for the moment because it was then that Cordoba would fall.
It was not long before the armies of Gondor and Rohan joined the battle, with the Rohirrim taking their place at the side of the elves, while Gondorian archers added to the barrage of the arrows flying through the air. He could hear orders being dispatched throughout the battle line as he withdrew from his place among his men, certain he would need to explain himself to Aragorn and Eomer when they finally sought him out. The trebuchet continued to bombard the entrance to the fortress with unrelenting precision and fissures, visible only to the keen eyes of elves, appeared across the arch of the doors. The sandstone was hard but crumbled easily under heavy assault.
Stepping away from the line, he saw Aragorn approaching him. The king of Gondor was alone and Legolas assumed that Imrahil and Eomer were elsewhere on the line, directing their forces for the assault that they had been forced to wage tonight. Aragorn's expression was unreadable as their eyes made contact and once again, Legolas had the sense that he had crossed the line. When he had issued his orders to Nunaur and Haldir earlier, he had done so with the fire of rage and disappointment in his veins. He had been so angry and hurt that Aragorn had not believed him that Legolas had felt he had nothing left to lose by following this course. Now as he saw Aragorn storming towards him, Legolas realised he was wrong.
"Aragorn," Legolas greeted.
Aragorn's gaze shifted momentarily to the thunderous sound of another boulder shattering against the great doors of Cordoba, intermingling with the sound of cracking wood.
"I do not think that the doors will hold for another hour," Aragorn stated coldly. "There are not enough of them to hold us back if we chose to scale the walls."
The king's business like tone shook Legolas' poise somewhat because he had expected Aragorn to express his outrage at how Legolas had undermined his authority. However, the elf was seldom caught off balance for very long and he recovered enough to express his reaction to Aragorn's statement.
"I think you are right," Legolas agreed but was more interested in attempting discern what thoughts were running through Aragorn's mind.
"I think we should move now," Aragorn replied, "they are stretched to breaking point already. We should storm the walls now. The doors will not hold long and when it is breached, they will have to deal with us as well as the horsemen. Once that takes place, the city is lost."
"We should move the rankers into position then," Legolas suggested because Aragorn's assessment of their situation was sound.
"Imrahil is carrying out the order even as we speak," Aragorn returned tautly as Legolas looked past him saw the soldiers of Gondor taking up positions of support near the archers, both elven and human alike. Aragorn wondered if Legolas had any idea how much restraint he was using to contain his emotions. It would be so easy to let it spill over and vent his fury upon the elf, but to do so would not only widen the rift between them but would also cause dissension between their two armies.
"Aragorn," Legolas finally relented, unable to endure the indifference Aragorn was displaying in regards to what he had done. It would be so much easier to have his best friend shout at him, or even strike him since Aragorn was more than justified in doing so. For the first time in his life, Legolas knew what it was to be on the receiving end of an aloof mask revealing nothing and could understand why it used to inspire Aragorn's annoyance when he could not discern what the elf was about.
"Say nothing," Aragorn said sharply, guessing what Legolas intended to say and truly did not wish to hear, not now. "This is not the time for discussion. We cannot turn back now that you set us upon this road but since our course is set, willingly or no, I would rather focus my thoughts on winning the day. Anything else either of us may have to say to each other can wait until after Cordoba had fallen."
There was finality to his words that shook Legolas to the core. He had known Aragorn for nearly a human lifetime but the rage behind the king of Gondor's eyes as he made that taut statement was something Legolas had not seen before and it unsettled him.
However, it was not as unsettling as knowing that his desire for vengeance may have cost him his best friend.
***********
Aragorn was proved right.
When one of the doors showed signs of collapse under the relentless assault of the trebuchet little more than an hour after their discussion, the response was swift. Cordoban warriors retreated from the wall, racing to brace the doors and giving both Gondorian and elven rankers' opportunity to advance. Supported by a barrage of arrows from their archers, the soldiers of the west crossed the distance quickly; carrying ladders and ropes to scale the walls after long last. They moved towards the fortress like the tide rolling into the shore. The defenders of Cordoba, realizing the opening they had given the enemy rushed to the walls in order to defend it against the tide, but it was too late.
Ladders were soon propped up against the fortress as Gondorian and elven warriors scaled the walls to be greeted by Haradrim soldiers. The Cordoban defense was weak, owing to the division in their forces as they scrambled to keep the invaders out of the city while attempting to maintain the barricade that was buckling under the assault by the trebuchet. In the meantime, the Rohirrim and elven cavalry, under the lead of Eomer, waited in the darkness for their moment to act. The barricades against the doors were holding but briefly.
The efforts to reinforce the waning strength of the doors were being thwarted by the smashing of rock against wood.
Despite the roar of battle being so great that it drowned out the shattering noise of rocks impacting against wood and the stone archway, Aragorn though he could hear when the wood buckled under the barrage. As he led his men in the scaling of the fortress walls, he saw one of the enormous doors finally succumbing to the relentless battering of rock. Large fractures tore through the wood and finally buckled inward. Splinters and stray shards sprayed in all directions as its descent tore the rusted hinges from its moorings in the wall and aided with the collapse of the archway. The sound seemed to rise above the pitched noise of battle, as if it were signaling to all the turning point in the course of the fighting.
Debris buried the soldiers unable to get clear in time and those who remained standing after the dust had settled were clearly aware of what a devastating blow this was to their defense. They retreated deeper inside the structure, probably in preparation of the next wave, which would come soon now that they were wide open to the enemy. It was a valid assumption because no sooner than the way had been opened inside the fortress, Aragorn heard the Rohirrim cry to charge. The voice faded into nothingness, and was followed the low rumble of pounding hoof beats against the ground, growing momentum as they closed in on the newly made fissure in Cordoba's formidable fortress.
Aragorn climbed up the ladder, now that the cavalry was unleashed upon Cordoba, hoping that with their arrival, the battle would be ended swiftly. In truth, he saw little pleasure in their eminent victory. There was little glory to be derived from the defeat of an enemy who never had a change. Unfortunately, the necessities of sound strategic planning required that Cordoba was to be taken. There was no way to know with absolute certainty that the fortress did not house a sizeable enemy force capable of hindering their progress into the Splinter without testing themselves against it. Legolas' actions, while still objectionable in every way, had answered this for them once and for all.
He reached the top of the ladder and saw a Haradrim warrior coming at him with a scimitar the moment he stepped upon the wall. Aragorn met his blade with Anduril, feeling the impact of steel against steel all the way to his teeth. His parry was return with a sharp riposte and the weight of the elven sword against the lesser-made weapon forced his opponent back before Aragorn concluded their duel with a sharp thrust through his abdomen. The Haradrim let out a scream as Aragorn retracted his blade, having little time to notice what had become of him because from the corner of his eye, the former Ranger could sense a presence.
He swung around to see another soldier coming at him and deflected the blow that would have sliced open his belly if he had acted a fraction slower. His new opponent would not be deterred however, and lunged once more, putting more determination in his efforts to end the life of the Westron invader. Aragorn stepped skillfully out of his reach and planted a boot in his back as he slipped by. Shoving him hard, the enemy tumbled to the ground unceremoniously, his weapon falling from his grip. As his hand scrambled for the weapon, Aragorn moved in for the kill when the Haradrim turned around and parried the blow that would have cleaved his heart in two.
For the first time, Aragorn had opportunity to meet his attacker's gaze as he defended himself against a skilful riposte. He soon understood why, because the light of the torches along the length of the wall illuminated the features of the enemy he was fighting, and Aragorn had to look twice before he realised that he knew whom he was facing
"Satarin?" Aragorn exclaimed.
"Is this your way keeping your word, king of Gondor?" He demanded as he smashed his blade against Aragorn's with more determination. He spat the words like weapons and Aragorn could not fault his accuracy because Satarin did salt the wounds of his injured pride.
"This did not come about at my choosing," Aragorn replied as he blocked the blow easily and shoved Satarin backwards. "You had ample opportunity to surrender. Would another day make a difference to your decision? I think not!"
"I will not yield my city to you and your pack of elven butchers!" Satarin's rage made his strikes wilder and Aragorn saw an opening that could end their bout quickly. With a sharp thrust, the blade slid into his shoulder and Aragorn thought that it might convince the older man to yield. Satarin groaned in pain as he dropped to his knees, his face a rictus of pain as Aragorn pulled Anduril from his flesh.
"How this battle came about is no longer important," Aragorn declared, attempting one last time to convince the man of his peaceful intentions, "what is important that we wish no harm to your people. What happened at Axinar was a mistake, surely you must know by now that it was not our intention to have our allies conduct themselves in such a manner. What bloodshed was spilled cannot be undone but we will prevent it from recurring again. However, it is very difficult to argue the case when you are so stubborn!"
Satarin's eyes narrowed, "your words have no weight with me," he hissed. "You word is like your attempts at peace, a lie."
With that Satarin produced a curved dagger from within his folds and thrust it deep into Aragorn's thigh. The king of Gondor felt the blade spear through his leg and uttered a sharp cry of pain before reacting instinctively. Anduril sliced through flesh, blood and bone in one well-delivered swing and Satarin's head
spun in the air before it joined his toppled torso, soaking the sandstone in a crimson pool.
Aragorn staggered to the edge of the wall, feeling the warmth coursing out of his leg. He wrapped his hand around the bloody hilt when he felt an arm sliding around him in support.
"Sire, you are hurt!" Beregond, Captain of Ithilien exclaimed as he stared at the dagger protruding cruelly from his king's leg.
"I am fine," Aragorn grunted, "help me somewhere out of the way so I can remove this accursed thing."
"As you will, my lord," the younger man nodded although a quiet place in this melee was a questionable proposition at best. The only place that seemed suitable enough was a corner of the wall but the sight of the king's injury had ensured that Beregond was not alone in his assistance of the king. The people's love for Aragorn the king bordered on near adoration, especially among the soldiers of Gondor who still considered the return of the king as their country's finest hour. Thanks to Aragorn' arrival, a wave of hope had swept through the kingdom which had allowed them to gain victory against their enemies. For the soldiers of Gondor, who had endured the worst of Sauron's assaults upon the kingdom, there was not one among them who would not willingly die for the king.
Once Aragorn was in what was a marginally safe place, Aragorn the king vanished so that the healer could take charge. Even though he preferred dispensing the treatment to someone else, he supposed that he was lucky to be able to treat himself under such circumstances. Three soldiers were gathered around the king, creating a protective barrier around him so that his wounds could be dealt with. In truth it would be Aragorn who would tend to himself but he did need Beregond for the hardest task of all.
"Remove the knife," Aragorn instructed as he unfastened the belt around which Anduril's scabbard was attached.
"Are you certain?" The former soldier of Gondor and Faramir's chosen captain of the guard looked at Aragorn with concern.
"This is not the time to be squeamish," Aragorn said meeting his gaze momentarily, before returning to the business of removing the scabbard from the leather. As he saw Beregond steel himself to carry out the task, Aragorn placed the leather in between his teeth and bit down. Beregond drew a deep breath and placed his hand upon the bloody handle. His eyes clamped shut when he pulled the blade from Aragorn's flesh and caused his king to spasm in pain, his teeth sinking deep into the leather.
Aragorn was breathing hard when the blade was tossed aside. The pain was considerable but no more than he had received in the past and there had been so many bruises, wounds, cuts and scrapes that they all seemed to lose its definition after a time. Beregond, whom he had seen fight like a man possessed actually appeared quite faint, forcing a little smile from the king.
"Are you alright?" Aragorn asked.
"Yes," Beregond nodded, still appearing a shade grey.
"Good," Aragorn said with a slight grunt as he leaned forward and examined the injury. Fortunately, the blade had not pierced the artery, which was what Aragorn had feared. It appeared that he had suffered little more than a flesh wound though the pain was considerable, Aragorn knew that he could cope with it and return to battle after a short rest. He swept his gaze across the wall and saw that the Cordobans had abandoned it as more and more elven and Gondorian soldiers flooded the area.
"Elfstone," Haldir suddenly appeared out of nowhere as elves only could, "you are hurt."
"Not badly," Aragorn grunted with a strained breath as he continued to bind his wound with a belt and some of the athelas he kept stored in a pouch on his person whenever he went to battle. His habits as a healer died hard. "I will survive. Where is your master?"
He saw Haldir flinch at the reference to Legolas being his master and supposed that all was not well in the elven camp. "I do not know," Haldir replied, "I believe he is leading the charge into the rest of the city."
"You find him and tell him that I want no one harmed needlessly," Aragorn said firmly, "there has been altogether too much bloodshed this day."
The memory of Satarin's words still plagued him and he had no wish to have the former leader of Cordoba proved correct that the elves were indeed butchers. Legolas had asked for his faith and Aragorn had failed him, no doubt precipitating his decision to embark upon this attack, despite Aragorn's word to the Cordobans. While he would not assume that Legolas would embark upon the same course as he had in Axinar and the other Haradrim villages, he could not take the chance of it either.
**************
The cavalry crossed the plain once the opening was created with Eomer leading the charge.
Despite the circumstances of this engagement, Eomer could not deny that it was good to ride into battle, where the enemy was clearly defined and the politics of the events that had led them to this moment in time was forgotten for now.
Ahead of them, Cordoba waited to be taken and though Eomer was never one to enjoy the needless bloodshed of any race, he could not help feeling a little biased when he thought of how these Haradrim king had manipulated the attacks on Edoras. Of course, his dislike was nothing in comparison to the intensity possessed by Legolas Greenleaf and even if Edoras had fallen under attack, Eomer could never justify the murder of innocents.
The cavalry neared the entrance of the fortress in good time and as they closed in on the opening, Eomer raised his hand and issued the signal to close ranks into sets of three. When it was agreed that the elven riders would join their ranks in battle, Eomer's first order of business was to teach the First Born, the appropriate signals used by the Rohirrim éoreds when they rode into battle. It was a lesson worth the trouble for he saw elves and humans alike, closing ranks as they formed three to a line. The opening would allow for no more and Eomer had no wish to cause a bottleneck by forcing too many riders through at once.
The King of the Mark was one of the first through the entranceway and saw the rider next to him tumble when an arrow struck him in the chest. Eomer immediately dropped low, aware that there was a group of archers defending the opening from the approaching cavalry. He felt the wisp of displaced air as another arrow flew past his ear, striking the sandstone wall before dropping impotently to the floor when the point failed to penetrate the hard surface. Eomer stared at the edge where the archers were carrying out their barrage of arrows and rode past a spear that was imbedded in the ground. The King of the Mark reached for the weapon and yanked it from the ground. There was still blood on it when Eomer took careful aim and threw.
The weapon sliced through the air and extracted a blood-curdling cry from one of the archers whose body it impaled with sickening finality. Eomer saw the enemy tumble forward, the spear still protruding from his body when he landed on the sandy ground. The King of the Mark forced his horse to move deeper past the destroyed entrance, riding towards the soldiers on foot who had fallen into square and were holding their long spears before them in phalanx. He counted little more than twenty of them assembled in this manner and while he admired their strategy because forming square was the only means of defending against a cavalry attack, there was not enough of them to maintain the defense for very long
"Phalanx!" He shouted, giving the warning to those behind him. "Bowmen!"
Eomer reached for his bow and immediately began the assault upon the assemblage with arrows instead of the sword that had been replaced within its scabbard. His horse circled the group of soldiers, valiantly defending the fortress and themselves as Rohirrim and elven arrows met their mark with deadly accuracy.
Sheer numbers were overwhelming them, with arrows traded back and forth by the invaders on horseback and the Cordoban archers coming to the aid of their comrades on the ground. From various points along the wall, arrows and spears met flesh with shocking finality. With the square being dealt with by a portion
of his riders, Eomer continued along the walls of the fortress, making short work of the soldiers that had abandoned the wall when the Gondorian rankers had become too much for them.
The Rohirrim maintained their pursuit, aware that Aragorn had wanted to keep them from entering the city and bringing the battle to the women and children who were taking refuge here. He saw a soldier coming at him with a spear and swung his blade to drive him off when the sword knocked the helmet from his face. For a moment, Eomer froze as he looked down and saw on the ground, staring at him with blood and dirt smeared across his face was a boy of no more than thirteen if that. His eyes met the Rohirrim king with utter terror and the scimitar in his hand dropped to the floor with a loud noise when his courage failed him.
For a moment, Eomer thought the boy might weep in fright but instead; he swallowed, closed his eyes and waited for the enemy to strike the killing blow.
Eomer felt sickened to the stomach and lowered his weapon as his eyes swept across the scene of the battle and particularly at the phalanx that they were cutting down. The Haradrim were physically a smaller people than the men of the Westernesse and he had not made the connection before. However, as he now placed them under deeper scrutiny, he realised that the phalanx were mostly comprised of soldiers with lanky, undeveloped frames, hidden beneath oversized armour. The situation in Cordoba must have been more desperate than anyone of them had believed. Suddenly it made sense that Satarin had spoken with such vehemence and refusal to entertain any idea of surrender, especially when his forces were so depleted that a bluff was all he could manage in the place of seasoned troops.
"Get out of here," Eomer hissed under his breath.
The boy stared at him in confusion not comprehending his words or the language in which it was spoken.
"GO!" Eomer kicked out his foot and sent the boy sprawling.
The boy fell backward as Eomer pulled the reins of his horse to leave the scene. He would not be the killer of a child who had no business fighting in the first place.
It was a noble sentiment but one that proved in error when suddenly, he felt a burst of exquisite pain and saw the point of spear tearing its way through his flesh and penetrating the mail across his chest. He opened his mouth to cry out but could not speak because it was soon filled with blood. Looking over his shoulder through the haze of his pain, Eomer saw the boy he had spared looking at him with relish after spearing him through the back.
"EOMER!" He heard a voice shout at him and saw another rider approaching, swinging his blade in a precise strike that killed the boy where he stood.
Eomer could barely focus when he saw Imrahil's face appear bore him, the older man staring at him in shock and dismay.
"I think I am hurt," Eomer muttered softly but his words escaped him in a gurgle.
"Rohirrim!" Imrahil shouted to no one in particular, "the king has been injured!"
Imrahil closed the distance between them, sidling his horse next to Eomer's as the king struggled to stay on his feet. The spear remained cruelly embedded through Eomer's body and Imrahil did not know whether or not he ought to remove it because it could very well be the only thing keeping the king from bleeding like a stuck boar. Erkenbrand, lord of the Westfold reached them first and curbed his horror at seeing his king in such as state by grabbing the reins of Eomer's horse while Imrahil kept him from tumbling out of the saddle.
"We must get him to the surgeon," Imrahil declared as he maneuvered himself into the saddle with Eomer, not an easy process considering the king of the Riddermark had a large spear impaled through his body. Eomer, by this point, was losing consciousness swiftly and sagged forward, almost falling off when Imrahil caught him. "I will take him there but you must tell Carleon that he now leads the Rohirrim."
"I will," Erkenbrand nodded and handed the reins to Imrahil who had difficulty reaching it. "Commend him safely."
"I will," Imrahil nodded as he dug his heels into the flanks of Eomer's horse, "I have no intention of allowing my daughter to become a widow."
************
The fighting had moved to the city.
Legolas had crossed the battlefield with the king of Gondor at his side. After Helm's Deep, the Battle of Pelennor and the Black Gate, they had become too accustomed to being at each other's side in battle to permit their present differences to interfere with this tradition. Unfortunately, once they had reached the fortress, it was an entirely different matter as Legolas lost sight of Aragorn in the sea of bodies making their way up the wall by means of ladders and ropes. Legolas himself had entered Cordoba in more or less the same fashion. He had scaled the walls of the fortress and fought his way through the guardians defending it with a contingent of elves that included Nunaur.
The battle was swift and it was not long before the Cordobans were overwhelmed and driven off the wall. The retreating forces also had to contend with the flooding of Rohirrim and First Born cavalry through its gates and Legolas was confident that by the time dawn broke, the city would be theirs. However, it soon appeared that the Cordobans would not surrender easily despite their dwindling numbers. Driven off the wall and becoming savagely culled by the cavalry, they took the only course left to them, the course Aragorn had prayed they would not.
They took the battle into the heart of the city where the women and children were hiding.
There had been little recourse but to follow them and soon the back streets, the squares, the shops and homes became the focus of the fiercest fighting. There was nothing clean about killing in full view of women and children and as he and many of his comrades were soon discovering, not all of the opponents clad in mail and armed with scimitars were soldiers. Satarin, in an effort to show the enemy that the fortress was adequately garrisoned, had dressed every available man in mail and when there were no more, had resorted to using boys. After what had happened in Axinar, the thought of killing children repulsed him to no end and doing so would only prove that Satarin was right when he accused Legolas of being a murderer.
And he was not.
With Nunuar at his side, Legolas pursued a number of Haradrim soldiers into front walk of one of the city's man mud brick homes. They rounded the corner and saw that the enemy prepared to make a fight of it. The Haradrim were easily overtaken by the two elves and the skirmish lasted briefly before all of them lay dead at the feet of Eden Ardhon's lord and its captain.
"We should get back to the others," Nunaur suggested as he prodded the soldiers on the ground to ensure that they were no longer a threat.
"I have not seen Aragorn or Eomer and that concerns me," Legolas confessed.
Despite all that had transpired between them of late, the humans were still his friends and mortal life was so fragile that Legolas could not help but concern himself at how they fared in the battle.
"I am certain they are well," Nunaur commented and left the bodies to follow him when suddenly the door to the house they were walking past burst open behind the captain of Eden Ardhon. The elf had heard sounds but disregarded them anticipating that they probably belonged to a frightened family trying to sit out the battle. Nunaur turned around just in time to be run through with a sword. He let out a soft cry as he dropped to his knees, forcing Legolas to stare in open mouth horror as his loyal friend and subject died before his skull could slap against the ground when he fell.
"NUNAUR!" Legolas fairly screamed in anguish.
Legolas ran forward and swung his blade with far more skill than the person who had ended the life of Nunaur, son of Elwe, who had been his father's servant since Thranduil's earliest days in Eryn Lasgalen. It was Nunaur who had taught Legolas how to shoot a bow and had schooled him in the woodland art of stealth and tracking. Centuries of knowledge, skill and experience were now bleeding into the dirt, soaking in the earth to be forgotten. Nunaur had wanted to see the world and now all he would ever see was the grey of Mandos. With an outraged cry, Legolas' swipe against the enemy blade tore the weapon from the murderer's hands, sending it clattering aside noisily. Slamming the person against a nearby wall, Legolas raised his sword to strike when suddenly, a voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
"Do not hurt my mother please!" A plaintive voice cried in anguish.
Legolas blinked and saw the little girl staring at him from the doorway, her brown eyes wide with terror. There were tears on her face and she was but six. She was small, waif like and so very frightened of him. If he had not understood Haradrim, he would have acted without thinking twice, he would have killed. Nunaur's death had enflamed him with rage and when he had attacked his captain's murderer, Legolas was so furious he could barely register anything about his opponent other than Nunaur's blood on his hands. But it was not his hands.
It was her hands.
Legolas realised that it was a woman whom he had pinned to the wall by her throat. She could have been Melia, certainly she was the same age and possessed the same physical characteristics. However, she was also the murderer of his friend and he wanted vengeance. He pressed the blade to her throat and saw her gasp in fear, saw the elegant elven sword break skin until a rivulet of blood stained its tip. The girl child had began to weep harder and beg even more frantically but Legolas did not care. What was it about this world that allowed one person to do anything they liked to another without fear of retribution? Like the animals who had violated Melia, who had harmed his people at Eden Ardhon, like this woman who taken from him a friend whose value was beyond words. It would be so easy to end the threat of her now…
"Please!" The child ran to him and pulled at his arm. Legolas reacted instinctively, slamming his fist into the side of her face and sent her sprawling.
"Don't hurt her!" The woman screamed as the child lay on the floor, stunned by the blow.
"Silence!" Legolas screamed when he realised that he had struck a child. He had lashed out and struck a little girl who had only been trying to protect her mother. His face twisted into anguish as he saw her lying there on the ground, shaking off the blow that was leaving a red welt across her skin. He stared at her hard, feeling the air disappear out of his lungs, unable to breathe, unable to stomach or conceive that he had actually done it, that he had actually become no better than the villains who had murdered little Anna in front of Melia.
When had this happened? When had he become no better than an Easterling?
The question snapped something inside of him and suddenly, he found himself staring at the woman in his grasp. The fear in her eyes was so great that it screamed out to his elven senses like the wail of Nazgul in the shadow world. She stared at him with quivering lips and tears stained cheeks. He could feel her trembling hard.. Her whole body was shaking so badly that he could feel its tremors beneath his palm. She closed her eyes, anticipating death, expecting it to come because she was staring into the face of the enemy and at the butcher of Axinar.
Staring at him.
Legolas looked at the child and saw the little one continuing to weep in anguish, too terrified to approach him again but clearly distraught that he was going to kill her mother. Her tears cut through his heart and reminded him of the weeping of the other child, the one who stood over his dead father after Legolas had taken his life. Legolas had not simply struck him, he had killed him! He heard her pleading for her mother's life but her words became vague and meaningless. For an elf, words were not always the best way to communicate and his people were blessed with an insight that saw things somewhat clearer than most with occasional lapses.
He continued to stare at the woman but not really seeing her but rather himself reflected in her eyes and what he saw terrified him. His grip slackened and he began to tremble almost as hard as she. The woman broke free and scrambled to her child. She embraced her daughter in her arms, holding the little girl close so that they would be together at least when the elf took their lives. Legolas saw this in their eyes, saw their terrible despair at knowing that they were going to die at his hands. He could sense the blackness comprised of despair, hatred and destruction, a veritable litany of chaos, cajoling him to embrace it willingly. It was numbing his senses, disconnecting his heart from his mind until he knew the incontrovertible truth of it all.
He had lost himself.
He has lost himself the moment he had learnt of Melia's violation and he had done everything to ensure that he remained lost. Like the rising stench of dank water from the bottom of an old well, Legolas began to understand the place he had been occupying the last few months. He had allowed the darkness to build a home inside of him. He had permitted it use of his grief and guilt and allowed it to turn him into a monster, a monster that had butchered a small child over the still warm body of his father. A monster who was looked upon by a woman and her child as some terrible fiend because he had murdered innocents and was going to murder them in the same manner. The blood of all those dead in Axinar, Laxor, Brecat and Turazon were on his hand and no matter if he lived until the end of time, that stain would never leave him.
When his blade had been poised at her throat, ready to take her life, he had understood something else. Even though she had killed Nunaur, she was not responsible for his death.
He was.
The sword dropped from his hands and Legolas sunk to his knees, feeling the slick viscosity of Nunaur's rapidly cooling blood soaking into his breeches and into his boots. He barely noticed it because all he could feel was this terrible emptiness, this well of despair that was threatening to swallow him whole. Legolas looked at his reflection in the pool of Nunaur's blood and came to the disturbing conclusion that he had no idea who it was that was staring back at him.
He did not know who he was any more and that made him weep.
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