Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.
Author's Notes: Yes, another chapter at long last. Took me long enough, right? Love you all, my dear, dear reviewers.
Chapter Fifteen
~
The Orcs hardly had time to turn around before the wolves sliced into their ranks from behind. Long bodies sailing over the hill and into the fray, the Great Pack drove into the enemy like a knife plunging into an evil hide. Tumbling about in the chaos, the Orcs barked and yelped in the confusion, the original army of three suddenly multiplying to unbelievable strength.
Elrond, Glorfindel, and Pippin were heartened. Throwing back their heads for an answering howl, they leapt into the battle with a renewed hope that also renewed their strength.
Each wolf fought with a different battle tactic. For Haldir, it was speed, and a speed that was ruthless and terrible to see. He knew exactly where to strike to cause instant death in the victim, and his years of running races had shaped his legs into rapid pistons.
The battle tactic of Galadriel, however, was far different. She utilized agility, and would simply spring into the air and come down hard on her attacker. Although she had not fought in many years, the talent and skill had not left her and she slew Orcs by the dozens.
In the thick of the fight, Elrond longed for the strength of Legolas and Aragorn, two of the best warriors he had known. The battle would have been easily tipped in their favor had the vicious pair been present. But they were somewhere to the North, somewhere beyond the call of the Pack. And then he noticed.
Where was Arwen?
Immediately the adrenaline spiraled to Elrond's mind. Had she been slain in her flight? Was she injured and unable to join the battle? Had she been captured? The panic of fatherly instincts raised his fighting skills to their ultimate and prime, and the Orcs around him fell as though knocked over by a hurricane.
At last he was at Galadriel's side. With a desperate whine, he asked her where his daughter was. But she could not answer, for the Orcs seemed to rise in a wave, threatening to smother them all.
It wasn't until Galdor fell dead that they realized the Nazgul again were firing on them. Long silencers gleamed on the ends of their weapons, hiding the telltale sound from the wolves until it was too late. At once Glorfindel sprang to his pack mates' side, but Galdor was already gone and going cold.
Fear shot through the wolves as silent terror rained into their ranks, only made clear when an explosion of dust kicked up the dirt at their feet. Orcs screamed and writhed as the bullets ate into them, the Nazgul once again firing at anything and everything that moved.
It was living hell, bullets flying and Orcs snarling with a bloodlust that was horrifying to see. Crouching as a unit, a small group of the wretched beasts threw themselves up and onto Celeborn, rolling the Lorien male to his back with their force. Arching and kicking, he managed to throw two of them off with the same move that had tossed Arwen only a day before. But the Orcs were smothering him, their teeth ripping into his flesh and their claws tearing at his fur.
A lithe form burst into the midst of them, faster than lightning and with the force of thunder. It was Haldir, and by his ferocity was Celeborn saved, and the alpha struggled to his feet, for the first time in debt to his beta.
While the Pack held the battle and prevented the advance of the enemy, Pippin fled back into the valley and decided to wait it out in safety. Fighting at the last battle had been one thing. There had been Ents and more wolves and even Gandalf. But here… here everything was much more uncertain, and the tables were on a much more delicate balance.
Ears twisting, the little Hobbit wolf suddenly heard a sound father along the canyon. Was it Faramir, struggling to rise though his injury kept him at bay? With his curiosity aroused, Pippin trotted down the corridor and peered around the rocky corner.
Denethor!
The old alpha snuffled around the floor, as though following some invisible scent trail. After a moment of this, he jumped in the air and clawed twice at the cold earth. Then he shook out his mangy coat and sat down, breathing hard. In his hiding place, Pippin trembled.
At length, Denethor rose to his feet and padded over to where his son lay. Faramir looked up at the older wolf with trusting eyes. The alpha smiled back, wagging his tail stiffly, encouraging his pup to sleep. Obediently, Faramir lay down his head and closed his eyes, his wound preventing him from doing anything else.
Once the eyes were closed, Denethor leaned oddly over the younger wolf and let his jaw hang slack. Tilting his head, Pippin examined the strange posture. But the jaw wasn't slack, he realized. It was poised for a strike.
But to strike what?
Pippin saw no threat in the canyon, no Orc that had slipped past. And yet there Denethor was, coiled to attack and kill. And what was that scent? Nostrils quivering, Pippin sniffed the scent flag wafting through the air. It smelled… sickly. Sickly and dangerous.
The first drop slid off the end of the white fangs and landed harmlessly on the stone floor. This drew Pippin's attention back to those jaws of death… the drop was saliva, the spit that was bubbling out of Denethor's mouth into an ugly foam, a drool of madness that even an ignorant Hobbit wolf would recognize.
Screeching in terror, Pippin realized just what was happening. Denethor was about to kill his own pup!
But the alpha heard Pippin's cry, and his whole body twisted around in one jerk to stare at the little Hobbit wolf backed against the wall. Denethor's eyes glinted with something terrible, something unnatural and murderous. Snapping his jaws together and biting at the air, he advanced on his prey…
Pippin fled back down the canyon.
Out into the battle, ducking and jumping and launching over the Orcs that chomped at him, Pippin ran as though his life depended on it. But it wasn't just his life he ran for… it was Faramir.
A flash of black to his left alerted him, and he spun in that direction until at last he collided with Elrond. Howling with all the strength he could muster, Pippin gave the wolf cry for help. At once he had the black wolf's full attention, and pivoting around back towards the canyon, the Hobbit wolf begged for him to follow.
Fearing for Faramir, who was wounded and unable to fight whatever misfortune had run in there, Elrond raced to the canyon, springing in the long corridors and racing down them until he spun around the corner and saw what Pippin had warned him against.
Seeing Elrond there, Denethor barked hoarsely and clicked his teeth together. He still hovered over Faramir like a great vulture. Elrond advanced cautiously, his tail wagging in an effort to calm the Gondor alpha. But the madness was too engulfing, and Denethor hardly saw the friendly gesture.
But Elrond's advance worked, and the insane wolf backed up slowly, until he was up against the jagged block-off end of the canyon. As his paws scrabbled against it, he suddenly whirled around and scrambled up the pile of debris, too fast for even Elrond's lunge to catch.
Once at the top, however, Denethor froze. A great tremor ran through his body, and he gave a low whine of fear. The whine gradually slid up the scale and escalated into a wail of terror. Then he sprang away and tumbled down the opposite side of the block-off.
Leaping to the top of the rocky barricade, Elrond saw at once what had given Denethor such fear. A great wave of darkness was crawling towards them from the North, and a thunderclap was building overhead as though in some terrible omen.
Reinforcements for the Enemy.
Time seemed to slow for Elrond, and for a moment the only thing he could see was a vision of the world that might have been, free from the Hunter and full of peace. This image of serenity was trampled by the evil racing towards him, and in one bound he was back down in the canyon and racing for the exit. Sending a bark over his shoulder, he commanded Pippin to stay with Faramir.
By the time Elrond was halfway into the battle again, the thunderhead had reached them, and explosions of noise erupted from above and the air crackled with lightning. A bolt reached the earth and struck it like a cannonball, the shrubbery shattering into flames and spreading around the battlefield.
Reaching Galadriel and Glorfindel, Elrond bade them look to the North. By now the advancing army was close enough to be seen from the ground, and both could plainly see the death that walked towards them. Fire crackling behind her and ringing her head with a flaming crown, Galadriel looked into Elrond's eyes and said,
-We die together, my son.-
And the black wolf echoed back,
-Together, and with honor.-
Two wolves turned and plunged into the fray with such awesome power and determination that the Orcs fell backwards before their very presence.
At last the advancing army reached the hills surround the battle, and the wolves turned their eyes upwards and saw the malice of many vicious foxes staring back. Glorfindel concluded grimly that they must be some new allies of the Hunter, and Haldir shuddered at their numbers.
A thundering howl, like the triumphant blazing of a silver trumpet, sang through the air that had suddenly fallen silent.
Rearing on his hind legs and clawing at the air, ruff lifted like a cape by the wind and lightning slicing the dark sky behind him, Aragorn the King had returned.
The Naugrim foxes plunged into the Orcs, falling like vengeful rain into the dark ranks and sweeping like piranha along the wretched black bodies. They ran as though they were a great river gifted with teeth and claws, seeping among the enemy and biting his feet right out from under him.
Elrond himself raced up the hill to be at Aragorn's side, but pausing halfway, awed by the change that had transpired. For Aragorn was no longer an uncertain young male, plagued by years at the bottom of the Gondor hierarchy. Now he stood like the King, and seemed to have grown to twice the size he was before.
Lowering his mighty head, Elrond bowed respectfully to this awesome force. And Aragorn nodded back with all the regal majesty that was possible.
Shrieking, Haldir fled from the Naugrim, clambering up a hill and whirling to face them with teeth bared. But he saw that the foxes did not chase him, but instead fought the Orcs, and he was greatly confused. Across the way he spotted Legolas, standing on an opposite crest. Recognizing his kin and eager to greet him, Haldir sprang from his perch and sped across the battlefield to welcome Legolas back from his journey.
A temporarily forgotten foe raised its' head again, and a shot not muffled by a silencer shattered the air.
Haldir fell.
The Nazgul raised themselves up from their crouching positions, the silencers all discarded, secrecy tossed aside, complete annihilation the only remaining goal. They opened their fire into the ranks of wolves and foxes, the smaller bodies falling rapidly under this unknown foe.
The lightning and thunder now intensified, as death again swept the army of good and threatened to crush it. And as the sky darkened and the lighting became a strobe light, a wolfish silhouette was seen bounding gaily along the borders of the fight.
Denethor trotted along, barking nonsense calls and occasionally demanding that Boromir go hunt and bring back meat. His coat was now scraggly and tufted due his fall down the other side of the canyon, and he seemed oblivious to the carnage around him. Lighting suddenly split the earth before him, a blaze igniting the brush at his feet. Idly he pawed the flames, burning his feet and not noticing.
In a blur of movement he whirled around, having sensed the presence of another behind him. It was Elrond, Gandalf seated on his back, walking forward with a gentle woof. Snarling, Denethor shook his head viciously, the foam breaking off from his face and into the flames, creating a hundred hissing deaths at once.
Again Elrond called reassuringly, and again he received the same response. The black wolf took a final, fatal step…
Screeching in madness, Denethor threw himself into the flaming brush. In only moments his body was consumed, and the smell of burnt flesh pervaded the air. Elrond looked away in resigned silence.
Gunfire continued to rip into the battle. Ironically, more Orcs were falling than before, and some of the beasts actually began a retreat back to the East. But the death toll for the foxes was racking up quickly, and any advance on the Nazgul was only making oneself a target.
But that could be what was necessary.
Swooping low before two of the Nazgul, Gandalf screeched a challenge to them. He flew in great, looping circles, drawing their fire until it was a fixation for them. The bullets came faster and faster, and Gandalf corkscrewed until at last he darted between them.
They fell, each killed by the others' bullet.
It was Eomer and Eowyn, flying across the earth, who sprang up as one and landed on the back of the third Nazgul, Eowyn's teeth sinking into the neck and breaking it easily.
But the last Nazgul was too fast for them all. In five swift strides he evaded the attack of the wolves, and in silence he vanished into the surrounding darkness. And a moment later, he materialized behind Aragorn, who was unaware… Eowyn yelped a warning even as the Nazgul aimed for the King's head…
The shot went wild, blazing into the sky and cutting through low cloud in its' fury. Alerted to the danger, Aragorn whirled and tackled the Nazgul, his powerful paws easily crushing the windpipe of the hunter. Dead.
Dismayed at the loss of their artillery, the Orcs fled for the East.
Smoke was clearing from the battlefield, and the dead were scattered about in many numbers. At once the shrill mourning yips of the Naugrim arose, adding an eerie rhythm to the otherwise silent scene.
It was Galadriel who at last reached Haldir's side. Blood had spread all around him, staining his fair coat an ugly red and the surrounding earth a muddy darker color. She nuzzled his head once, and received no response. Celeborn appeared at her side and whimpered softly. He, too, nudged the beta in hopes of a reaction. This time, however, Haldir opened his pain-filled eyes and gave a soft whine. Alive.
Gimli reached the side of his fallen father, Gloin. Pawing nervously at the old foxes' head, he felt the cold stiffness of death. The sorrowing yips escalated from his throat to join the rest. A surprise occurred then, and Legolas drifted through the smoke and sat nearby in respectful silence.
Aragorn, in the meanwhile, was inspecting the carcass of the Nazgul he was slain. The left knee was torn, mangled by the teeth of some other animal. The shot had gone wide because of a bite to the leg… Instantly the King scoured the ground, looking for his savior and at last finding him.
A little brown body lay still and motionless, thrown backwards by the rebound of the gunshot and the violent kick from the wounded Nazgul. It was Merry, who had followed the Great Pack in his refusal to stay behind, and who now lay cold and unmoving. Whimpering softly, Aragorn nuzzled the small head.
And the curly tail thumped weakly on the ground.
Merry was alive.
Moments too late for the battle, Arwen came trotting over the hill, pausing at the top to sadly view the fallen. Aragorn loped up to her, and in silence the two met, each resting their head on the others' back in an embrace.
Another battle had been won, but at a dear cost.
~ To Be Continued
