Elrond had intended the council of the Ring to reconvene the next morning, but when he stepped out of his quarters into the light of the fresh dawn, he was suddenly surrounded by tumult and uproar. Seanchan were hurrying in all directions, shouting incomprehensible orders at each other; their strange beasts were being hauled after them. Women joined by the silver necklace and leash seemed to be everywhere, moving with quick, taut purpose. He could see some of the delegates standing off to the side watching the upheaval, looking bewildered; Aragorn and Mithrandir were among them.
Carefully, he made his way through the uproar to the human and the Istari. "What is happening?" he asked as he drew near. "We were supposed to continue the council today…."
Aragorn shook his head, looking around him at the commotion. "I do not know," he replied. "The Seanchan were—"
"There you are, Elrond of the Others," Lady Suroth called out, spotting them from across the field. She came through the commotion, untouched, to stand by them and observe the hurrying Seanchan with a look of deep satisfaction.
Elrond turned on her angrily. "What is the meaning of this, High Lady Suroth?" he demanded sharply. "We were supposed to reconvene the Council of the Ring today—"
High Lady Suroth shrugged. "We told you when we came in," she said coolly. "The enemy to the southwest—Isengard?—has been raising an army—a large force of Shadowspawn. How do you call Shadowspawn in these lands? Orcs? We received the final pieces of intelligence from our raken-riders last night; our confirmation that all our forces—our Fists of Heaven-were in position. And so today we will go out and see that particular menace ended." She broke off to shout instructions at one of the riders of the big three-eyed cats.
Elrond glanced at his companions, then turned back angrily to High Lady Suroth. "You have said nothing to me of this assault—"
"I had no opportunity to before now," Suroth responded calmly. "We finalized preparations, including positioning the Fists of Heaven, just last night, and I did not have enough time to track you down and explain the whole thing to you. Now that you are here, however, I can inform you, we are beginning to move out. We will strike Isengard within the hour."
Now Aragorn spoke. "Impossible," he said at once. "You talk nonsense—Isengard is many long days' march from here—"
Suroth faced him calmly. "Not impossible for us. We have a ter'angreal that allows us to cross long distances in an instant. It will take us no more than a second to reach Isengard."
Ter'angreal. There was that word again, and he still did not know what it meant.
Suroth surveyed them all, standing still and silent, looking with wide eyes at the commotion around them. "I will be observing the battle from to'raken-back. You may join me if you wish; the to'raken can hold up to six…."
"Rest assured that we will," Elrond said stiffly, without even needing to glance at his companions.
"Very well. I will inform the der'morat'to'raken that you will be accompanying me." So saying, Suroth turned and strode off without so much as a backward glance.
"Whew," Keille said mildly, stretching in her straps again behind Briande. She shifted, adjusting her bow and arrows at her back. Briande, in front of her, carried no weapons; it was too difficult to attempt to fight and to control the raken at the same time.
The two women sat in a line of over two hundred rakens, drawn up behind a company composed of fully half of the sul'dam/damane pairs that they had brought with them from Seanchan. In front of the damane were a solid block of pikemen—including Keille's sweetheart Ajan Idwalle; she had waved to him as she ran to climb up onto Iraumu's back behind Briande. Off to either side were companies of horsemen and morat'lopar—as a result of not knowing how long this engagement would last, it had been decided not to use the three-eyed, catlike torm, as they would go berserk if they fought too long and then be uncontrollable. And to either side of the horsemen waited to'raken, each laden with ten or so somewhat small riders carrying bows, spears and swords—like the raken-riders, the Fists of Heaven tended to be either women or small men, to allow more of them to fit on the to'rakens.
Iraumu shifted underneath her—he was impatient; Keille could feel the tension in his back and wing muscles. Briande controlled him expertly. Keille was impatient too, impatient to be released and to see some action. "When are we going to start moving?" she complained to Briande.
"Soon," Briande said shortly; she had been tense, and Keille kept seeing her scanning the crowd as if looking for someone—someone Keille felt that she distinctly dreaded seeing. To herself, Keille mused that it might have something to do with that Other Elrond who had called out to her yesterday; she did not speak such musings aloud, though, because she did not want to make Briande upset.
The two tall glass pillars of the Traveling ter'angreal were being maneuvered into place as Briande and Keille watched, with five sul'dam and their damane per pillar. Keille had seen this ter'angreal used before and had some idea of what to expect; bored, she turned to scan the crowd again.
"Oh, hey, Briande, look," she said, pointing across the field as a to'raken caught her eye. "High Lady Suroth will be accompanying us."
Briande turned in her straps to look. "Where?"
"Over there, look, see?" Keille pointed. "Looks like she's got some others with her."
She missed Briande's frown. "Others or 'Others?'"
"Both. Look." Briande turned, and watched Suroth mounting the to'raken, behind the der'morat. Behind Suroth three other tall figures stood, one by one mounting the to'raken after her. One of them turned and looked, seeming to scan the crowd as if looking for something. Keille frowned. "Say, isn't that the Other Elrond?"
She sensed Briande tensing beside her. "Is it?" she asked distantly.
"Yeah, he's looking in this—" She broke off as the Other caught sight of her and Briande. He went still at once—Keille could see this from all the way across the mustering grounds—and stared at them. Keille immediately glanced back at Briande, only to find that she had turned away at once. She gave the distinct impression that she was avoiding looking at the other Other.
The Other Elrond actually started toward them before seeing that Briande's face was averted, Keille saw; he seemed to come to an uncertain halt then, hesitating and irresolute. Then Suroth said something sharply—Keille could catch the tone but not the words—and he jerked away, returning to the to'raken's side and climbing into the saddle. Even as he settled into the to'raken saddle and secured the guard straps, he continued to look their way.
Keille turned and looked at her friend speculatively, but Briande was avoiding her eyes. With a shrug, she turned back to face forward, waiting. Waiting was always the hardest part, she mused to herself; she didn't mind the action so much, though it could get dangerous, but waiting preyed on your mind.
"I'll tell you," she said after a moment as a thought came to her—she had been reminded by the sight of that Other, Elrond. "I spent some time talking to Elrond's daughter last night—Arwen, her name is."
"Is it?" Briande asked with careful distance, keeping her eyes forward; though Keille was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to notice, the Other's body tensed under her leather armor, as if she beheld a lurking danger.
"Yeah, she says it's Arwen-Something—she was given the Something part apparently because everyone thought she was so beautiful or something. Don't get me wrong, she is," Keille added parenthetically, "but I don't know that she's really all that more attractive than, say, your average high class song-woman. Anyway, whoa, has she got problems!"
"Has she?" Briande asked, in that same expressionless tone.
"Yeah," Keille rambled on, cheerfully oblivious. "She thinks she's in love with this human man, and she's all upset—or maybe her father's upset, I wasn't too clear on that—because she's deciding to stay with him or something, so that means she's going to die. Don't ask me how that works; I'm not too sure myself." Keille shook her head. In her mind, she saw Arwen's face, pale and radiant in the moonlight, as she spoke of the man she claimed she loved. Did love, at least in her own mind. Of that, Keille was sure.
That, however, got Briande's attention. She turned sharply to look back at her backrider. "What did you say?" she demanded, her blue eyes suddenly as keen as daggers.
Somewhat surprised at this sudden show of interest, Keille nevertheless shrugged and repeated what she had said before. "I told you. This Arwen-Something, she thinks she's fallen in love with this mortal man, and now her father's upset because if she stays with him, somehow that means she's going to die." As Briande's expression did not change, Keille shrugged. "She claims she's fine with that, can you believe it? She actually claims that she's perfectly fine with dying, as long as she's with the man she thinks she loves." She paused, then scolded humorously, "Honestly, Briande, when are you going to learn to listen to what I have to say?"
Briande made no reply; she was still staring at her backrider. Her gaze had taken on an intensity that Keille found unnerving. "Are you all right, Briande?" she asked, shifting uneasily.
After a long moment, her der'morat spoke. "What did you mean when you said 'the man she thinks she loves?'" she asked at last.
Now Keille grinned. "Oh come on. You know what I mean. Every woman has at least one friend with a knack for bad romances," she said ruefully.
"You think this is a bad romance? Why?"
"Oh come on, Briande, weren't you listening? The girl's obviously not thinking clearly. She claims she doesn't mind at all that she is now certainly going to die as long as she gets to stay with her man?" Keille asked somewhat derisively.
Briande looked pensive now. As Keille watched her blue eyes turn inward, she pondered her friend's surprising interest in this case. "Perhaps she means it when she says he is worth it," she said now, looking at Keille to gauge her reaction. "Perhaps she honestly does think he is worth it."
Keille shrugged. "I'm sure she does mean it, and that's the problem," was her answer.
"You think she's wrong?"
"I know she's wrong," Keille responded serenely, turning to look out over the assembled army as Iraumu shifted underneath her; she wondered with passing interest what was taking so long. Around them other rakens were shifting, or stretching their wings; Keille raised her arms and stretched as well, in her straps.
"Why?" Briande asked, looking at her intently.
The short human woman sighed at the question, and thought back to the moonlight, and Arwen's pale, still, rapt visage; the soft, calm voice in which she had spoken of her coming death. Keille was very familiar with that voice, and that look, as she thought every woman must be; she had seen it before. It had been on the face of her best friend Chulan, one memorable night shortly before she had left the army—she had come into Keille's tent, clearly struggling with a problem, and had proceeded to explain to Keille, although Keille had not asked, how it was all right that her sweetheart wanted her to leave the raken-riders and marry him, really, because he could provide for both of them so she didn't really need to stay in, and anyway, you couldn't be a raken-rider forever, could you? At some point you had to move on with your life. A month later she was gone. Other faces with that look came up to her—her mother, explaining to Keille that her father was under a lot of pressure and they had to understand and forgive, right after he had taken the entire week's earnings out of the cashbox and spent it on girls and wine; her older sister, as she sat next to the latest in a string of loser boyfriends, explaining how he did not have his own healing practice yet, but it was only a matter of time, and that when he did he would be able to afford to pay her back on the loan she had made him, but it was her friend Chulan's face that kept coming back to her. Keille had been witness at her wedding, and Chulan had been glowingly happy, yet as she looked at her friend's radiant, shining expression, Keille had been haunted by the memory of that earlier night. And Keille knew all too well the emotions on the other side of that strained, pale look; she had worn it herself on many occasions. As she had apologized to her previous boyfriend for her suspicion; of course the woman he had been speaking with in the park had been his cousin, and her anger had been misplaced. As she had accepted her third sweetheart's assertion that he had no idea what had happened to her grandmother's priceless firedrop necklace. As she had agreed with her fifth sweetheart that of course he had nothing to do with dreamsmoke; it was not only harmful but dangerous, now that the Empress's Seekers for Truth were watching the trade—that little dalliance had almost cost her her position as Fourth Talon Leader at Alqam Garrison, she remembered wryly.
It was the look of a woman who had so given control of herself to her man that she had nothing left of her own at all.
She remembered something Chulan had said to her, even before that awful night, after her sweetheart had asked her forgiveness for something he had done wrong—"I just can't say no to him," she had said in a soft, awed voice; she had spoken, Keille had thought, as if that thoroughly mediocre specimen of humanity were simply the most handsome and powerful and irresistible man on earth. She remembered that, and thought, That's what Arwen looked like. Chulan. She sighed now, shaking her head, and spoke of this commonality to Briande. "She had that look. You know. That-look."
And she could see, by the change in Briande's face, by the way her eyes darkened and her expression tightened, that Briande did know. And furthermore, though Keille had no idea why, that she was deeply disturbed by it.
"Briande—is something wrong?"
Her friend's mouth tightened. She hesitated, irresolute, then shook her head. "Not now. There's no time. I'll tell you later, I promise."
Keille frowned and would have said more, but at that moment, her words were cut off; movement ran through the ranks as all eyes turned toward Maekel Etari. Arwen was forgotten as the business at hand returned to the forefront of Keille's thoughts. There was no room now in her mind for anything but the battle to come, and she hung in suspense, waiting for the command.
Captain of the Ground Forces Etari shouted a sharp command. "Stand—ready!" As one, the assembled forces fell silent and came to attention. Keille reached behind her automatically to check on her bow and quiver, and she saw Briande shifting in her straps, taking a better grip on her reins. The ten sul'dam and their damane—five on either side of the glass pillars, now fifty paces apart—straightened, turning to face the High Lady, where she sat on to'raken back. Now Suroth rose in her stirrups, looking out over the der'morat'to'raken's shoulders. As she rose so, an expectant hush fell over the assembled forces; in the silence, Keille felt many gazes going to the High Lady.
Suroth paused a moment, regarding this small fragment of the Ever Victorious Army; the expression flickering in her dark eyes was unreadable at this distance. Then she smiled and called into the silence, "Sul'dam and damane!"
Those addressed straightened visibly, the sul'dam in their lightning-forked dresses, the damane in their drab dresses of dark gray.
"Open the Gateway!" she called, her voice resounding.
At once, the ten sul'dam/damane pairs, five on either side, turned to face the pillars. Each sul'dam looked sharply at her damane. Keille, who knew what to expect, stretched again, hearing the other raken-riders shifting around her.
A silver line appeared midway between the two tall poles as she watched, glimmering in the early morning sunshine. Then it seemed to rotate, or swing outward through the area around it, becoming a square doorway, filling the entire gap between the poles, which looked out onto a different landscape, one of a long valley between two low lines of hills. A mass of rude, uncouth-looking tents were in the distance, and as they watched, the tents suddenly began to boil with activity. In the distance, dreaming at the other end of the low gap, stood a high, square black tower, looming over the area. Isengard, Keille guessed. Keille spared a moment to glance back at High Lady Suroth, and saw that the Others behind her were staring at the poles, transfixed. Keille shrugged to herself. Perhaps they don't have Traveling ter'angreal, she mused, then forgot it as the horsemen and morat'lopar passed swiftly through the Gateway, forming a line of protection for the slower-moving pikemen and sul'dam to pass through—ordinarily the damane could very well protect themselves, but High Lady Suroth had sent the pikemen in case the Shadowspawn had something that could work against channelers; not knowing what the capabilities of these Shadowspawn were, Suroth had decided better to be safe than sorry. The to'raken were lumbering into motion now, running the necessary few steps for the heavily laden beasts to lift from the ground and take to the air, winging through the gate; Keille grabbed for her straps as she felt her raken shift under her, then leap into the air at Briande's direction, gaining altitude and height. The other rakens formed up behind, and their formation arrowed steadily forward into the Gateway. Keille could not repress a grin. It was beginning.
The to'raken were first through that unearthly doorway, Elrond saw; so clumsy and crude on the ground, yet graceful in the air, the to'raken arrowed through the gateway, then smoothly spread out, winging far and fast along the hilltops and passing out of even his sight into the distance; he could see along the hilltops individual shapes beginning to stand up now, to rise out of the grass, and guessed intuitively that those shapes must be the—the—Fists of Heaven—that High Lady Suroth had been talking about, that had been in position as of last night. The to'rakens were dropping to the hilltops, adding additional forces to those on the ground, even as he watched. The rakens remained in close, circling above the battlefield like great vultures, waiting their chance.
Thoroughly unnerved by the opening of that unsettling—whatever-it-was—Elrond almost missed the moment when Suroth's to'raken lurched into movement, lumbering the few steps needed for flight, then launching itself into the air. He had ridden Eagles before, so was not unaccustomed with flight; still, the jolt was unnerving. Even more unnerving was that—strange—portal. He had seen nothing like it in his life before, and upon its being opened, had instinctively glanced back to check Mithrandir's reaction. Mithrandir's reaction had not reassured him; if anything the Grey Pilgrim looked even more stunned than he was. The arts these Seanchan have—
The thought broke off as Suroth's to'raken dipped through the gate. The wrenching sense of disorientation that struck him ended all thought for a time, and when he regained his bearings, shaken and dismayed, he could not remember what he had been thinking before. High Lady Suroth seemed to notice nothing about the transition. She was leaning forward past the der'morat's shoulder—Amelya Restarik—and was pointing at the ground far below them. "Look at that," she said, clicking her tongue as the pikemen marched through. "Too slow, too slow…."
"The Shadowspawn will be formed up in moments," Amelya replied to her, looking back at Suroth and gesturing downward also; the Orcs, boiling out of their tents, were rushing to assemble in blocks even as the Seanchan spoke. Harsh, barking shouts drifted up to where Suroth and the others circled lazily on the winds above the encampment; Elrond could hear the panic and fear even through the rough Orcish tongue. The Seanchan did not seem to notice.
"All the better, if the sul'dam get through quickly enough. If," Suroth repeated, snorting at the ground. "Ah, here they go…." As she spoke, the chained women began passing through. Suroth looked up from the ground, squinting into the distance. "Are the to'raken in position yet?"
"Looks like the first set are; the others are too far off for me to see," Amelya repeated. The to'raken's wings canted slightly as Amelya drew it around into a circle, hovering on the air currents high above the ground, crossing paths with rakens also circling the gyre. One of those rakens carried his wife, Elrond knew, and he looked for her as they passed the rakens in turn, but could not discern her. Perhaps she was avoiding his gaze.
Suroth seemed pleased. "Excellent," she said warmly, indicating the last of the chained women passing through below. "And the Shadowspawn are forming up right on time." She glanced back at Elrond and the others behind her. "Now, Others of Middle-Earth, you will see how Seanchan fight their battles." She looked forward again, with a small, utterly confident smile.
As she spoke, the Orcs had assembled in formation. A devilish howling went up from their lines, and they threw themselves into a charge, thundering closer and closer to the lines of pikemen. Elrond felt himself tense just watching it. The Orcs were drawing nearer—
A call went up, from the assembled chained women—he recognized it as the voice of the Der'Sul'dam Eilei Katrell: "First-rank sul'dam! Shield of Air!" In response, the entire first rank of the double-ranked lines of chained women moved forward. The women wearing the bracelet as one turned and scowled or spoke at the women in collars-
And the Orcs smashed into an invisible barrier fifty feet from the line of pikemen.
At least, that was how it seemed to Elrond, watching from to'raken-back. The air suddenly shimmered in a line fifty feet in front of the pikemen, and the advancing Orc line struck that solid line with a crash. The Orcs in front began to push and struggle, but the press of the Orcs in back of them smashed them up against the wall and did not let them move; they could not advance, and within moments, their lines were in confusion. Elrond swallowed, and turned to glance back at Mithrandir and Aragorn; neither of them looked any more easy than Elrond felt. What had the Seanchan done—
"Ah," Suroth smiled, looking down. "It seems they did not have channelers after all. Perhaps the pikemen were unnecessary. That is good, though; it makes things easier."
Then the cry went up again from the Der'Sul'dam Katrell: "Second-rank sul'dam! Blades of Air!"
And it began.
Elrond knew battle. He had seen it before, three thousand years ago, during the first War of the Ring; he knew what it was to stand on the line, to see the hordes of evil rushing down on him, to fear for his long life, to see friends fall screaming in agony, to kill and kill again, even to take joy in it, in setting his strength against the foe, and knowing that he—not his enemy—would live to see another day. He knew battle. He knew it. It held no strangeness for him. It could frighten him, yes; horrify him, never.
This—what the Seanchan did—was not battle. It was slaughter.
There was no other word for it. Slaughter.
The first rank of sul'dam split apart and stepped back, allowing the second rank of chained women to come through. The Orcs were still trapped up against the invisible barrier protecting the pikemen and the chained women behind them; they had not yet gotten their feet under them and were still struggling to find their bearings. The chained women of the second rank stepped up and forward; each forked-lightning woman turned and spoke to her dark-dressed, collared woman. The collared women as one stepped forward, each frowning sharply—
And the Orcs fell apart.
Elrond could not think of a way to describe it better than that. He had never seen anything like it before in his life, and had no way to conceptualize it—could barely even understand it. What happened then was something so completely outside his frame of reference that he could scarcely even think about it coherently. The Orcs—fell—apart. It was—his mind groped, searching desperately for some way to comprehend what he was seeing—it was as if someone had taken two enormous knives, each as long as the entire row of Orcish lines, and sliced at the Orcs with them—one at chest level, one at knee level. Those in the front rank fell in three pieces to the earth below, which instantly turned dark with foul, Orcish blood. He could only stare in horror—they had not been able to make a defense—they could not even reach the Seanchan forces—
Those in the second rank had not realized what had happened, it had been so quick; they continued to advance and ran right into those still-advancing invisible blades, to fall also in pieces on the earth. Then the third rank, which was trying to turn by this time, but not fast enough; they also were struck by the blades. All this time, the chained women made no sound, gave no sign; the lightning-clad women merely stared at the dark-clad ones, the dark-clad ones stared grimly out into the field. The rest of the Seanchan looked on in silence, regarding the carnage, or looking at the chained, unmoving women. Somehow that unearthly silence and immobility made this all the more frightening. It looked as if the Orcish lines were falling apart simply because the Seanchan willed it, and the face of that implacable will Elrond found terrifying.
"Excellent. Excellent," he heard Suroth say warmly in front of him, regarding the carnage below. "This may be even easier than we thought."
By this time what was going on was beginning to penetrate through to the Orcs; the fourth rank fought its way around in place and began to struggle, to try to force its way through the rank behind it. Terrified, panicked screaming drifted up to them as the fourth rank attempted to escape the silent fate that was coming for it. Their struggles did them no good at all, however; the silent, invisible blades cut into those in the fourth rank and dropped them in bleeding chunks upon the ground. The entire formation had disintegrated by now as the panic of those in the forward ranks communicated itself to those in the back. Nobody could stand up to this, no matter how brave. The Orcs could not even fight back. They could not reach the Seanchan forces behind the solid, invisible barrier somehow else created by the chained women, and when they tried, they were cut down by the deadly blades. As he watched, a line of twelve archers formed out of the swirling, struggling maelstrom of Orcs desperate to escape below; formed and launched arrows hissing at the Seanchan. The arrows struck the barrier and fell, harmless, to the ground; one moment later, the Orcish archers too collapsed in bloody chunks to the earth. Watching—unable to look away—Elrond was seized by a horrible, horrible pity for them, the likes of which he had never thought to feel for any of these terrible twisted creatures. Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he clutched at Suroth's shoulder. "Stop," he pleaded, barely able to make himself heard through the chaos and bedlam below, only half aware that he even spoke. "Stop, please—don't—"
She did not hear him. She shook his grip off as if it were nothing, inconsequential, a fly or other insect that had landed on her, perhaps. "Look at that," she said, apparently to Amelya. "It looks like they've figured it out."
Below, the Orcish lines had utterly broken in the face of that implacable doom. They were running wildly below, in panic, back to the assumed safety of the tents perhaps, grinding earth and blood and flesh below them into a terrible mixture of foul, ruined mud. The blades swooped after them, catching a stray Orc here or there, but not the numbers of before.
Suroth sat back in her saddle. When she spoke, her voice seemed deeply satisfied. "They're panicking. This is good. Now we wish to keep them from catching their heads long enough to realize that they might be able to do something about this. Amelya, can you see? Are the Fists of Heaven in position along the hilltops?"
" As far as I can see, yes, High Lady," Amelya responded calmly.
"Good." She glanced back at Elrond and the others. "It is only necessary that they keep the Orcs from escaping," she explained to them, somehow not seeing their expressions of horror. "We want to trap them between our damane hammer and the anvil that is this Isengard—though it will not be for long, not once our damane have their way with it…." Suroth trailed off and put two fingers to her lips, giving a piercing whistle that rang out over the battlefield below, cutting through all the bedlam and chaos. At once, her Seanchan turned to look at her, both those on the ground and those on the rakens in the air. Suroth held her hands above her head and gestured sharply.
At once the circling rakens separated and peeled off, clearing the air above the encampment. Below, Eilei Katrell called again, "Second-rank sul'dam! At will!" Elrond almost covered his face with his hands, unwilling to see more such terrible destruction, but in the end found that he could not look away.
The second-rank sul'dam now, with a terrible certainty, followed the orders of Eilei Katrell. The lightning-forked women turned to their collared servants as one, spoke to them sharply—
And bolts of silver-blue lightning began to streak down from a clear-blue sky.
They fell on the camp, striking with the regularity of a drumbeat or a beating heart, scything down upon tents and supplies and Orcs and wagons and horses. Again and again they struck earthward as thunder rent the air, shredded it; the lightning struck crashing to the ground, throwing up soil and dirt and refuse where they struck, starting blazing fires that sprang up quickly amid the foul encampment.
If the Orcs had been terrified before, this drove them right out of their minds. A single howl of mad fear rose to meet the watchers' ears, as if the entire camp of Orcs had cried out at once with one voice a terror so deep that it needed no words. Below, first by ones and twos, then in dozens, the Orcs began to turn and run, all semblance of order lost; some cast their weapons away, while others sobbed in terror as they ran, in straight, all-out flight back to the safety of Isengard, hazy at the other end of the low rift. As they went, the lightning bolts continued their steady, metronomic march up the low valley, the thunderous crashes of their downward strikes coming at intervals so close that it seemed like a pulse. At his back, Elrond could feel Mithrandir's horror, Aragorn's shock; they matched his own at the brutality of the slaughter below them.
The Seanchan did not notice.
"Soon they'll be out of range," Amelya commented only.
Suroth sighed in exasperation. "Too slow," she said again, shaking her head, as below the Der'Sul'dam shouted. Her commands drifted up to them, carried on the wind.
"First-rank damane! Lower the Shield! Pass the pikemen forward, and advance!"
In the air, one of the circling rakens suddenly stroked up and above the plane in which the rest of them flew. Elrond's eyes were drawn, despite his horror, to the two forms that sat aboard the raken—in particular, to the unusually tall form of the front rider. In a voice so familiar that it tore his heart, that rider straightened in her straps, and shouted, "Morat'raken! Pursue and harry! Pursue and harry!"
The rakens pivoted around their wingtips and broke like a flock of deadly birds, chasing the stampeding orcs; now arrows began to lance earthward, from the back-riders on the rakens, and from the heights, where even now the last of the to'raken were offloading their Fists of Heaven. The cavalry were pouring forward now, the cavalry and the lopar, closing in on the rear of the thoroughly routed orcs as the raken struck their center and sides. The lightning bolts at least had ceased striking the earth, though Elrond scarcely noticed; the death pouring down on the Orcs from the skies and the heights, advancing from behind, was more than enough to keep them terrified.
Below, on the ground, the chained women were advancing, slowly but inexorably, over the ruined ground in the direction of the fleeing Orcs.
Suroth clicked her tongue again. "Too slow," she repeated in frustration, watching the panicked chaos below. There was something horrific in the detached, dispassionate way that she spoke. "The Empress has done experiments," she said now, turning back again to those behind her "—mounting sul'dam/damane pairs on horses or to'raken—but so far it interferes with their cohesion and ability to work together in great numbers. The units in training were nowhere near ready to go with us when we first took ship for Middle-Earth."
"Is that so?" That was Mithrandir, speaking faintly; Elrond only needed to look back to see that Mithrandir was as horrified as he was. Aragorn said nothing, simply staring at the awful ground with an expression that might have been carved from stone.
"Have no fear, though," Amelya said now, looking around from the front of the to'raken. "The Fists of Heaven and the raken-riders will keep them headed in the right direction, and the cavalry will bottle them up until the sul'dam can reach them."
Elrond must have said something in reply—he knew not what—but he could not take his eyes off the scurrying Orcs below, the raken-riders raining death on them from the skies, the Fists of Heaven in place along the ridgetops….
"Supreme Der'Morat Restarik. Let us pursue," Suroth suggested.
"As the High Lady commands," Amelya responded, and guided her to'raken after the others.
