CHAPTER 2
DARK CLOUDS
A/N: I am going largely by the movie version here. I do know that events took place differently in the book.
It was 2 whole days that Folcwine had ridden to Dunharrow in the mountains. When he arrived, it seemed like organized chaos. Everyone there knew that this place was but a temporary halt, until all the host of the Riddermark arrived, then they would ride to Gondor.
It had been reported that only the King and his men from Edoras were the only people who needed to arrive, now and then he saw it. The King of Rohan atop his mighty steed, leading a column of at least 1,000s from Edoras to here. Folcwine thrust his throwing axe into the air and cried, "The Westfold for Theoden King! The Westfold for Theoden King!" Theoden raised his hand in gesture that he had indeed acknowledged the presence of the men of the Westfold, but when Grimbold informed him there were only 500 men present, Theoden seemed downcast.
Folcwine spent the afternoon, making sure his horse was fully fit and ready for the long ride. He then made sure that he had his spear, throwing axe, and sword at his side, so he could reach for them at a second's notice.
He had a fitful rest that night and a frightful dream. He saw Minas Tirith in flames, his countrymen being massacred, Theoden King falling to the ground, and the Banner of the White Horse trodden into the Earth. He then saw his home being burned, Freawine and Deor being brutally murdered, and his wife throwing herself from a precipice.
He awoke only to find it morning. He then heard a voice. "Ride now! Ride now to Gondor!" The moment of doom had come, but Folcwine had come too far to abandon his countrymen now. He swiftly donned his mail shirt and helm, then grabbed his sword and put that on, with his sword and throwing axe attached, he slung his shield over his back, grabbed his spear, jumped on his horse, and joined the men of Grimbold in his eored. The great ride into the East had begun.
Belecthor was incensed. It was bad enough that his men had been routed out of Osgiliath and lost half of their strength, but now Faramir was organizing two hundred men for a suicidal counterattack to Osgiliath.
His son, Ondoher was missing and there was small hope that he would be found. Aratan had miraculously survived, thanks to the speed of his horse, but in the vast city of Minas Tirith, he was nowhere to be seen. However, he did find the man at the centre of this controversy. "Faramir!" he called, striding over to him, "Faramir! This is madness. You cannot do this."
"Then what am I to do, Belecthor? Languish in the White Tower, while one of our chief cities is in the hands of orcish scum?"
"No! But Faramir, if you are to go, let my men go too. Or better yet, ride out with my men and the Knights of Dol Amroth. Even the Rohirrim may yet come. Can you see it, Faramir? The Riders of the Mark and Gondor will cleave our way into Osgiliath and Faramir will earn the praise of your father that you have so long craved. We will stand side-by-side and reclaim the city of Osgiliath for Gondor as your brother did so long ago!" Faramir looked unimpressed. "And how long are we to wait, Belecthor, for the horse-lords? Imrahil is occupied elsewhere and Osgiliath must be retaken as soon as possible." "Then let myself and my men go with you. Please, Faramir, your men are strong, but the enemy we encountered in Osgiliath is numerous, tens of thousands."
Faramir was horrified. "No! Belecthor, do not ride with me. I would not have you sacrifice your life in an attempt to save mine. My life is worth nothing, Belecthor! Nothing! I was second son in life! I shall be second son in death!"
It was Belecthor's turn to be horrified. "You're doing this for your father, aren't you?"
"It is for Gondor, Belecthor and the good of-"
"Come! Come, Faramir, we've known each other long enough to spout the good of Gondor rhetoric. Our friendship goes back too far."
"I appear not to be the only one with alternate motives, Captain of Gondor. Your son, Aratan is in my company, no?"
"Yes, Faramir, but it is not for him only, but for you also. Do you not know that this foolishness?" "Foolishness it may seem, but when you see me stand victorious on the Eastern side of Osgiliath, you might think better of it." His words were confident, but his face ashen. He put on his helm, mounted his horse, reached down, and grabbed Belecthor's arm. "Remember, Belecthor, today life is good. We shall meet again in Osgiliath." "In Osgiliath," said Belecthor. Faramir turned and rode towards his waiting men. Belecthor went down to the first level of the city to wait for Faramir's men. And there they came. In all the panoply and splendour of the Tower of Guard they came, yet no one expected them to return alive. Belecthor could hardly hold back the tears. He ran his hand through his thick beard and watched as the gate opened and Faramir rode out. He looked up and caught Aratan's eye. He wanted more than anything to rush over and plead with his son not to do this, but he knew to do so would mean the shame and public disgrace of his son. As he rode beside him, Aratan leaned down to his father and said, "Ondoher will return with me." Then he rode away. When the last man rode out of the city and the gate was shut, Belecthor rushed to the uppermost wall of the first level of the City to see the charge's outcome. He watched as Faramir's men rode forward at a gallop, and then he could only bow his head and put it in his hands as he saw the men fall and then the fell riders of Mordor tear the remainder of Faramir's men to shreds and they were gone.
Belecthor wrenched off his helmet and threw it to the ground, his shoulder length black hair flowing freely. He turned away and pounded the wall of the city in sheer emotional anguish. He then saw his men watching him. He put on his helmet and said, "Line up against the wall. Watch for any survivors."
To his astonishment the gate opened and a lone horse came riding in. The gate closed swiftly as it had opened. He then turned back to his own position to survey the Pelennor Fields and it was then that he saw it. It was almost beautiful in a horrendous, terrifying manner. Company upon company of Easterlings, Haradrim, and, Orcs, Mumakil, and Trolls all in rank upon rank as far as the eye could see. Belecthor heard a voice from the top of the city. It was the Steward. "Yes!" he thought, "The Lord Denethor will rally us in our hour of need!" But when he listened to the Steward, he heard the words, "Abandon your posts! Flee in fear of you lives!" He rushed along his lines, barking at his men that he would kill the first man to pull back from the sacred walls of the city of Gondor. Belecthor looked up once more and saw Mithrandir attacking the Steward of Gondor with his staff! He was relieved but incensed that anyone, let alone this wanderer should strike down the Steward, but now there were more pressing things to worry about. He saw the Grey Pilgrim lead back several companies of men who had retreated. The Orcs struck first, sending a rock hewn from the stones of Osgiliath breaking into the ranks of the company beside Belecthor's. Belecthor then drew his sword and screamed at the top of his lungs, "Soldiers of Gondor, remember Osgiliath! Fire!" and with that the finest archers of Ithilien unleashed a torrent of arrows into the orcish ranks. Mithrandir then ordered the trebuchets fired, sending many rocks into the files of Orcs. Captain Amlaith next to him then ordered a volley of arrows into the orc ranks. It was then that Belecthor suffered the cruellest blow of the war. Nothing could have prepared him for the horror that awaited him as the Orcs flung in not rocks or stones, but human heads. To his utter horror he recognized two of the heads as his own sons. Aratan's severed head landed on his shield; Ondoher's by his feet. He was speechless. He could not say a word. All of the days, hours, months, and years flooded into his mind once more. Tears welled in his eyes, but then anger and an overpowering desire for Orcish blood on his sword possessed him and he cried aloud to his men, "This what they will do, should they enter this city! Give them our answer to this bloodshed! Fire!"
They rained down more arrows into the orcs of Morgul, but they would not stop advancing, and all of a sudden, the Riders of the Air swooped down upon the city and let loose a shrill wail. Belecthor felt a cold chill run through his veins instead of blood. His knees trembled and his throat wanted to scream, but he could emit no sound. He was about to collapse to the ground, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a soft voice: "Take courage, Captain of Gondor. Stand, lead your men, and fear no darkness."
He turned and saw the Grey Pilgrim with a stern hard look in his eye. He felt the blood run new in his veins. He turned to his men, who were writhing and rolling on the ground. He grabbed one and pulled him to his feet. "Hold your line, men! Remember who you are! Together we can hold this city for the glory of Gondor!"
Slowly, but surely the men of Emyn Arnen rallied. In five minutes they were on their feet and back to their posts. Belecthor looked out over the Fields of Pelennor and beheld siege towers made in Osgiliath advancing upon the White City. They rammed the walls of Minas Tirith and those inside it threw down the ramps.
Like a cat, he rushed upon the ramp, with sword drawn with two valiant men behind him. He hacked down Orc upon Orc, determined never to let one of these foul monsters into his city, but the Orcs simply overwhelmed him. His two men pulled him off the ramp. "Hold your positions!" Belecthor cried. "Minas Tirith will never become Osgiliath! Show them the cold hardness of Gondorian swords!" He drew his dagger and thrust it into the skull of an Orc. His men were on the verge of being overwhelmed, but still they fought and would not yield.
Belecthor looked to his right and saw Amlaith's company being cut down mercilessly and saw Amlaith himself fall dead in the city he loved. To his left, Mithrandir was drawing off all available strength to the gate. The 4th Company of Emyn Arnen was now surrounded.
He now had three options to choose from. Should he hack his way through to the Great Gate? Should he pull back to the Second Level, or should he hold his ground, which would mean sure annihilation to his men and himself? He made a decision: Hack his way to the Great Gate and join Mithrandir. He called to Amlaith's 44 remaining men and hacked his way through the press to the gate.
The Orcs of the siege towers were few, for now the enemy was concentrating all his strength for the Great Gate and were easily destroyed. Belecthor had at his command these: 100 swordsmen, 50 archers, and 50 spearmen and it were his company that was positioned directly in front of the Gate. He heard the fierce Uruks chanting "Grond! Grond!" and wandered what it could possibly mean.
He got the meaning soon enough, for then, after three fierce strokes, Grond broke through the Gate and five massive trolls lumbered in. "Charge!" cried the Captain of Gondor and his swordsmen were among them with Mithrandir and his men, hacking and thrusting, but the trolls, driven by a madness of fear and rage were equally brutal and many of the 4th Company met their end here.
Belecthor himself had personally slain one of the beasts of Sauron. He had been felled by one then grabbed a spear from his fallen men and thrust it into the troll's blackened heart, but even as the trolls were finally destroyed, Orcs, by the hundreds of thousands poured in en masse, overwhelming the 4th company.
After an hour of this, Gandalf cried for the retreat. Belecthor ran over to the Istari and proposed a bold plan. "Mithrandir! Mithrandir! Lead the shattered remnants of the 1st, 2nd, 5th, and 6th companies to the 2nd level. I and my men shall cover your retreat."
"No!" cried Gandalf. "We cannot lose you as well as Faramir and Boromir. There too few captains here, Belecthor, too few. You must pull back with us."
Belecthor reluctantly agreed. "Pull back to the 2nd level! Pull back! The 1st level is breached! Pull back! Pull back!" It was a madness of chaos as each man became his own captain and fled madly back to the next level of the city. However, Belecthor decided to recant his earlier decision. He desperately tried to rally his men, but the men of Ithilien were rushing with all speed back to the second level, but then he espied a fallen banner of the White Tree. He lunged for it and grabbed it. "Sons of Gondor!" he cried, "You have let many things burn, but will you let this burn?" he cried and thrust the banner into the air. First one man, then a second man turned and stood side by their captain. Before Belecthor knew it, there were 300 men, including 150 of his old Ithilien Company standing with him.
He then led a charge, hacking through the press until the shattered gate was in their possession once more. They were almost engulfed by Uruks of Mordor, but there they stood and there they held, blocking the Gate with their own bodies. Belecthor was fiercest in the fight. A red fire gleamed in his eyes, so it was said in after days and even when an Orc sword gashed his arm that only served to enrage him further. He pushed him against a wall and decapitated him always clutching the Banner of the Tree in one hand and his sword in the other, dealing out death with grisly efficiency and precision.
However it was at a price, out of the 300 men at the gate, already, 1/3 had met their end there and the 200 that remained would soon be overwhelmed. Belecthor then heard a sound that warmed his heart ever after: horns. The horns of the Riddermark! The Riders of Rohan had come!
DARK CLOUDS
A/N: I am going largely by the movie version here. I do know that events took place differently in the book.
It was 2 whole days that Folcwine had ridden to Dunharrow in the mountains. When he arrived, it seemed like organized chaos. Everyone there knew that this place was but a temporary halt, until all the host of the Riddermark arrived, then they would ride to Gondor.
It had been reported that only the King and his men from Edoras were the only people who needed to arrive, now and then he saw it. The King of Rohan atop his mighty steed, leading a column of at least 1,000s from Edoras to here. Folcwine thrust his throwing axe into the air and cried, "The Westfold for Theoden King! The Westfold for Theoden King!" Theoden raised his hand in gesture that he had indeed acknowledged the presence of the men of the Westfold, but when Grimbold informed him there were only 500 men present, Theoden seemed downcast.
Folcwine spent the afternoon, making sure his horse was fully fit and ready for the long ride. He then made sure that he had his spear, throwing axe, and sword at his side, so he could reach for them at a second's notice.
He had a fitful rest that night and a frightful dream. He saw Minas Tirith in flames, his countrymen being massacred, Theoden King falling to the ground, and the Banner of the White Horse trodden into the Earth. He then saw his home being burned, Freawine and Deor being brutally murdered, and his wife throwing herself from a precipice.
He awoke only to find it morning. He then heard a voice. "Ride now! Ride now to Gondor!" The moment of doom had come, but Folcwine had come too far to abandon his countrymen now. He swiftly donned his mail shirt and helm, then grabbed his sword and put that on, with his sword and throwing axe attached, he slung his shield over his back, grabbed his spear, jumped on his horse, and joined the men of Grimbold in his eored. The great ride into the East had begun.
Belecthor was incensed. It was bad enough that his men had been routed out of Osgiliath and lost half of their strength, but now Faramir was organizing two hundred men for a suicidal counterattack to Osgiliath.
His son, Ondoher was missing and there was small hope that he would be found. Aratan had miraculously survived, thanks to the speed of his horse, but in the vast city of Minas Tirith, he was nowhere to be seen. However, he did find the man at the centre of this controversy. "Faramir!" he called, striding over to him, "Faramir! This is madness. You cannot do this."
"Then what am I to do, Belecthor? Languish in the White Tower, while one of our chief cities is in the hands of orcish scum?"
"No! But Faramir, if you are to go, let my men go too. Or better yet, ride out with my men and the Knights of Dol Amroth. Even the Rohirrim may yet come. Can you see it, Faramir? The Riders of the Mark and Gondor will cleave our way into Osgiliath and Faramir will earn the praise of your father that you have so long craved. We will stand side-by-side and reclaim the city of Osgiliath for Gondor as your brother did so long ago!" Faramir looked unimpressed. "And how long are we to wait, Belecthor, for the horse-lords? Imrahil is occupied elsewhere and Osgiliath must be retaken as soon as possible." "Then let myself and my men go with you. Please, Faramir, your men are strong, but the enemy we encountered in Osgiliath is numerous, tens of thousands."
Faramir was horrified. "No! Belecthor, do not ride with me. I would not have you sacrifice your life in an attempt to save mine. My life is worth nothing, Belecthor! Nothing! I was second son in life! I shall be second son in death!"
It was Belecthor's turn to be horrified. "You're doing this for your father, aren't you?"
"It is for Gondor, Belecthor and the good of-"
"Come! Come, Faramir, we've known each other long enough to spout the good of Gondor rhetoric. Our friendship goes back too far."
"I appear not to be the only one with alternate motives, Captain of Gondor. Your son, Aratan is in my company, no?"
"Yes, Faramir, but it is not for him only, but for you also. Do you not know that this foolishness?" "Foolishness it may seem, but when you see me stand victorious on the Eastern side of Osgiliath, you might think better of it." His words were confident, but his face ashen. He put on his helm, mounted his horse, reached down, and grabbed Belecthor's arm. "Remember, Belecthor, today life is good. We shall meet again in Osgiliath." "In Osgiliath," said Belecthor. Faramir turned and rode towards his waiting men. Belecthor went down to the first level of the city to wait for Faramir's men. And there they came. In all the panoply and splendour of the Tower of Guard they came, yet no one expected them to return alive. Belecthor could hardly hold back the tears. He ran his hand through his thick beard and watched as the gate opened and Faramir rode out. He looked up and caught Aratan's eye. He wanted more than anything to rush over and plead with his son not to do this, but he knew to do so would mean the shame and public disgrace of his son. As he rode beside him, Aratan leaned down to his father and said, "Ondoher will return with me." Then he rode away. When the last man rode out of the city and the gate was shut, Belecthor rushed to the uppermost wall of the first level of the City to see the charge's outcome. He watched as Faramir's men rode forward at a gallop, and then he could only bow his head and put it in his hands as he saw the men fall and then the fell riders of Mordor tear the remainder of Faramir's men to shreds and they were gone.
Belecthor wrenched off his helmet and threw it to the ground, his shoulder length black hair flowing freely. He turned away and pounded the wall of the city in sheer emotional anguish. He then saw his men watching him. He put on his helmet and said, "Line up against the wall. Watch for any survivors."
To his astonishment the gate opened and a lone horse came riding in. The gate closed swiftly as it had opened. He then turned back to his own position to survey the Pelennor Fields and it was then that he saw it. It was almost beautiful in a horrendous, terrifying manner. Company upon company of Easterlings, Haradrim, and, Orcs, Mumakil, and Trolls all in rank upon rank as far as the eye could see. Belecthor heard a voice from the top of the city. It was the Steward. "Yes!" he thought, "The Lord Denethor will rally us in our hour of need!" But when he listened to the Steward, he heard the words, "Abandon your posts! Flee in fear of you lives!" He rushed along his lines, barking at his men that he would kill the first man to pull back from the sacred walls of the city of Gondor. Belecthor looked up once more and saw Mithrandir attacking the Steward of Gondor with his staff! He was relieved but incensed that anyone, let alone this wanderer should strike down the Steward, but now there were more pressing things to worry about. He saw the Grey Pilgrim lead back several companies of men who had retreated. The Orcs struck first, sending a rock hewn from the stones of Osgiliath breaking into the ranks of the company beside Belecthor's. Belecthor then drew his sword and screamed at the top of his lungs, "Soldiers of Gondor, remember Osgiliath! Fire!" and with that the finest archers of Ithilien unleashed a torrent of arrows into the orcish ranks. Mithrandir then ordered the trebuchets fired, sending many rocks into the files of Orcs. Captain Amlaith next to him then ordered a volley of arrows into the orc ranks. It was then that Belecthor suffered the cruellest blow of the war. Nothing could have prepared him for the horror that awaited him as the Orcs flung in not rocks or stones, but human heads. To his utter horror he recognized two of the heads as his own sons. Aratan's severed head landed on his shield; Ondoher's by his feet. He was speechless. He could not say a word. All of the days, hours, months, and years flooded into his mind once more. Tears welled in his eyes, but then anger and an overpowering desire for Orcish blood on his sword possessed him and he cried aloud to his men, "This what they will do, should they enter this city! Give them our answer to this bloodshed! Fire!"
They rained down more arrows into the orcs of Morgul, but they would not stop advancing, and all of a sudden, the Riders of the Air swooped down upon the city and let loose a shrill wail. Belecthor felt a cold chill run through his veins instead of blood. His knees trembled and his throat wanted to scream, but he could emit no sound. He was about to collapse to the ground, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a soft voice: "Take courage, Captain of Gondor. Stand, lead your men, and fear no darkness."
He turned and saw the Grey Pilgrim with a stern hard look in his eye. He felt the blood run new in his veins. He turned to his men, who were writhing and rolling on the ground. He grabbed one and pulled him to his feet. "Hold your line, men! Remember who you are! Together we can hold this city for the glory of Gondor!"
Slowly, but surely the men of Emyn Arnen rallied. In five minutes they were on their feet and back to their posts. Belecthor looked out over the Fields of Pelennor and beheld siege towers made in Osgiliath advancing upon the White City. They rammed the walls of Minas Tirith and those inside it threw down the ramps.
Like a cat, he rushed upon the ramp, with sword drawn with two valiant men behind him. He hacked down Orc upon Orc, determined never to let one of these foul monsters into his city, but the Orcs simply overwhelmed him. His two men pulled him off the ramp. "Hold your positions!" Belecthor cried. "Minas Tirith will never become Osgiliath! Show them the cold hardness of Gondorian swords!" He drew his dagger and thrust it into the skull of an Orc. His men were on the verge of being overwhelmed, but still they fought and would not yield.
Belecthor looked to his right and saw Amlaith's company being cut down mercilessly and saw Amlaith himself fall dead in the city he loved. To his left, Mithrandir was drawing off all available strength to the gate. The 4th Company of Emyn Arnen was now surrounded.
He now had three options to choose from. Should he hack his way through to the Great Gate? Should he pull back to the Second Level, or should he hold his ground, which would mean sure annihilation to his men and himself? He made a decision: Hack his way to the Great Gate and join Mithrandir. He called to Amlaith's 44 remaining men and hacked his way through the press to the gate.
The Orcs of the siege towers were few, for now the enemy was concentrating all his strength for the Great Gate and were easily destroyed. Belecthor had at his command these: 100 swordsmen, 50 archers, and 50 spearmen and it were his company that was positioned directly in front of the Gate. He heard the fierce Uruks chanting "Grond! Grond!" and wandered what it could possibly mean.
He got the meaning soon enough, for then, after three fierce strokes, Grond broke through the Gate and five massive trolls lumbered in. "Charge!" cried the Captain of Gondor and his swordsmen were among them with Mithrandir and his men, hacking and thrusting, but the trolls, driven by a madness of fear and rage were equally brutal and many of the 4th Company met their end here.
Belecthor himself had personally slain one of the beasts of Sauron. He had been felled by one then grabbed a spear from his fallen men and thrust it into the troll's blackened heart, but even as the trolls were finally destroyed, Orcs, by the hundreds of thousands poured in en masse, overwhelming the 4th company.
After an hour of this, Gandalf cried for the retreat. Belecthor ran over to the Istari and proposed a bold plan. "Mithrandir! Mithrandir! Lead the shattered remnants of the 1st, 2nd, 5th, and 6th companies to the 2nd level. I and my men shall cover your retreat."
"No!" cried Gandalf. "We cannot lose you as well as Faramir and Boromir. There too few captains here, Belecthor, too few. You must pull back with us."
Belecthor reluctantly agreed. "Pull back to the 2nd level! Pull back! The 1st level is breached! Pull back! Pull back!" It was a madness of chaos as each man became his own captain and fled madly back to the next level of the city. However, Belecthor decided to recant his earlier decision. He desperately tried to rally his men, but the men of Ithilien were rushing with all speed back to the second level, but then he espied a fallen banner of the White Tree. He lunged for it and grabbed it. "Sons of Gondor!" he cried, "You have let many things burn, but will you let this burn?" he cried and thrust the banner into the air. First one man, then a second man turned and stood side by their captain. Before Belecthor knew it, there were 300 men, including 150 of his old Ithilien Company standing with him.
He then led a charge, hacking through the press until the shattered gate was in their possession once more. They were almost engulfed by Uruks of Mordor, but there they stood and there they held, blocking the Gate with their own bodies. Belecthor was fiercest in the fight. A red fire gleamed in his eyes, so it was said in after days and even when an Orc sword gashed his arm that only served to enrage him further. He pushed him against a wall and decapitated him always clutching the Banner of the Tree in one hand and his sword in the other, dealing out death with grisly efficiency and precision.
However it was at a price, out of the 300 men at the gate, already, 1/3 had met their end there and the 200 that remained would soon be overwhelmed. Belecthor then heard a sound that warmed his heart ever after: horns. The horns of the Riddermark! The Riders of Rohan had come!