CHAPTER 4
THE BLACK GATE OF MORDOR
Belecthor awoke the next day in Osgiliath. After he had reclaimed the city he had staggered down the stairs and collapsed on the ground, exhausted from the labours of the past two days. He walked to where his men were having breakfast. "May I join you?" he asked.
"Ah, yes, of course, Captain," said Vorongil, a young man with too high an opinion of himself, "Have some bread."
"Thank you," said Belecthor. They ate in silence for they remembered the hell they had passed through together and their lost comrades and they now felt a unique bond that words could never express. "I must ride back to Minas Tirith today and report to the King," said the Captain.
"And then..." said Vorongil.
"Then we wait for orders, Vorongil. You have been with me long enough to know that I cannot predict what will happen one day to the next. Anyway, shore up the defences on the East side and make sure the Rohirrim have adequate rations. They saved the White Tower yesterday. The least we can do is provide them food."
They sat in silence, staring at him. "Well, why are you just sitting here? Go!"
"Right away, sir!" said Vorongil, "Come on, men! You heard the Captain! Move out!"
The men got to their feet to carry out their orders and Belecthor walked to where the Easterling and Southron prisoners were stationed. There he met Folcwine. "Look at them," said Folcwine, "Adequately fed, talking among themselves, when yesterday their kind were cutting down our comrades! Why didn't you just kill them, Belecthor?"
"Because they surrendered," said Belecthor "And if we kill them or abuse them in any manner we show ourselves to be no better than they."
"They killed your sons!"
"Sauron killed my sons, Folcwine. I do not know why these men are here, but all I need to know is that they surrendered and I shall treat them with the dignity which Gondor affords its prisoners of war."
Folcwine stared at his new friend for a long moment, then nodded. "I suppose you're right. Besides, killing them would not bring Goldwine, Grimbold, or Theoden King back. It would mend nothing. So, are you riding to Minas Tirith today?"
"Yes," Belecthor replied, "I want to know what the King has planned, but first I want to know more about you who was your father?"
"Well, my father was Fastred, son of Hildeson and he left me a small piece of land in South Westfold. Belecthor, you should see it: I own 2 horses and Freawine and Deor love to get them upset and Rian would scold them for getting too much mud on their shirts."
"Rian?"
"My wife, we've been married for 7 years now, but on my land, Belecthor, my land extends 5 acres, north, south, east, and west."
"I thought you said it was small."
"Well it is, when you consider the vast lands of Rohan, we have not clogged ours with cities as you Gondorians are so fond of doing."
"One might call our cities a mark of civilization," replied the Captain.
"Or choking the land of all living things."
"How do we choke our land?"
"You suffocate it with stone and brick and your people earn more money than the rest of us and rob poor farmers like myself. I know you were born into a family of wealth and means. You were given your position as Captain on a silver platter."
Belecthor quickly stood to his feet. "You know nothing of my life! My father was from the hill country of Ithilien and we were so poor at times we didn't even know if we would even have a decent meal from one night to the next!"
Folcwine appeared stunned. "I...I...I beg your pardon, Captain. I had no idea in the slightest."
Belecthor nodded his forgiveness and gestured towards the Southron prisoners once more. "What do you see, Folcwine when you look at these men?"
"Murderers, looters, thieves," said Folcwine.
"Hmm...perhaps, you should rethink that."
Belecthor then mounted his horse, which he had renamed "Bregolas" and bade farewell to Folcwine for a short time. He rode through the streets of East Osgiliath, galloped across the bridge, between the streets of the Western side, then sped across the now scored and trampled fields of Pelennor. He galloped through the ruined gate of Minas Tirith, through the seven levels, entered the courtyard of the Kings after leaving Bregolas at the entrance, then entered the chamber, where he saw the King, the Lord Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, and Mithrandir.
"Belecthor!" said the King, "I hear Osgiliath has been retaken. You are to be commended, Captain."
"Thank you, Lord," said Belecthor, taking a goblet of water, "But before I hear your plan, I wish to raise one small item: Will Master Gimli please get out of the Stewards' chair? It's a matter of protocol. The Lord Denethor will be incredibly offended."
"Protocol will not matter in these dread days and as for the Lord Denethor, you need no longer worry about him. He is dead."
Belecthor spat out his water in shock and horror. "How?" he croaked.
"He burned himself to death on his own Pyre," said the King.
"Give me a moment to collect myself," he said, "Thank the gods that a King has returned! I don't know what would happen otherwise. Now, I suppose the Lord Denethor would wish us to not mourn his death. He would want to know what happens from here on," he said, "My men are stationed in Osgiliath. Should we pull back to Minas Tirith, or should we retake Ithilien?"
"We have already decided what to do," said Eomer. "We shall attack the Black Gate of Mordor."
Belecthor was so stunned he dropped his goblet. "Attack the Black Gate? That is madness! How could you have stooped to such folly?"
The King looked at Mithrandir. "Shall we explain to him?"
"Yes, I think now is the time," said the Maia.
Belecthor then was told everything, from the forging of the Great Rings of Power, to the Hobbits Smeagol and Deagol, to this new peril that the Halflings Frodo and Samwise were carrying into Mordor.
"Under no circumstances, must this trickle back to your men, Belecthor," said Eomer, "The only method to victory now is secrecy and deception."
"Which is why we are marching to the Black Gate, to distract Sauron," said Belecthor. "Exactly," said the King. "For if Sauron cannot see Frodo, he may yet have a chance of destroying the One, yet if we stay hidden then Sauron's eye is free to roam at will and Frodo will be overcome by the multitude of Orcs in Gorgoroth." "But how am I to explain this to my men," asked the Captain. "Tell them there is one more yet manly deed within their reach if they will seize it," said Legolas. "How many men do you need?" "Just 500," said Gimli, "Just enough to draw the eye of the Enemy to us." "500? There is no hope of victory with such a paltry number." "We do not hope for victory, Belecthor," said Eomer, "Just enough time for-" "Yes for Frodo to destroy the One! But I cannot put my men into needless peril!" "Your men will be placed into peril regardless," said Mithrandir, "For if Frodo fails to destroy it, your men will be wiped out, regardless of whether we march to the gate."
"Then it is better for us to go down fighting is what you're saying."
"Indeed," said the King, "Ride out to Osgiliath and see if 250 are ready for the ride, we shall stay here and organize 250 men of the City, when Eomer rides into the city, that will be your signal to join us." Belecthor nodded, bowed, and rode back to Osgiliath with a heavy heart. He ordered the men near the Citadel of Stars and proclaimed: "Soldiers of the West, you have performed well. Osgiliath is retaken, but there are deeds more yet to do. The King has need of 250 men from this garrison to ride to the Morannon as soon as possible. There is hardly any chance for our survival. So, men, I do issue any orders. Any man who wishes to stay may stay, but any who wish to ride with us, draw your swords." Folcwine felt a renewed sense of duty swell up within him once more and when the call to arms came, he was the first man to draw his sword. Belecthor then saw 50, 100, 150, 200, then 250, but even though the tally of men was filled more swords were drawn until the entire garrison of 1,500 had drawn their blades. Belecthor was visibly moved and said, "Thank you, soldiers of Gondor and Rohan. Rohan will not be ashamed. Gondor is proud! Make sure you are ready by the next day."
"Ha!" came a voice from within the Citadel. "Ha! Do you really believe you can defeat Sauron? He has armies beyond your imagination!" Belecthor looked for the source and remembered his Southron prisoners and said, "It matters not whether we obtain victory or not, it only matters that we have done what we could." It was a pathetic speech he knew, but he had to placate the Southron long enough to keep his men's spirits up. "Anyhow, at least 1,000 of you must remain in Osgiliath." He then handpicked 250 men for the assault.
The Southron grunted and sat back down. Belecthor saw the men's enthusiasm dampen. Many re-sheathed their swords. Belecthor now knew it was the time for action. "No there is hardly any chance of victory, but if I can but fight and die far from the living lands in the hope that my wife and children may live peaceful, happy lives I am willing to take that chance." Just then Eomer came galloping into the city.
"The time for talk is over! To horse, men!" He cried, leaping on Bregolas and galloping out of the city. Folcwine and 249 other riders of Gondor and Rohan leapt on any spare horse available and sped out of the city and joined up with the King and his riders.
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It was a two-day ride to the Black Gate of Mordor and yet it went by rather uneventfully and incredibly swift. Belecthor, Folcwine, and the men of Emyn Arnen and the Westfold were stationed side by side in the front line just a mile or so from the gate. They dismounted and sent their horses to the rear.
The King, Mithrandir, Legolas, Gimli, two Halflings, and the Lord Eomer rode to the front of the Black Gate and challenged Sauron. Belecthor and Folcwine could discern very little from their position. They saw a foul shape on horseback confront the Captains, then it cast down several items, which seemed to deeply trouble them, then he appeared to draw sword on the captains at which point the King struck him down.
They saw the Lords ride back to the front line as Orcs and Easterlings by the thousands came streaming forth out of the gate. The two men were astonished by the sheer size and magnitude, yet Folcwine drew his sword and stood firm whereas Belecthor put a tentative hand to Uruksbane's hilt. Vorongil, the arrogant young soldier from the hills of Ithilien doubled over and vomited at the sight. As he steadied himself Belecthor put a comforting hand at his back. He turned to Folcwine and said, "What makes you so confident, soldier?" Folcwine turned and stared at him. "I made a promise, Belecthor, that one day I would ride back to my wife's door and I have never broken my word, sir. I have not come so far only to let these Orcs and Easterlings cut me down now." Belecthor was touched, but still plainly terrified. He then heard the King arrive back to his troops and shouted words that would remain with Belecthor and Folcwine as long as they lived:
Stand your ground! Stand your ground! Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me! A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day! An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand! Men of the West!
Belecthor could do nothing else but draw his sword and scream "Emyn Arnen!" at the top of his lungs. His men then repeated the cry and cries of "Westfold!" "Pinnath Gelin!" "Wold!" "Fenmarch!" "Lossarnach!" "Edoras!" and "Minas Tirith!" arose through the host and each man took new courage as they stood side by side with their comrades and as they drew their swords the sun gleamed through the gathering darkness and the rays came down upon their swords and their armour and they appeared to the host of Mordor to shine with the very light of Valinor and the hosts of Mordor, though they were many, paled back in fear. They then saw the King seemed lured as it were by the Dark Tower and the cries ceased. He seemed to be wrestling with his own inner demons and then barely audibly he said, "For Frodo!" and rushed forward, then the Halflings rushed after him, then Mithrandir, then the entire host charged forward at the Army of Mordor. Belecthor felt a rush of excitement that he could never explain afterwards. He felt as immortal as any Elf ever born and he laughed at the hosts of Mordor and flung himself onto an Orcish captain, wrestled it, and slit its throat.
They enjoyed early success, with their King in command Belecthor and his men clove into the battalions of Orcs and Folcwine and the Westfold men drove against the men of Rhun. It was a flurry of swords and axes, spears and bows.
Folcwine wrestled a young Easterling to the ground and was about to run him through when looked into the man's eyes and realized that he could be no more than a boy of 17 or 18 and he remembered the words of Belecthor, "Perhaps you should rethink that." He knew he could not kill this boy, so vulnerable and when he looked once again into his eyes and saw in them that they shared a common humanity. He dragged a body of an Orcish corpse upon him and instructed him to stay still until the battle was finished. "I give you the surety of Folcwine, son of Guthlaf of the Westfold of the Riddermark that you shall not be harmed."
Arrows flew freely. Men, Orcs, Trolls, Elf, Maia, Dwarf, and Halflings all mired in a sea, which they could not escape. Belecthor then looked to his left and saw Folcwine receive a spear wound in the back of the leg, then an Orc scimitar was flung down and cut a deep flesh wound in his back, then he received a knife wound in the foot. He went down. Belecthor then felt anger arise in him and he remembered his sons and their severed heads, his lieutenant Cirion, the hundreds of dead Rohirrim, Faramir, and the hundreds of his own company who had been massacred, and he knew he had seen enough death to last him several lifetimes. He turned to Vorongil and said, "Take command of the men!" and rushed to where Folcwine lay.
Folcwine truly believed that this was now the end. Blood oozed from his three wounds and now an Orc scimitar was poised to strike him, but then just as he lost all hope he heard a fierce battle yell and the clash of steel directly above him. He looked up and saw Belecthor, Captain of Emyn Arnen fighting directly above him. He slew the Orc and looked down at Folcwine. "What are you doing?" gasped the wounded man. "Keeping your promise for you!" he said and there he held. Few Orcs dared come near Belecthor for they knew that they would have to face the edge of Uruksbane and they feared that more than all the thralls of Sauron. Those few that dared to come near fell dead to the ground. Belecthor then picked up Folcwine and rushed back to his men and gently placed him down. "Hold on, man! You are not going to die now! You've survived too much! Do you hear me, Aratan?" Folcwine looked up. "Aratan?" he gasped. Belecthor realized what he had said and broke down and wept while the fight raged around him. He took off his helm and let it fall to the ground.
Folcwine frantically gestured as best he could for him to look up. Belecthor did look up, but too late, for an Orc scimitar cut into his head. Belecthor fell to the ground on top of Folcwine and blood ran freely.
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Vorongil, soldier of Emyn Arnen had often been called arrogant, but he considered this "arrogance" military discipline and the state of being precise, and now that his captain had gone, he was in command, rallying the men, when they were ready to retreat. He glanced to where the Captain was, but saw now a sea of Orcs surrounding the position. Vorongil then ordered his men to where the Captain was. They desperately hacked their way through the press of humanity and Orcs and found their captain lying bleeding and injured upon a wounded soldier of Rohan. "He's alive," gasped the wounded Rohirrim. "He's still breathing." Vorongil pushed the Captain over and he saw that he was indeed breathing. "Captain!"
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Belecthor woke up to a man shaking him, looked up, and saw Vorongil, staring down at him. He staggered to his feet and leaned on Vorongil until he regained his equilibrium. He tore a piece from his sable cape and wrapped it around his head. He then threw himself back into the fray, cutting down the enemy, rallying his men to hold their positions, but then the company of Pinnath Gelin on his right gave way and began to run for their lives. He desperately tried to rally them, but sadly many of them were young and had seen many of their comrades die and were beyond rallying. He charged to their position and stood and fought there himself, then the men of Pinnath Gelin saw this man, wounded, yet standing and fighting on ground, which they should have been occupied. They then rallied and courage stronger than steel rose in their hearts and they charged forward and stood with Belecthor and held their ground.
Rian, daughter of Fengel, wife of Folcwine, was desperately anxious. It had been days; weeks even, since her husband had rode away with the other riders. Fear welled up in her heart, yet hope also. She remembered that he had not emerged unscathed from the Hornburg and endured a long and perilous ride back to their farm only to ride away now and to break his word to her would be unconscionable, yet she could wait no longer, she grabbed her two sons, wrapped some bread in a woollen towel, and filled some water bottles. She then rushed to Gram, their mare and saddled her up. She put the bread and water in saddlebags, placed the children in the saddle, and got up onto the horse. "Where are we going, mama?" asked Deor. "Minas Tirith," said Rian "Why there?" asked Freawine. "To see father." "Is he dead?" "No, son, he made a promise to us, remember? Now hold on," she said and spurred Gram forward. As she rode, she remembered what they had said the day they plighted their troth on the grounds of the ramshackle farm. "'Till death comes betwixt us," she had said. "Is he dead?" she thought, "No, I would know," she thought in reply, "But how do I know he's in Minas Tirith?" "I don't, but I may just meet him there. I cannot stay at home and do nothing." She looked back at the farm and saw it rapidly recede into the distance, just as Folcwine had done a short week before.
But Folcwine was now far from any kind of help. Belecthor was desperately trying to hold the ramshackle line of Pinnath Gelin together with limited success. Folcwine then saw a tall form with a flowing black cape, looking around. He knelt to the ground and Folcwine recognized the King! "What is your name, soldier?" "Folcwine, son of Guthlaf, soldier of the Westfold, sire." "May the gods bless you for your courage, Folcwine. I am-" "Sire! Behind you!" The King wheeled around just in time to parry the huge blade of a troll. Folcwine desperately desired to help the King, but he was barely able to move, let alone reach for a weapon. The King fell to the ground and the troll stepped upon the King, not killing him. The King desperately grabbed his knife and rammed it into the troll's foot. He looked around him and saw the men of Pinnath Gelin finally break and run for their lives and no words or actions of Belecthor would rally them. Belecthor was caught in the press of men and only stopped on Folcwine's left, standing with his old company of Emyn Arnen, now reduced to a mere 35 men and could only stand there and fight desperately for their lives. They saw the Eagles arrive, but it was only a mockery of hope to them, for they knew their lives were forfeit.
But then something happened: the lines of Mordor, Orc, Easterling, Southron, troll began to waver, break, and finally run for their lives.
Belecthor looked around in shock. He knelt beside Folcwine and helped him to his feet. Folcwine put one arm around Belecthor's shoulder while relying on his other leg to hold him up. Together they watched the crumbling lines of Mordor, then they looked up and saw a sight that remained permanently engraved on their memories: The Barad-dur, the very symbol of evil and vile slavery came crumbling down. Nobody could speak, yet there was not a dry eye on the field. Hardened veterans from as far back as Osgiliath and the Fords of Isen fell to their knees and wept as if they were small children.
Folcwine was overwhelmed with emotion and the pain of his wounds. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Belecthor was also extremely overwhelmed and his head still throbbed from the pain of his wound, yet he stood there for several minutes just absorbing it. He gently lowered Folcwine to the ground and entrusted him to the care of Elfhelm, the commander of the Westfold men. Vorongil rushed over to him and they shared a mutual embrace. They both watched as Mordor caved in on itself never to rise again.
His majesty then ordered the men to pursue the surviving Orcs and accept the surrender of those Men who would and cut down those who did not. Belecthor and his men were assigned to burial duty. As Belecthor shoved off the carcass of a dead Uruk he saw a frightened young man gasping for air, begging for his life. He pled the surety of one Folcwine of the Westfold. Belecthor smiled broadly, helped up the young Easterling and entrusted him to Vorongil.
After the burial of the dead men, and the burning of the Orcs and trolls and other foul things, the King ordered his men to await the arrival of Mithrandir, whom they had seen depart with several of the Eagles. When the Eagles returned, they were carrying Mithrandir and two small people who appeared to be incredibly tortured, scarred, and burned. "Who are they?" he asked.
Mithrandir replied, "Belecthor, son of Vorondil, Captain of the 4th Company of Emyn Arnen, I introduce you to Frodo, son of Drogo and Samwise, son of Hamfast, Ringbearers."
THE BLACK GATE OF MORDOR
Belecthor awoke the next day in Osgiliath. After he had reclaimed the city he had staggered down the stairs and collapsed on the ground, exhausted from the labours of the past two days. He walked to where his men were having breakfast. "May I join you?" he asked.
"Ah, yes, of course, Captain," said Vorongil, a young man with too high an opinion of himself, "Have some bread."
"Thank you," said Belecthor. They ate in silence for they remembered the hell they had passed through together and their lost comrades and they now felt a unique bond that words could never express. "I must ride back to Minas Tirith today and report to the King," said the Captain.
"And then..." said Vorongil.
"Then we wait for orders, Vorongil. You have been with me long enough to know that I cannot predict what will happen one day to the next. Anyway, shore up the defences on the East side and make sure the Rohirrim have adequate rations. They saved the White Tower yesterday. The least we can do is provide them food."
They sat in silence, staring at him. "Well, why are you just sitting here? Go!"
"Right away, sir!" said Vorongil, "Come on, men! You heard the Captain! Move out!"
The men got to their feet to carry out their orders and Belecthor walked to where the Easterling and Southron prisoners were stationed. There he met Folcwine. "Look at them," said Folcwine, "Adequately fed, talking among themselves, when yesterday their kind were cutting down our comrades! Why didn't you just kill them, Belecthor?"
"Because they surrendered," said Belecthor "And if we kill them or abuse them in any manner we show ourselves to be no better than they."
"They killed your sons!"
"Sauron killed my sons, Folcwine. I do not know why these men are here, but all I need to know is that they surrendered and I shall treat them with the dignity which Gondor affords its prisoners of war."
Folcwine stared at his new friend for a long moment, then nodded. "I suppose you're right. Besides, killing them would not bring Goldwine, Grimbold, or Theoden King back. It would mend nothing. So, are you riding to Minas Tirith today?"
"Yes," Belecthor replied, "I want to know what the King has planned, but first I want to know more about you who was your father?"
"Well, my father was Fastred, son of Hildeson and he left me a small piece of land in South Westfold. Belecthor, you should see it: I own 2 horses and Freawine and Deor love to get them upset and Rian would scold them for getting too much mud on their shirts."
"Rian?"
"My wife, we've been married for 7 years now, but on my land, Belecthor, my land extends 5 acres, north, south, east, and west."
"I thought you said it was small."
"Well it is, when you consider the vast lands of Rohan, we have not clogged ours with cities as you Gondorians are so fond of doing."
"One might call our cities a mark of civilization," replied the Captain.
"Or choking the land of all living things."
"How do we choke our land?"
"You suffocate it with stone and brick and your people earn more money than the rest of us and rob poor farmers like myself. I know you were born into a family of wealth and means. You were given your position as Captain on a silver platter."
Belecthor quickly stood to his feet. "You know nothing of my life! My father was from the hill country of Ithilien and we were so poor at times we didn't even know if we would even have a decent meal from one night to the next!"
Folcwine appeared stunned. "I...I...I beg your pardon, Captain. I had no idea in the slightest."
Belecthor nodded his forgiveness and gestured towards the Southron prisoners once more. "What do you see, Folcwine when you look at these men?"
"Murderers, looters, thieves," said Folcwine.
"Hmm...perhaps, you should rethink that."
Belecthor then mounted his horse, which he had renamed "Bregolas" and bade farewell to Folcwine for a short time. He rode through the streets of East Osgiliath, galloped across the bridge, between the streets of the Western side, then sped across the now scored and trampled fields of Pelennor. He galloped through the ruined gate of Minas Tirith, through the seven levels, entered the courtyard of the Kings after leaving Bregolas at the entrance, then entered the chamber, where he saw the King, the Lord Eomer, Gimli, Legolas, and Mithrandir.
"Belecthor!" said the King, "I hear Osgiliath has been retaken. You are to be commended, Captain."
"Thank you, Lord," said Belecthor, taking a goblet of water, "But before I hear your plan, I wish to raise one small item: Will Master Gimli please get out of the Stewards' chair? It's a matter of protocol. The Lord Denethor will be incredibly offended."
"Protocol will not matter in these dread days and as for the Lord Denethor, you need no longer worry about him. He is dead."
Belecthor spat out his water in shock and horror. "How?" he croaked.
"He burned himself to death on his own Pyre," said the King.
"Give me a moment to collect myself," he said, "Thank the gods that a King has returned! I don't know what would happen otherwise. Now, I suppose the Lord Denethor would wish us to not mourn his death. He would want to know what happens from here on," he said, "My men are stationed in Osgiliath. Should we pull back to Minas Tirith, or should we retake Ithilien?"
"We have already decided what to do," said Eomer. "We shall attack the Black Gate of Mordor."
Belecthor was so stunned he dropped his goblet. "Attack the Black Gate? That is madness! How could you have stooped to such folly?"
The King looked at Mithrandir. "Shall we explain to him?"
"Yes, I think now is the time," said the Maia.
Belecthor then was told everything, from the forging of the Great Rings of Power, to the Hobbits Smeagol and Deagol, to this new peril that the Halflings Frodo and Samwise were carrying into Mordor.
"Under no circumstances, must this trickle back to your men, Belecthor," said Eomer, "The only method to victory now is secrecy and deception."
"Which is why we are marching to the Black Gate, to distract Sauron," said Belecthor. "Exactly," said the King. "For if Sauron cannot see Frodo, he may yet have a chance of destroying the One, yet if we stay hidden then Sauron's eye is free to roam at will and Frodo will be overcome by the multitude of Orcs in Gorgoroth." "But how am I to explain this to my men," asked the Captain. "Tell them there is one more yet manly deed within their reach if they will seize it," said Legolas. "How many men do you need?" "Just 500," said Gimli, "Just enough to draw the eye of the Enemy to us." "500? There is no hope of victory with such a paltry number." "We do not hope for victory, Belecthor," said Eomer, "Just enough time for-" "Yes for Frodo to destroy the One! But I cannot put my men into needless peril!" "Your men will be placed into peril regardless," said Mithrandir, "For if Frodo fails to destroy it, your men will be wiped out, regardless of whether we march to the gate."
"Then it is better for us to go down fighting is what you're saying."
"Indeed," said the King, "Ride out to Osgiliath and see if 250 are ready for the ride, we shall stay here and organize 250 men of the City, when Eomer rides into the city, that will be your signal to join us." Belecthor nodded, bowed, and rode back to Osgiliath with a heavy heart. He ordered the men near the Citadel of Stars and proclaimed: "Soldiers of the West, you have performed well. Osgiliath is retaken, but there are deeds more yet to do. The King has need of 250 men from this garrison to ride to the Morannon as soon as possible. There is hardly any chance for our survival. So, men, I do issue any orders. Any man who wishes to stay may stay, but any who wish to ride with us, draw your swords." Folcwine felt a renewed sense of duty swell up within him once more and when the call to arms came, he was the first man to draw his sword. Belecthor then saw 50, 100, 150, 200, then 250, but even though the tally of men was filled more swords were drawn until the entire garrison of 1,500 had drawn their blades. Belecthor was visibly moved and said, "Thank you, soldiers of Gondor and Rohan. Rohan will not be ashamed. Gondor is proud! Make sure you are ready by the next day."
"Ha!" came a voice from within the Citadel. "Ha! Do you really believe you can defeat Sauron? He has armies beyond your imagination!" Belecthor looked for the source and remembered his Southron prisoners and said, "It matters not whether we obtain victory or not, it only matters that we have done what we could." It was a pathetic speech he knew, but he had to placate the Southron long enough to keep his men's spirits up. "Anyhow, at least 1,000 of you must remain in Osgiliath." He then handpicked 250 men for the assault.
The Southron grunted and sat back down. Belecthor saw the men's enthusiasm dampen. Many re-sheathed their swords. Belecthor now knew it was the time for action. "No there is hardly any chance of victory, but if I can but fight and die far from the living lands in the hope that my wife and children may live peaceful, happy lives I am willing to take that chance." Just then Eomer came galloping into the city.
"The time for talk is over! To horse, men!" He cried, leaping on Bregolas and galloping out of the city. Folcwine and 249 other riders of Gondor and Rohan leapt on any spare horse available and sped out of the city and joined up with the King and his riders.
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It was a two-day ride to the Black Gate of Mordor and yet it went by rather uneventfully and incredibly swift. Belecthor, Folcwine, and the men of Emyn Arnen and the Westfold were stationed side by side in the front line just a mile or so from the gate. They dismounted and sent their horses to the rear.
The King, Mithrandir, Legolas, Gimli, two Halflings, and the Lord Eomer rode to the front of the Black Gate and challenged Sauron. Belecthor and Folcwine could discern very little from their position. They saw a foul shape on horseback confront the Captains, then it cast down several items, which seemed to deeply trouble them, then he appeared to draw sword on the captains at which point the King struck him down.
They saw the Lords ride back to the front line as Orcs and Easterlings by the thousands came streaming forth out of the gate. The two men were astonished by the sheer size and magnitude, yet Folcwine drew his sword and stood firm whereas Belecthor put a tentative hand to Uruksbane's hilt. Vorongil, the arrogant young soldier from the hills of Ithilien doubled over and vomited at the sight. As he steadied himself Belecthor put a comforting hand at his back. He turned to Folcwine and said, "What makes you so confident, soldier?" Folcwine turned and stared at him. "I made a promise, Belecthor, that one day I would ride back to my wife's door and I have never broken my word, sir. I have not come so far only to let these Orcs and Easterlings cut me down now." Belecthor was touched, but still plainly terrified. He then heard the King arrive back to his troops and shouted words that would remain with Belecthor and Folcwine as long as they lived:
Stand your ground! Stand your ground! Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me! A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day! An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand! Men of the West!
Belecthor could do nothing else but draw his sword and scream "Emyn Arnen!" at the top of his lungs. His men then repeated the cry and cries of "Westfold!" "Pinnath Gelin!" "Wold!" "Fenmarch!" "Lossarnach!" "Edoras!" and "Minas Tirith!" arose through the host and each man took new courage as they stood side by side with their comrades and as they drew their swords the sun gleamed through the gathering darkness and the rays came down upon their swords and their armour and they appeared to the host of Mordor to shine with the very light of Valinor and the hosts of Mordor, though they were many, paled back in fear. They then saw the King seemed lured as it were by the Dark Tower and the cries ceased. He seemed to be wrestling with his own inner demons and then barely audibly he said, "For Frodo!" and rushed forward, then the Halflings rushed after him, then Mithrandir, then the entire host charged forward at the Army of Mordor. Belecthor felt a rush of excitement that he could never explain afterwards. He felt as immortal as any Elf ever born and he laughed at the hosts of Mordor and flung himself onto an Orcish captain, wrestled it, and slit its throat.
They enjoyed early success, with their King in command Belecthor and his men clove into the battalions of Orcs and Folcwine and the Westfold men drove against the men of Rhun. It was a flurry of swords and axes, spears and bows.
Folcwine wrestled a young Easterling to the ground and was about to run him through when looked into the man's eyes and realized that he could be no more than a boy of 17 or 18 and he remembered the words of Belecthor, "Perhaps you should rethink that." He knew he could not kill this boy, so vulnerable and when he looked once again into his eyes and saw in them that they shared a common humanity. He dragged a body of an Orcish corpse upon him and instructed him to stay still until the battle was finished. "I give you the surety of Folcwine, son of Guthlaf of the Westfold of the Riddermark that you shall not be harmed."
Arrows flew freely. Men, Orcs, Trolls, Elf, Maia, Dwarf, and Halflings all mired in a sea, which they could not escape. Belecthor then looked to his left and saw Folcwine receive a spear wound in the back of the leg, then an Orc scimitar was flung down and cut a deep flesh wound in his back, then he received a knife wound in the foot. He went down. Belecthor then felt anger arise in him and he remembered his sons and their severed heads, his lieutenant Cirion, the hundreds of dead Rohirrim, Faramir, and the hundreds of his own company who had been massacred, and he knew he had seen enough death to last him several lifetimes. He turned to Vorongil and said, "Take command of the men!" and rushed to where Folcwine lay.
Folcwine truly believed that this was now the end. Blood oozed from his three wounds and now an Orc scimitar was poised to strike him, but then just as he lost all hope he heard a fierce battle yell and the clash of steel directly above him. He looked up and saw Belecthor, Captain of Emyn Arnen fighting directly above him. He slew the Orc and looked down at Folcwine. "What are you doing?" gasped the wounded man. "Keeping your promise for you!" he said and there he held. Few Orcs dared come near Belecthor for they knew that they would have to face the edge of Uruksbane and they feared that more than all the thralls of Sauron. Those few that dared to come near fell dead to the ground. Belecthor then picked up Folcwine and rushed back to his men and gently placed him down. "Hold on, man! You are not going to die now! You've survived too much! Do you hear me, Aratan?" Folcwine looked up. "Aratan?" he gasped. Belecthor realized what he had said and broke down and wept while the fight raged around him. He took off his helm and let it fall to the ground.
Folcwine frantically gestured as best he could for him to look up. Belecthor did look up, but too late, for an Orc scimitar cut into his head. Belecthor fell to the ground on top of Folcwine and blood ran freely.
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Vorongil, soldier of Emyn Arnen had often been called arrogant, but he considered this "arrogance" military discipline and the state of being precise, and now that his captain had gone, he was in command, rallying the men, when they were ready to retreat. He glanced to where the Captain was, but saw now a sea of Orcs surrounding the position. Vorongil then ordered his men to where the Captain was. They desperately hacked their way through the press of humanity and Orcs and found their captain lying bleeding and injured upon a wounded soldier of Rohan. "He's alive," gasped the wounded Rohirrim. "He's still breathing." Vorongil pushed the Captain over and he saw that he was indeed breathing. "Captain!"
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Belecthor woke up to a man shaking him, looked up, and saw Vorongil, staring down at him. He staggered to his feet and leaned on Vorongil until he regained his equilibrium. He tore a piece from his sable cape and wrapped it around his head. He then threw himself back into the fray, cutting down the enemy, rallying his men to hold their positions, but then the company of Pinnath Gelin on his right gave way and began to run for their lives. He desperately tried to rally them, but sadly many of them were young and had seen many of their comrades die and were beyond rallying. He charged to their position and stood and fought there himself, then the men of Pinnath Gelin saw this man, wounded, yet standing and fighting on ground, which they should have been occupied. They then rallied and courage stronger than steel rose in their hearts and they charged forward and stood with Belecthor and held their ground.
Rian, daughter of Fengel, wife of Folcwine, was desperately anxious. It had been days; weeks even, since her husband had rode away with the other riders. Fear welled up in her heart, yet hope also. She remembered that he had not emerged unscathed from the Hornburg and endured a long and perilous ride back to their farm only to ride away now and to break his word to her would be unconscionable, yet she could wait no longer, she grabbed her two sons, wrapped some bread in a woollen towel, and filled some water bottles. She then rushed to Gram, their mare and saddled her up. She put the bread and water in saddlebags, placed the children in the saddle, and got up onto the horse. "Where are we going, mama?" asked Deor. "Minas Tirith," said Rian "Why there?" asked Freawine. "To see father." "Is he dead?" "No, son, he made a promise to us, remember? Now hold on," she said and spurred Gram forward. As she rode, she remembered what they had said the day they plighted their troth on the grounds of the ramshackle farm. "'Till death comes betwixt us," she had said. "Is he dead?" she thought, "No, I would know," she thought in reply, "But how do I know he's in Minas Tirith?" "I don't, but I may just meet him there. I cannot stay at home and do nothing." She looked back at the farm and saw it rapidly recede into the distance, just as Folcwine had done a short week before.
But Folcwine was now far from any kind of help. Belecthor was desperately trying to hold the ramshackle line of Pinnath Gelin together with limited success. Folcwine then saw a tall form with a flowing black cape, looking around. He knelt to the ground and Folcwine recognized the King! "What is your name, soldier?" "Folcwine, son of Guthlaf, soldier of the Westfold, sire." "May the gods bless you for your courage, Folcwine. I am-" "Sire! Behind you!" The King wheeled around just in time to parry the huge blade of a troll. Folcwine desperately desired to help the King, but he was barely able to move, let alone reach for a weapon. The King fell to the ground and the troll stepped upon the King, not killing him. The King desperately grabbed his knife and rammed it into the troll's foot. He looked around him and saw the men of Pinnath Gelin finally break and run for their lives and no words or actions of Belecthor would rally them. Belecthor was caught in the press of men and only stopped on Folcwine's left, standing with his old company of Emyn Arnen, now reduced to a mere 35 men and could only stand there and fight desperately for their lives. They saw the Eagles arrive, but it was only a mockery of hope to them, for they knew their lives were forfeit.
But then something happened: the lines of Mordor, Orc, Easterling, Southron, troll began to waver, break, and finally run for their lives.
Belecthor looked around in shock. He knelt beside Folcwine and helped him to his feet. Folcwine put one arm around Belecthor's shoulder while relying on his other leg to hold him up. Together they watched the crumbling lines of Mordor, then they looked up and saw a sight that remained permanently engraved on their memories: The Barad-dur, the very symbol of evil and vile slavery came crumbling down. Nobody could speak, yet there was not a dry eye on the field. Hardened veterans from as far back as Osgiliath and the Fords of Isen fell to their knees and wept as if they were small children.
Folcwine was overwhelmed with emotion and the pain of his wounds. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Belecthor was also extremely overwhelmed and his head still throbbed from the pain of his wound, yet he stood there for several minutes just absorbing it. He gently lowered Folcwine to the ground and entrusted him to the care of Elfhelm, the commander of the Westfold men. Vorongil rushed over to him and they shared a mutual embrace. They both watched as Mordor caved in on itself never to rise again.
His majesty then ordered the men to pursue the surviving Orcs and accept the surrender of those Men who would and cut down those who did not. Belecthor and his men were assigned to burial duty. As Belecthor shoved off the carcass of a dead Uruk he saw a frightened young man gasping for air, begging for his life. He pled the surety of one Folcwine of the Westfold. Belecthor smiled broadly, helped up the young Easterling and entrusted him to Vorongil.
After the burial of the dead men, and the burning of the Orcs and trolls and other foul things, the King ordered his men to await the arrival of Mithrandir, whom they had seen depart with several of the Eagles. When the Eagles returned, they were carrying Mithrandir and two small people who appeared to be incredibly tortured, scarred, and burned. "Who are they?" he asked.
Mithrandir replied, "Belecthor, son of Vorondil, Captain of the 4th Company of Emyn Arnen, I introduce you to Frodo, son of Drogo and Samwise, son of Hamfast, Ringbearers."