Chapter 9
Darkness
With two days of hard riding, Lasca and Khalil reached the crossings of the River Poros. Lasca feared they were in for another life-or-death swim, but thankfully the ford was quite shallow. However, another sight would be one she never forgot.
As they had come nearer to the river, a stench swept over them that made the two humans wretch. As they approached the ford, the reason for the smell made itself painfully clear.
Strewn out across the banks and in the river itself were the carcasses of dead Men, orcs, and horses. Some were all in one piece, but most had at least one extension hewed off. Many were riddled with arrows. Across the river seemed to be a sudden hill, but in truth was a fallen mùmak. Over all cawed the crebain, ripping and pecking at the rotting flesh. Lasca promptly dismounted and heaved up that morning's meal. Khalil dismounted also, but simply stood, expressionless. Then he began to walk among them, peering down at the fallen. The crebain cawed angrily at his intrusion. Lasca buried her face in Malak's mane, too shocked to cry. "Some Gondorian rangers and soldiers were trying to keep the Haradrim from crossing. I think the Haradrim were victorious," he finished quietly as the loud cawing once again prevailed. Lasca heard the soft tread of his feet as he walked over to her. He put a hand on her shoulder. She turned around to face him, surprised when she saw tears shining in his eyes.
"Lasca, you must look. See the true face of war." She couldn't. She couldn't bear to see the dead. She shook her head fearfully. Khalil's eyes narrowed. He placed both hands on her shoulders. "Look at me!" she glanced up into his fierce eyes. "You must witness the pain felt by the Nirnaeth. The pain caused by our kin. Only then can you truly beg for pardon, or else you will be looked down on as a childish girl who knows nothing of war and strife. Look." Forcibly he turned her around until she faced the battlefield. "Look on a sight I have seen far too many times."
Gathering her courage, she began to walk among them, looking down at their faces. She saw the countenances of her own people, covered with war paint. She looked upon the pale faces of Gondorians far more often, however. So, these were the usurpers, the dishonorable enemy. They wore expressions of fear and pain, identical to those of the Haradrim. The warriors had begun the war on opposing sides, though in the end, they both lay on the same ground with the same blood soaking into it. As Lasca looked around, the only victors she could see were the carrion birds, feeding on the folly of Men.
Hearing the clink of metal, Lasca turned. Khalil had scavenged two scimitars and was now washing them in the river. She picked her way over to him. He looked up as she approached. "We best not go unarmed, for we are approaching the heart of all this," he said, motioning to the battlefield. He handed one hilt-first to her. She took it, nearly dropping it for its weight. The leather bound grip felt awkward in her hand. "You'll get used to it. Er, by the way…this couldn't be your father's company, right?" he asked awkwardly. Lasca's heart skipped a beat, but then she remembered. "No, it couldn't be. He left more than two weeks ago." Khalil sighed inwardly with relief. "Good. We best get going, before the crebain grow too irritated." He led the way back to the patiently waiting Malak. Lasca followed, gaze straying to the faces of the slain.
The day passed with no other sign of battle. Soon after they left the river, the road forked. They took the left road, toward Pelargir. Lasca noticed that the land seemed to slowly become more fertile, for the grass was slowly becoming greener. The sight of green hills was strange to Lasca, though she decided they were more pleasant than bare hills of rock or sand. That night they camped under one such knoll. As Lasca lay back on the grass, she noticed the sky had become clouded, for she couldn't see the stars. Dismissing it as the weather, she rolled over and slept.
When she first woke, Lasca thought it was still night, for she could not see the sun. She looked to the sky, and again could not see the stars. However, she did not think it was clouds. The darkness was too complete and it gave her a wary feeling. She shook Khalil awake. "Is this weather normal?" she asked. Khalil rubbed his eyes and looked skyward. Suddenly he stood up and looked to the East.
"No, it is not. This is no weather…no…this darkness comes from Mordor." He pointed to the dark mountains, which suddenly seemed much closer. Lasca looked to them, and felt her wariness escalate into a gnawing fear. "It is morning, though I fear we shall not see the sun for a long time, if the battle goes ill."
"Goes ill?"
"If Sauron triumphs, he will waste no time in covering all the lands with a far deeper gloom. Come, we must make haste to the White City before our path is cut."
Hurriedly they gulped down some water and ate as they rode. Lasca noticed that Malak felt tensed and nervous. She patted her neck, for she felt the same way. As the day wore on the darkness seemed to lessen, but the sun still could not be seen. They knew she was setting as the gloom deepened around them. Suddenly, from behind a high peak of the Ephel Dûath, Lasca thought she saw a red glow. "That is the fire of Orodruin, Mount Doom," Khalil informed her. She asked no more.
They heard the Great River before they saw it. As evening settled, they came upon the Anduin. Across it Lasca saw faint lights.
"Is there a town over there?"
"The port of Pelargir. Go upriver a bit. If I remember correctly, they have a ferry landing."
There was a landing on the river, but it seemed to be recently abandoned. Thankfully, a raft was still hitched to one of the docks, large enough to carry a horse. Slowly Lasca led an already uptight Malak onto it. She nearly bolted as she felt it tip and sway under her, but Lasca talked to her and held her firm. With a lot of patience, the two persuaded her to lie down on the logs. As she buckled her legs under her, the ferry pitched violently, but remained afloat. Khalil found two long poles near the boathouse and handed one to Lasca. Slowly they punted across the wide river, shallower there, for it was nearing its delta. At first sight it had seemed large, and now doubly so as they strained against its current. Ahead the foul city of Pelargir lay.
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Well, I'm happy I managed to type one up today. Midterms officially start tomorrow, curse them! I might only be able to get one up in the next two days, but I'm sure you guys understand ^^ Thanks.
