Chapter XLII: The Battle of the Dead Marshes: Phase One
Aragost turned his horse northward, aiming toward the Dunedain along with the one hundred thousand cavalry members of the First Cavalry. He gritted his teeth, set his jaw, and drew his shining sword, raising it to the dark, star-filled sky.
The cavalry let out a roar, and Aragost nudged his horse forward, weaving back and forth around the dark pools of water.
Ahead and to the east, Eldarion raised his horn to his lips and sounded the third trumpet, signifying that all troops were in full charge.
Eorlmer made his move.
The Venyarohirrim cavalry jumped into action as Eorlmer waved his blade in circles over his head, spurring their horses faster. The young General angled his horse northeast, on a direct intercept line with the center of the First Cavalry. Behind him, the rest of his troops followed, swords drawn, yet mysteriously quiet.
Eldarion slowed his pace to a stop, as did the soldiers behind the King. They watched in disbelief as the Venyarohirrim cavalry swept past them, nearly a half league away. The thunder of the hoof beats drove in their ears; a pounding, overwhelming sound. The horde raced past for over a minute before Eldarion finally realized what was occurring.
"No," he murmured to himself in disbelief, dropping to his knees on the damp marshland.
At the head of the Dunedain, Aragorn smiled broadly at Athfaë, who returned his smile, lighting up her face.
"I told you we would come through," the girl cried gleefully.
"Indeed you did," Aragorn affirmed, nodding. "Now it is up to us to support them."
He turned his back on the Fellowship and the scenes unfolding behind him and cried out to the rows of archers behind him.
"Fire on the west group! Do not fire upon the east, they are allies!"
The hissing of several hundred arrows launched by the elven archers drowned out his words. Instead of the usual volleys that the majority of the armies employed, elves fired in solid waves of wood, sending a constant rain of death down upon their targets.
The cries of the Fellowship cavalry rang out over the otherwise still marshland as soldier after soldier fell to the elven darts. The spearmen positioned in the front of the Dunedain, tensed, prepared for the impact of the cavalry. The arches behind them fired even more heavily, slowing the advance.
Finally, the two forces smashed together with the sound of metal upon metal, grating in the ears of all who heard. The screams of the wounded and dying now joined the utter chaos that was ensuing.
Aragorn turned to Athfaë suddenly as he took heed of the leader of the Venyarohirrim Fellowship division.
"Who is the leader?" the deposed king inquired.
"Eorlmer, one of Dacil's old friends. I used to know him quite well, actually. A good friend, excellent soldier."
"Where is Dacil?"
A look of clouded worry covered Athfaë's face. "He had gone to reunite with the Fellowship, so he could lead the charge. He must not have made it in time."
Aragorn shrugged nonchalantly. "I am sure he is in good health."
Athfaë nodded warily.
"East division, forward!" Aragorn cried.
Gandalf glanced questioningly at the king.
"The defection leaves their east flank completely open," the Ranger explained. "They will either be forced to fight two fronts, or spread themselves thin enough for us to penetrate and force them to fight on four or more."
"Shall I lead them?" the wizard asked, watching the charge of the defecting cavalry intently.
"But of course."
Gandalf broke his gaze, nodded, and galloped off toward the head of the east division.
"West cavalry, flank!"
The horde of Dunedain horsemen and women thundered off toward the west, and then began to loop around, aiming for the Fellowship cavalry's flank.
Eldarion slammed his face into his hands. He had always mocked his father's reputation as a military genius. But as he watched the noose tighten around his remaining cavalry, the King had to admit. They would need a miracle now.
Or sheer force and anger. His infantrymen were nearly triple the size of the Dunedain army, and, though not as naturally skilled as the elves – which Eldarion was sure were quite scarce – they had all trained for this moment. Besides, the Venyarohirrim had always been known for having great cavalries and terrible infantry. His troops would fare well.
Not to mention the siege weapons. Eldarion had a military genius streak instilled in him as well, through his father. He had ordered the defensive siege weapons of Minas Tirith made mobile, and had ordered the creation of several dozen more. They would certainly put a dent in the clustered Dunedain army, which did not suspect the attack.
It had to be now. Eldarion whirled to his artillerymen.
"Fire! Fire! Fire!"
"Eorlinglas!"
Eorlmer's cry echoed over the din of the battle as he struck down the first Fellowship cavalryman.
An instant later, the rest of the Venyarohirrim smashed full into the Fellowship horses, battering their way bloodily onward.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Eorlmer slashed back and forth with his blade as he thundered onward, widening the hole in the utterly distraught Fellowship cavalry.
Across the chaotic horde, the Dunedain cavalry drove into the western half of the Fellowship army, pressing them thinner and thinner, easing the burden that the Dunedain spearmen had to face.
Eldarion caught a glimmer of movement to his right, and his eye caught the whirl of a red braid.
"Athfaë?" he called over the screams and metallic crashes.
The girl looked over her shoulder for a moment, then turned back to strike down another Fellowship cavalryman. It was indeed Athfaë.
Eorlmer choked, not wishing to be the one to inform the girl of her love's death. He made the decision to withhold that knowledge until the battle was complete; it would be far too massive of a burden for the girl at the moment.
The young man's thoughts were interrupted by the scream of one of his soldiers.
"Incoming!"
The thud of the gargantuan stones smashing into the ground rattled the teeth of the entire Dunedain army. Aragorn felt the grating in his bones, and a glimmer of fear raced through him, accelerating his heart and breath.
The screams of the victims rang out over the battlefield as the first volley blasted into the Dunedain army and Venyarohirrim cavalry. The massive rocks were punctuated by volleys of arrows, then more of the deadly stones rained onto the hapless soldiers.
Aragorn exhaled deeply. If he did not order his troops to move now, they would all fall before they were in blade range of their enemies.
The deposed King's mind wandered momentarily to the scores of years ago, when he sat with his young son in one of the many large rooms of Minas Tirith. The two played war strategy games for hours, Aragost passing on as much knowledge as he could muster down to his son. Now, more than ever, the Ranger regretted it. Eldarion had performed the maneuver that Aragorn had emphasized the most. Force the opponent into a decision that was far less than optimal.
The bone-rattling crunch of the second stone volley shook Aragorn from his reminiscing.
"Infantry, charge!"
Eldarion exhaled as he watched the Dunedain army surge forward, wrapping itself around the Fellowship cavalry and separating to flank Eldarion's own cavalry.
The King made the decision that it would not be nearly that easy.
He held up a hand for his runners, a half dozen of whom arrived nearly instantly atop their horses.
"I want the siege weapons to fire on the main battleground. I do not care about our own losses; they will be insignificant in comparison to Aragorn's. Tell them to concentrate fire in the middle, and use more discretion once the infantry mixes in with them. Send the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Divisions to attack front, east, and west of the group to the east." The King gestured to the eastern half of the Dunedain army, which had been moving to attack the unprotected flank.
The scouts nodded emphatically and bolted into the army of soldiers.
"As for the rest of you," Eldarion cried to his infantry, "We will wrap ourselves around the main battle. Attack the fringes; keep the soldiers in the middle! Our siege weapons will ensure that they suffer heavily for their treachery."
The Fellowship infantry surged forward as the massive stones led the way.
Aragorn moved with the grace and skill of a well the well-seasoned warrior that he was. His ancient blade, Narcil, hissed through the air as though it had a mind of its own, blocking and slashing, attacking and defending, all the while inflicting casualties on all sides of the Ranger. Aragorn ducked the swing of a Fellowship infantryman, which had just arrived, and thrust his blade through the man's stomach, sending him crashing to the ground. He leaped back as a Venyarohirrim cavalrywoman thundered past, bowling over two more infantrymen and driving the rider off one of the dwindling number of Fellowship cavalry horses.
He heard the cry of another soldier as the man tripped and fell into the inky blackness of the marsh water and was swallowed up, a greenish mist swirling where he had fallen. A Venyarohirrim cavalryman suddenly dropped from sight, sending a dark splash into the air, the stinging water soaking all nearby.
Aragorn swore to himself. Only the elven warriors with the Dunedain seemed to be able to see the waters, yet even still, the chaos of the battle often pressed them into the pools, never to be seen again. The Ranger wondered how many soldiers would fall to the marshes and not the blades of enemies, and the thought seemed to make the night even darker.
A giant siege-stone drove into the ground twenty meters from Aragorn, the shockwave knocking him backward. He felt his arm submerge in one of the dark pools, and his heavily armored body sliding backward. His face went under, and he could feel the terrible green mist enveloping him. He tried to cry out, but the water was suffocating him.
Suddenly, strong hands were grabbing his own, hauling him from the oppressive darkness. The King sputtered, spewing black water from his mouth. Clearing the moisture from his eyes, Aragorn gazed up into the face of his savior.
Eldarion gazed conceitedly down at his father, who sat, half drenched, weak.
Aragorn rubbed his eyes again, thinking he was hallucinating; his son remained blade on his neck.
"Call them off," Eldarion ordered calmly.
Aragon spat more water from his lungs. "What?" he groaned in disbelief.
"I said, call them off. I saved you, now you do me a favor. Call them off."
The deposed King bowed his head, defeated. He breathed deeply, clearing his lungs. Then, his gaze slowly rose to look upon his son. It was a face that Aragorn no longer recognized. He could sense the greed and power that reigned in his son's mind. Not a good leader.
Yet, he had saved his father. And he had proved his military mind against one of the most brilliant generals of all time.
Aragorn's eyes met his sons.
"Never."
The Ranger kicked upward with his left foot, driving his son's sword up and into the air. With his right foot, Aragorn kicked the ground, executing a back flip that most thirty year olds would be proud of, not to mention those who were near two hundred. Upon landing, Aragorn rushed forward, slamming his shoulder into his shocked son's chest, driving him onto the ground. Narcil swept in a downward arc, stopping mere millimeters from Eldarion's neck.
"Now, you call your men off."
Eldarion smiled broadly. "Now that, father, was very impressive. Obviously, you have not lost much of your skill."
"My knees are not what they used to be," Aragorn admitted jokingly.
Eldarion actually laughed, then in an explosion of movement, he batted Narcil from his side and rose, placing a dagger on Aragorn's neck. Eldarion laughed again as he felt the cold steel of the knife of Lorien against his own neck. Father and son stood, blades against one another, both smiling in surprising amusement, considering the circumstances.
In an unspoken agreement, the two stepped back from one another, sheathing their daggers and spinning their swords.
"Again?" Eldarion asked brightly.
"Why not?"
Illúvatar, please be with Glorfindel, Niphredil prayed as she raced onward, not tiring at all. She estimated that she had run nearly five hundred leagues in the last thirteen hours. Send him healing and strength. Let him know that we are coming. A tear slid down the elf's cheek. She took comfort in knowing that her God was more powerful than Mornië, and that Mordae and Celebdraug would put some serious injuries on whomever they found nearby Glorfindel when they went to rescue him.
"Where are the Udunaedos?"
Mornië's glittering black eyes searched Glorfindel's pain racked face.
"Burn in Udun, you bastard."
Mornië closed his eyes and touched his temple; the crack of Glorfindel's left leg breaking echoed through the torture chamber.
The elf bit his lip with such force that he drew blood, but still Glorfindel did not cry out.
"I must say," Mornië murmured in his smooth baritone as he walked in a slow circle around the torture table. "Thou art one of the hardiest captives I have ever had the pleasure of interrogating."
"Thank you," Glorfindel gasped between breaths. Why don't I just pass out? the elf screamed in his mind.
"Oh, and by the way," Mornië continued as he orbited, "I am preventing thee from losing consciousness."
"Oiale'kula. I suppose I owe you one."
"Consider it a gift."
"I hope Mordae and Celebdraug make your death incredibly painful," Glorfindel hissed.
"Dost thou not tire of this?" Mornië inquired, sending a wave of pain up Glorfindel's right side.
"It does get kind of monotonous after a while," the elf gasped once the pain had subsided.
"I really do not care if thou tells me where they are or not," Mornië finally admitted, taking a seat in a chair beside the table. "I will find them either way."
"Oh really?"
"Of course. They will discover where I am keeping thee, from thy lover..."
"Girlfriend. Unlike you scum, High elves have morals." Glorfindel intentionally used the title most hated by the Drow, 'High elves', which inferred that the Drow were lower.
"That is fine," Mornië agreed, surprisingly good-natured. "In a little while, I will ensure that the two of thee never will be any more."
"Bastard." Glorfindel spat blood across Mornië's face.
The Drow stood, sending the most intense wave of pain he could muster into the elf. Glorfindel bit his lip and clenched his fists tightly, but could not hold back. After a few moments, he let out an anguished cry, and the pain subsided.
"There," Mornië said with a smile, wiping the bloody saliva from his face and smearing it across Glorfindel's tunic. "That was easy, was it not?"
The Drow began to walk away. "As I was saying, they will come, and soon. And we will be prepared for them. Then, thou will not be forced to enjoy this alone."
"You seem pretty sure they won't kill you."
Mornië stopped walking, sensing an opportunity to gain information. "I am confident."
"They've killed balrogs."
"I have controlled balrogs."
"They battled Morgoth."
"I was trained by Morgoth himself."
There was a long pause as Glorfindel inhaled deeply, offering a quick prayer for Niphredil's safety.
"May I go home now?"
Mornië shrugged and barked something to one of the orc guards, who raced to the elf's side and quickly unfastened him.
The sack went back over his head, and Glorfindel was dragged, somewhat kinder, he noted this time, back to his cell, where he was gently lowered to the ground.
Glorfindel began casting as many mental healing remedies as he knew on himself, easing the pain.
Illúvatar...
That was all the Silvan could manage before he gratefully slipped into unconsciousness.
A shimmering figure, a tall, incredibly handsome elf with shining white hair, knelt beside the unconscious figure, extending a glowing hand over the Silvan.
Peace be with you, My child.
