Chapter XLIV: Desperate Measures

Gandalf glanced stoically about, not willing to let his fear transfer to the troops he led from atop his snow white horse. He sighed heavily as he identified three separate divisions of infantry heading to intercept his own. The insanity of the whole battle was overwhelming to the wizard. He could still feel the rattling impacts of the giant siege stones landing in the center of the chaotic mass of the main battlefield.

As he racked his brain for some plan to escape the three-pronged attack heading his way, Gandalf drew his shining sword, which galvanized his troops into drawing their own blades. With a sigh, the wizard closed his eyes and sought to recall one of the thousands of battle strategies that he had witnessed his apprentices discussing over lunch. While he found their idle chatter about various maneuvers and combat tricks foolhardy, Gandalf had to admit that the two had the most brilliant tactics he had ever beheld.

When outnumbered, whether by yourself or guiding an army, strike first, and strike hard...he heard Celebdraug saying. Hit the weakest side and get out.

After a quick visual analysis, Gandalf determined that the western division appeared to be smaller; hopefully, that would enable his men to penetrate faster. Once through the horde, the wizard and his men could fight the remaining soldiers on one front, another point that the elves constantly emphasized.

"To the west!" Gandalf cried, wheeling his horse suddenly toward the chosen enemy horde.

The Dunedain soldiers let out a battle cry and surged forward, following the hail of arrows that the few elven archers in his charge fired.

Aragost fought to control his terrified horse as yet another siege stone smashed into the ground nearby, taking down a dozen more soldiers.

His efforts were unsuccessful, however, and the General soon found himself hurtling through the air over the heads of three Fellowship infantrymen.

Stumbling to his feet, Aragost raised his sword, ready to fight off any who had chosen to take advantage of his fall. Just before him, an elf maiden bearing a long, thin blade took a step toward him, her green eyes shining. She obviously recognized that he was of high rank by the stripes on his armor, and had decided that slaying him would be quite prestigious. The elf feinted forward with her blade, and Aragost batted it away viciously, then lunged forward, aiming for her open stomach.

The elf was gone. Aragost whirled, wondering how he had missed, then stopped as he caught sight of her again, this time attacking the three Fellowship infantrymen. The elf her sword through one man, then, thrust her dagger into another, dropping them both. As she leaped into the air and fired a murderous kick into the face of the final soldier, sending him sailing into one of the unforgiving pools of inky water, Aragost hurled his sword.

With a thud, the blade slammed into the elf's leg, flinging her to the wet and blood-soaked ground. Aragost rushed forward, intent on finishing her where she lay, but again, the elf was immediately gone. The General leaped backward just in time as she thundered past him atop his own horse waving mockingly with her sword.

Aragost swore as he bent to retrieve his sword. Another boulder slammed into the ground, knocking him to his knees and invoking another curse. He was going to have a very long talk with Eldarion about friendly fire.

Athfaë beat down enemy after enemy from her perch atop her black steed. The surprise defection was incredibly effective; the Belgorian Fellowship was in complete disarray, though disarray seemed to be the norm of the battle. Eldarion's infantry appeared to be somewhat organized, but the extent of organization was quite limited.

As she fought, Athfaë scanned the Venyarohirrim army for Dacil, but could not locate him. Slowing her erratic charge, Athfaë drew alongside Eorlmer, who seemed to be slightly oblivious to the chaos around him. The shieldmaiden took note of the pained look in his eyes, and a sense of dread began to settle over her.

The childhood friends battled in silence for a moment, until finally, Athfaë summoned up enough courage and managed to mutter one word. "Dacil?"

Eorlmer struck the Fellowship cavalryman that he was dueling with a brutally hard blow, his blade slicing straight across and through the man's chest, sending the two halves down to the marshland.

His hollow eyes looked up into Athfaë's hopeful face, and he choked, swallowing hard; she did not deserve this, especially not now. The young man urged his horse forward, hoping to escape the girl and dodge the question, but she was a much better rider than he, and was immediately in front of him, cutting him off.

"How?" Athfaë growled, fending off the attack of several Fellowship spearmen, who were attempting to restrain her from breaking the circle they had formed about the battlefield.

"I..." Eorlmer croaked, and he stopped again, wheeling his horse about.

Athfaë's eyes narrowed, and she blinked back tears. Though the girl had always prided herself in being able to control her emotions, she could not hold back the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm her. Swallowing hard, she raised her sword to the sky.

"To me!" her voice was shaken, but still discernable. However, the thudding of the siege stones drowned out her cry. Again, she cried, "Eorlinglas, to me!"

The call was taken up by nearby Venyarohirrim cavalry soldiers, and it swept through the battlefield, striking fear into the hearts of the Fellowship as they wondered at what was about to occur.

As the horde of riders approached, Athfaë hacked down the pike men, turned her horse toward the far off siege weapons, and charged.

Aragorn and Eldarion took a brief respite from their duel as they dodged the thundering horses that dashed past, following the others.

"The Rohirrim ride again, eh, Father?" Eldarion called, ominously calm, despite the fact that there was a massive, organized assault on his troops.

"Indeed they do."

"I need a Witch-King," Eldarion quipped.

"And some mumakíl," Aragorn added.

The number of riders began to diminish, and Eldarion stepped forward again into the circle the two had created around them. The bodies of several Fellowship and Dunedain soldiers lay about; those who had attempted to finish the duel but found that the skills of their targets far surpassed theirs.

Aragorn heaved a humungous sigh as he drew his blade up to his face, pointed slightly at his son.

"Getting tired?" Eldarion mocked, almost good-naturedly.

"I could use a nap."

Eldarion's eyes narrowed. "I could arrange for a permanent one."

The son lunged forward, blade hissing thorough the smoke and dust filled air. There was an earsplitting ring as the blades connected, then whirled around and struck one another again. Aragorn ducked another attack, stabbed a Fellowship soldier behind him, then spun back, deflecting Eldarion's next blow.

"Impressive," Eldarion admitted.

The young King executed a back flip, whipped around, and sliced an unsuspecting elf's head from his shoulders.

"Sloppy," Aragorn reprimanded.

With a roar, Eldarion rushed forward, striking again and again at his father, who deftly blocked every attempt to harm him. As another blow came down, the ranger's hand shot out and grasped the hilt of Eldarion's sword.

"You know that you will never best me," Aragorn scolded. "I taught you everything you know."

Eldarion responded by twirling his blade in an intricate arc that would have broken Aragorn's wrist had he not released the hilt.

"I would wager that you rue the day, too."

Aragorn shrugged. "I certainly do, now."

Gandalf raised his staff in desperation, calling down a flaming maelstrom upon the Fellowship soldiers pursuing his army. The western division had been smaller, but proved to be better trained, as Gandalf had feared.

The wizard had ordered all the elven warriors to the front lines, where they could operate most efficiently. Though the Fellowship soldiers were well trained, most of them, at least one-on-one, were no match for an elf. However, the men learned fast, and had begun to use their numbers to overpower the Eldar, resulting in a near standstill of the charge.

Gandalf struck down another soldier with his staff as he slew one with his blade from atop his horse. He was filled with a bit more hope as he realized that they were only a few dozen meters from punching through the enemy army. His hope was quelled, however, when he saw the dwindling numbers of his own army.

There was a heavy whistling sound and another, much more jarring, impact as a siege stone struck the wizard's army. Another struck a moment later, and then another. Previously, the devastating weapons were not focused on him, but it seemed now as if the gunners had changed targets and begun to rain death upon the charging infantry.

A new sight caught Gandalf's eye as he again looked up from his battling. A long, dark line, stretching from the main battle to the reserve Fellowship units and the siege weapons. The wizard gestured for an elven lieutenant, who finished felling the three men his was dueling, then sprinted to his side.

"Sir?"

Gandalf pointed. "What is that?"

The elf gazed out over the battle. "That, sir, is the Venyarohirrim. They appear to be assaulting the siege weapons."

"Thank Illúvatar."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant agreed. He raised his chin higher, straining to see over the Fellowship infantry. "We appear to be close to the end, do we not?"

"Indeed."

The elf saluted and dropped to the ground.

"The end is in sight!" he called. "Charge!"

Two score of elven warriors raced forward, swords cleaving an ever-widening gap through the Fellowship, and the surviving men quickly joined them, letting out harsh victory cries. Suddenly, and with great relief, Gandalf could see a path leading to the open marsh between them and the main battle.

The elven lieutenant let out another cry in Sindarin, which Gandalf could not hear, and the elves that had made it out turned and began hacking at the back of the surviving Fellowship, sandwiching them. In a few moments, the final Belgorian soldier fell, a half-dozen elven arrows burying themselves in his body.

Gandalf took the liberty of several deep breaths, then turned and surveyed the pursuing armies, which had closed to approximately half a league.

The wizard was now faced with the decision of where to move next, and he had to make it fast. Attack the other two divisions? Move to assist the Venyarohirrim charge? Rescue the bulk of the Dunedain army from the hellhole in which they battled?

Gandalf selected the final option, pointed his sword west, and called out his order.

"To our brothers!"

The men let out a cry and sprang forward, swords still drawn.

Athfaë raised her sword as she closed the final ten meters to the utterly shocked gunners, and then with a crash, she and the other Venyarohirrim struck.

The girl drove down all the artillerymen around the first siege weapon, then drew a torch from her saddlebags, lit it with her flint, and tossed it onto the massive launcher, which burst into flame.

A cry of victory rang out through her men at the sight of the blaze, and they move on to the next target, striking down the reserve soldiers as they thundered onward.

Nine leagues to the west, two dark figures stood, gazing out into the distant battle.

"What do you think?" Turdú asked Dilotè, who seemed transfixed by the far off engagement.

The Drow girl glanced up at him. "I think it looks like Udun."

"That's what I was thinking."

They stood in silence, watching as another siege weapon went up in flames and a significant horde of infantry moved toward the charging horsemen.

"How much longer until we attack?" Dilotè questioned, gazing up at the moon and stars.

"I would say we give them another few hours," Turdú answered. "They've been going strong for the past eight. Soon, even the elves will be worn down."

Dilotè nodded.

"Do you want to stay and watch?"

The girl shook her head. "I've been in too many battles for it to be entertaining to watch one."

"Good point. Back to camp."

The dark figures melted into the night.

Far away, none of the desperately battling soldiers could even fathom what was in store for them.

Mornië returned to the prison chamber a few hours later, in a much more cheerful mood.

Glorfindel awoke, blearily staring at the ceiling, again strapped to the table that he had been getting to know so well.

"Did you have a nice lunch?" the elf asked the Drow lord.

"I did, thank you."

"Bring me anything?"

A flicker of pain shot up Glorfindel's arm.

"That, and much more."

"Goody."

A sudden realization struck Glorfindel. He was no longer in any pain. The elf would have attributed this to the fact that his body had simply ceased to function properly, but his mind seemed to be healed as well. Glorfindel knew there was absolutely no way that his own mage work had performed this well, leaving him with only one explanation. Knowing that Mornië had the ability to read his thoughts, Glorfindel offered up two simple words.

Thank you.

The dark mage did not seem to notice, but rather pulled a chair up beside the torture table.

"I tire of this game, elf."

"It is getting kind of boring."

Glorfindel prayed that the Drow could not sense his sudden healing.

"I fear we are forced to up the ante, if you will," Mornië growled. "If thou dost not give me something I want, and soon, I will simply finish thee."

"Hope you have fun."

Pain shot through the elf's body again.

"Where do the elves keep the rings?" Mornië growled.

Glorfindel's eyes grew wide.

"Why do you want the rings?"

"TELL ME!"

Pain even beyond what he had felt before ripped through Glorfindel, who let out a cry.

"Never!"

More pain.

Suddenly, the pain vanished, and Glorfindel felt a new sensation. Something was in his mind, tearing through his knowledge, searching for something.

The elf focused with all his might, trying to stop the attack.

Illúvatar, help me!

Niphredil stumbled as she crested the top of another hill, bringing Rivendell suddenly into her sights.

A rush of memories, good and bad, hit her, and the Silvan dropped to her knees. She felt urged to go to the abandoned city, and Niphredil never ignored what she was told to do.

Rising to her feet, the girl sprinted toward the city, unaware of the two pairs of eyes watching her.

"Another elf?" Zalok muttered incredulously to himself.

"It would appear so," the other lieutenant, who stood with him, replied.

"What do we do with this one?"

"Hold it until Lynza gets back," came the immediate response.

"Treat it well?"

"Of course."

Zalok stepped from the trees thirty meters in front of the girl.

"Halt."