Chapter XLVI: Chaos Reigns Supreme
The Venyarohirrim surged onward; leaving dozens of flaming infernos that had once been siege weapons in their wake. At the head of the horsemen, Athfaë let out a whoop of exhilaration. The thought of Dacil's death still hung over her as an oppressive cloud, but it had still not fully sunk into her adrenaline pumped mind. As a warrior, Athfaë also knew that she must push all thoughts of pain out of her mind and focus that energy toward surviving and taking vengeance.
"Athfaë!"
The Venyarohirrim woman raised her head from her blood-work to see her father riding toward her through the scattering Fellowship.
He arrived alongside her, and was silent for a moment. Finally, he spoke, his voice sounding somewhat strained. "Athfaë, I know that Dacil's death may be difficult for you, but take comfort in knowing this; what you have accomplished here, Dacil would be proud to have given his life for. You have done his memory well."
The girl shot a glance over her shoulder at the main battleground, which had rapidly begun to expand as the siege weaponry ceased their incessant firing and Gandalf's division drew ever nearer to the chaos.
The progress that the charge had made was immeasurably helpful to the battle. Until the cavalry had so recklessly attacked the distant soldiers and broken the hold of the Fellowship, the battle had seemed to be leaning in the Belgorian's favor. Now, it was anyone's victory once more.
She turned her eyes back to Elfwine, who smiled reassuringly.
"You know, father, I believe you are right."
The dark figures looming to the east knew whose victory it would be. The humans had willing leaped into the trap set for them by the great Dark Lord, and now, they see his bidding fulfilled with their very lives.
Turdú slowly turned his head, surveying the force he led; while small in comparison to the massive armies before him, he was confident that his men could hold their own. He stopped his gaze on the face of his Captain. Dilotè's eyes shone with anticipation, yet her face was stoic, calm. She had painted the traditional runes of her people on her cheeks and forehead, and her hair was done in the customary style of a Halda'ohtar general.
The girl seemed to sense his gaze; her dark eyes shot to her left, meeting his, and she smiled. Turdú returned the smile, then raised his broadsword high into the sky, which had barely begun to lighten with the dawn. Dilotè raised her twin blades alongside his, crossing over her head.
"Remnant!" Turdú cried. "For our lord!"
"Mornië!" came the thunderous reply, and with the shimmering sound of metal clearing sheaths, the two thousand Drow riders charged forward.
Gandalf struck down another three Belgorians as he galloped through the noose that had been set about the Dunedain. The tide of the battle had begun to turn in their favor, and the ray of hope that fact brought had rejuvenated the morale of the Dunedain, causing them to fight harder. The wizard felt the surge of energy his troops radiated, and he fought to maintain the high morale.
He sighted Aragorn a few meters in front of him, dueling with Eldarion. The wizard wondered if the two had been at it for the entire battle, but he cast aside the thought as his gaze shifted to Eldarion's captain, Aragost. The young man was hacking his way toward his General, and Aragorn. There was no doubt in Gandalf's mind that the captain would not feel a shred of remorse if he struck down the former king from behind.
Spurring Shadowfax, his horse, forward, Gandalf cleared the final few meters and intercepted Aragost's attack, deflecting the blow away from Aragorn. The wizard leaped from his mount's back onto the marshland, aiming his blade and staff toward the Belgorian Captain, who nodded in acknowledgement and pointed his own blade.
The two rushed forward, blades crashing together, and then they began to circle one another, adjacent to Aragorn and his son.
"Have you two been fighting this whole time?" Gandalf inquired as he passed the Ranger.
"Just about," came the weary reply, and then they were beyond one another.
There was another clash of weapons as the two pairs lunged forward, slashing and parrying, then broke apart again.
Now Aragost and Eldarion neared one another in their orbits.
"Is it just me, or is every soldier in the Dunedain ancient?" Aragost quipped as he passed Eldarion.
"It's not just you," Eldarion responded. "I think they all escaped from their penitentiary."
Aragost laughed as the two distanced one another again, attacking their opponents relentlessly.
Suddenly, Aragost sighted the female elf he had battled earlier rushing toward the four, riding his old steed. Not sure of what her intentions were, Aragost kept one eye on the advancing elf.
A few moments later, the girl dismounted with a graceful flip, landing in the center of the group. Before either Fellowship soldier could attack her, she held up her free hand, fingers splayed, ordering them to halt.
Not sure why, the two young men complied, bringing the duels to a halt.
"Run," the girl ordered in the Common Tongue, her elvish accent quite prominent.
All four men gazed unsurely at her.
The elf's eyes flickered to the east, then back to the men.
"RUN!" she ordered, much more urgently, and in her native tongue, the stress of the sight before her sending chills through her blood.
Gandalf followed her wavering gaze to the east, and his heart nearly stopped; two thousand black-cloaked warriors thundered forward, viciously hacking their way through the army.
The elf raised her sword and jerked her head back over her shoulder. "Get out."
Eldarion turned toward his father. "Pleasure fighting you again, father."
"Likewise," Aragorn panted.
Aragost glared coolly into Gandalf's eyes and nodded slowly; a gesture of respect, which the wizard graciously returned.
With the gratuities over, the Fellowship leaders departed, Eldarion crying out the retreat. The attention of the other infantrymen was suddenly directed toward the Drow, rather than one another, as they attempted to flee the unstoppable horde.
Dilotè slashed left and right as quickly as she could, striking down human infantry with every stroke. The Dunedain elves had begun to band together in the center, directly in front of Dilotè, to form one last desperate defense. The girl smiled, welcoming the new challenge.
Turdú angled his steed toward the fleeing leaders of the Dunedain, Aragorn and Gandalf. Just as Dilotè had been ordered to capture Glorfindel, Mornië had commanded him to bring both the Ranger and the wizard to him, and the Drow intended to complete his mission.
He looked up just in time to see a shining white blade slash across his vision, and the Drow leaned downward, flattening himself against his horse's back. The blade whipped straight through where his head had once been, then the General snapped back up in his seat, dark blade raised.
He made eye contact with the Sindar who had nearly ended his military career; a brown haired girl with piercing green eyes stared back, calmly swinging her blade. With a battle cry, she rode forward again, blade poised to attack. Turdú leaned forward and urged his own steed into a gallop as well, and the two met with a flurry of swords. They struck, whirled in two full circles, and then separated, riding back a dozen meters, preparing to charge again.
There was a thunder of hooves again as Dilotè raced past Turdú, who nearly dropped his sword in surprise. The Sindarin girl, who had barely readied herself, charged forward to meet the attack. The two women met with a shimmering crack as their blades collided, and suddenly, Dilotè was in the air, off her horse.
Turdú inhaled sharply, worried that his captain had suffered a fatal blow, but he exhaled as the Drow girl landed on the back of the Sindarin woman's horse. The elf whipped her head around in surprise, but had no time to react; Dilotè drove her palm into the other woman's shoulder, knocking her into one of the dark pools of water. The elf hit the pool with barely a splash, then disappeared from view without a sound.
The Drow captain saluted the pool, returned to her original mount, then trotted back to Turdú.
"Showoff," Turdú accused teasingly.
"Okay, so the flip was unnecessary." Dilotè glanced again at the pool. "She fought with honor."
"Indeed," Turdú nodded. "Unfortunately, she fought for the wrong side."
Dilotè nodded in agreement, then lifted her chin. "Your prey is escaping."
Turdú seemed shocked back to the real world as he noticed Aragorn and Gandalf rapidly gaining distance from him.
"Noralim!" he shouted to his steed, which leaped forward in pursuit.
Dilotè smiled as she watched the General gallop off, then angled for the distant flaming siege weapons, where she knew her target waited.
"I'm coming, Horsewoman..."
Niphredil felt a spike of fear at the sight of the vampires, but it dissipated as a supernatural sense of calm settled over her.
They are friends. Go to them.
The Silvan girl staggered forward, drawing within a meter of the pair. Her bleary eyes settled on Zalok's face.
"My lady," the vampire lieutenant greeted the woman in his best elvish.
"Celebdraug...Mordae..." the girl croaked, her voice dry and harsh from dehydration.
Her knees gave out suddenly, and she began to fall, but Zalok lunged forward and caught her gently by the arms.
"You need the elves?" he inquired quickly but kindly, sensing the overwhelming weariness that threatened to take the elf.
"Drow...Dead...Marshes..."
Zalok shot a glance at his companion; he understood the words 'Drow' and 'Dead', but the translation of the final word eluded him. The other lieutenant shrugged, not familiar with the ancient language.
"I...understand not," the vampire attempted to communicate with the girl, who had begun to grow even paler.
"Water," she gasped, and then she was gone, unconscious from fatigue.
Zalok tenderly lifted her over his shoulder. "Let's get her inside," the vampire ordered hurriedly. "Go find her water. I'm taking her to my bed."
The second lieutenant saluted and transformed, whirling off toward the city.
"Hold on," Zalok willed the elf as he sprinted for his room. "Stay with us."
Behind the retreating vampire, an invisible, shimmering elf with long white hair nodded approvingly; his servant's faith was strong, and she had done well. Now the vampires would care for her, and in a short while, she would set in motion the beginning of the end.
Gandalf whirled just in time to dodge the massive black horse that thundered past directly where he had previously stood, sending up splashes of black marsh water from its massive hooves. He lashed out with his broadsword as the Drow raced past, but the soldier was past before he could make contact.
Turdú cursed to himself as he passed the wizard, re-angled, and ran down the Ranger, who seemed to be far too preoccupied with directing his fleeing troops. Aragorn managed to roll far enough to the side to escape the crushing hooves, but not enough to avoid the vicious strike of Turdú's left fist.
The Ranger stumbled and collapsed to his knees, scrambling to rise again, but Turdú dismounted and drove his hand into Aragorn's temple once again. The King fell again as Turdú raised his arm to strike one final blow, but the Drow abandoned his attack to parry Gandalf's blade.
The wizard whipped his staff over his head toward Turdú, but the Drow caught the weapon in his hand, leaped up, and fired a kick into Gandalf's knee. With a cry of pain, the wizard collapsed, Turdú rolling over his back and slamming his elbow into the disoriented Aragorn's chest. The Dunedain general flew backwards once more, struck his head against the wet ground, and lay still.
Turdú haughtily spun his blade in a quick circle, sheathed it, then bent to load Aragorn onto the back of the massive black steed. Gandalf fired a blast of flame at the General, but Turdú saw it coming, and dove to the side, escaping with naught but singed armor.
Gandalf began to rise, but a Drow lieutenant that flew from the chaotic horde, knocking the white staff from the wizard's hand and driving him down onto his knees. A quick scramble, a driving fist, and Gandalf sank to the marshland ground.
Turdú saluted the lieutenant, who returned the gesture, assisted in loading the two men, then vanished into the retreating horde once more.
The Drow General gazed coolly at the pair of unconscious captives, saluted them, and leaped onto his mount, wheeling around and heading back eastward. Lord Mornië would be proud.
"Watch out!" Eorlmer screamed, driving his horse between the unsuspecting Athfaë and the murderous Dilotè. The Drow girl swore at the obstacle, swinging both her blades in a crushing arc over her head and crashing down hard onto Eorlmer's.
Surprisingly, the horseman's sword held, and he pushed back her attack and countered, a blow that had no chance whatsoever of connecting with the Drow.
Suddenly, Elfwine was beside the other Venyarohirrim, his own blade whipping around toward Dilotè, who rode backward, hastily attempting to beat off the attacks. Athfaë rode quickly behind her, cutting off her escape route.
The Drow's mind flashed back to the night in the forest, where she had nearly taken her own life at the hands of the horsewoman, all in the name of honor.
Turdú's kindness – and mistakes – had taught Dilotè a great deal about honor and life, changing her own outlook on her existence drastically. She would not give up so easily this time.
Three more Venyarohirrim soldiers rode to their captain's assistance, tightening a noose around the Drow captain, who found no time to attack; instead she was forced to dedicate all her attention to deflecting the blows of the enemy cavalrymen that rained down upon her.
Athfaë drove in closer, knocking one of the thin blades from Dilotè's hand, sending it spinning into one of the murky pools. The Drow drove her free hand into Athfaë's face, surprising the girl and nearly knocking her from her mount. The other Venyarohirrim responded by attacking even more fiercely, many delivering slashing blows that managed to break the circle of protection that Dilotè attempted to keep around herself.
As the purple blood ran down her arms and side, Dilotè fought back all the more valiantly, thrusting one of her daggers through the forehead of a cavalryman and lopping off the head and shoulder of another beside her. A short blade smashed into the Drow's side, sending a greenish flash of blinding pain across her vision.
Suddenly, the blade ceased its driving force and instead was jerked out rapidly, causing another flash of pain. There was a clatter of metal, several loud crashes and screams, and as Dilotè's vision cleared, she witnessed Turdú hurling another throwing knife from his position thirty meters away, sending yet another Venyarohirrim onto the marshland floor.
Dilotè sprang into action, ignoring the pain and blood and drawing the pair of sai from her back. Spurring her steed forward, she caught Eorlmer's blade with one weapon, shattered it with the other, then drove the first into his shoulder, spinning him harshly. As she thundered past, she struck the final blow with her left-handed sai, punching into the horseman's chest, straight into his heart.
Athfaë let out a cry of rage as Dilotè hurled her right sai into Elfwine's stomach, finishing the man with a quick slash across his exposed neck. The Venyarohirrim girl launched herself onto the Drow's mount, swinging with all her might at Dilotè's head.
Seeing that she would not have time to deflect the blow, Dilotè pushed her boots against the stirrups, rising a few centimeters higher and taking the blow in her heavily armored shoulder. Despite the armor, the blade bit in, hard, drawing yet more purple blood and causing Dilotè's vision to swim. Just before she lost consciousness, the Drow slammed her palm into Athfaë's temple, hurling her from the black horse onto the ground, where she lay motionless.
Turdú rode hard to Dilotè's side, catching her before she fell, then swung her onto his own horse, where he would keep her from falling as they rode. He dismounted quickly, loaded Athfaë and the other two prisoners onto the back of the Drow woman's horse, then turned both the mounts eastward and rode hard for the horizon.
The surviving Drow, seeing their leader falling back, let out a final war cry, then, as suddenly as they had come, whirled and disappeared into the rising sun.
The Dunedain and Venyarohirrim broke off their attack and retreated at breakneck speed northward; a withdrawal that would not cease until they arrived in Lothlorien.
"Fellowship!" Eldarion cried to the bedraggled remainder of his army. "Make camp! I am not in any shape to ride home tonight, and I think none of you are either."
The army let out a cry of agreement and exhilaration, then quickly began to set up a makeshift camp.
Eldarion turned wearily to Aragost, who grinned broadly. "We beat them, sir."
The King nodded slowly, hanging his head in exhaustion. "I think we did, Aragost. I think we did."
