Chapter seventeen, Battle weary.
The foothills rose high around Atùvinel and her army, as they slowly pushed the Urûkans back, away from Gondor and Minas Tirith. It was a hard battle and a long one, neither side willing to give way. Atùvinel was deep in the middle of the fighting, Bergil on one side, Mandmar on the other, both fighting furiously, keeping more of the enemy at bay and away from her. But a few Urûks broke through and fought with Atùvinel. The White tree on her shield was smeared with black orc blood and the coronet above the branches was barely visible. She hewed an orc's head from his shoulders with ease, her sharp blade barely slowing as it encountered bone. The men of Gondor had one main advantage over their enemy; they were mostly mounted. And most of the war horses of Gondor were trained by the Rohirrim, and they fought as well as any human. But some men had been unhorsed and they fought as best they could on foot, until they were able to ride double with another warrior, took the horse of a slain man, or were slain themselves.
Nafalon reared as an Urûkan thrust a spear at his chest, when his forefeet landed, it was on the orc. Atùvinel had barely been affected by her steed's movement; she scored a red line across the chest of another, and then sat back slightly, as the press thinned. Standing up in her stirrups she surveyed the battle ground. Her camp lay a mile or so to the south, and they had ridden over the enemy camp last battle, rendering it mostly unusable.
"My lady!" Mandmar pulled her roughly back into the saddle and slightly to the side as an arrow flew. She gasped as it only nicked her arm. If Mandmar hadn't been there she would have died, without question.
"My thanks." She nodded to the Ranger, before lifting her sword into the air and calling the men to her side. She looked them all over as they made their way towards her, they were as exhausted as she, and some were wounded besides.
She looked to Bergil at her side as he stared at the mass of orcs before them.
"They are almost finished Princess, some left during the battle. Deserters I imagine."
"We shall make a charge then, to send them into the Black Hills. Have you our banner?"
"Aye Lady." He grinned at her, his white teeth flashing in a weary face.
"Unfurl it then." She raised her voice. "And let us carve the enemy asunder, for such will be the force of the charge of the men of Gondor!"
"And their Lady Narya!" a man called from the mass behind her.
She smiled broadly, her clear laugh ringing out above the sounds of battle. Most of the enemy had fallen back, to try and form a defensive wall, leaving only a few who dared to face the army of Gondor alone, with out the security of their companions.
Their wall did not avail them when the banner of the Princess of the White City was unfurled and the men of Minas Tirith followed her in an almighty charge.
Bergil was the first to reach the Urûkans and he knocked aside a spear and crashed into the enemy. Atùvinel and the host followed a scant second later, hacking and hewing at their enemies, horses rising and plunging into the battle as well.
It was a swift ending. Most Urûks either died in the next minutes by sword and spear, or, as they fled, were shot down by bow and arrow. Some made their way into the protection of the hills and the caves, and Atùvinel stopped her men following them, fearing an ambush.
"We have done our duty." She spoke softly, but her words carried on the wind. She was not one for great inspiring speeches, so she continued in the same vein. "Find our injured and dead. The injured return to camp as soon as possible, the dead," she paused for a second. "We shall prepare a mound for."
The men murmured softly and went about her commands with a weary familiarity.
"Princess," One soldier called. "What of the enemy dead."
"Take the carrion to that small hill to the east." Atùvinel commanded. "There they shall burn, as a warning to all enemies of Minas Tirith and Gondor."
The men gave a small cheer, and then went about their sorry tasks.
Atùvinel turned to Bergil, both still mounted,
"I am weary of battle, Bergil. Did I do aright?"
"You did very well for a first command, My Lady, neither your brother, nor the Prince of Rohan could have done better. I swear it." She rested a hand on her shoulder, and she smiled up at him.
"After the most severely injured are cared for, and the dead are buried, we shall return to Minas Tirith, and I shall tell the Princes that you said that." With a small laugh, she pushed Nafalon into a trot, and then a gallop, making for the large tent where the injured were being carried to, to heal all she could, and ease the passing of those who were beyond her aid.
Bergil watched her go, when he was sure she would not see him, he raised his sword in a salute and, digging the base of their standard into the ground, went to help where he could.