Verse IV

Sing me a song, mommy

A song of glorious battle

No battle is glorious, my child

It is death and lost, and nothing more

Like a flood of green and golden, the Riders sweeped into the mass of orks, that still surrounded the white city. The rhytmic chanting and howling, that had enrolled the city like an invisible cover, came to a halt. The sound of the cries of the dying, the screams of the horses, the horns and the howling, mixed, building up an exquisite carpet of battle, that consumed everyone on the Pelennor.

Eowyn and Merry, amidst the fighters, struggled, swords ablaze, one to the left, one guarding the right hand side of the horse that was still advancing in the charge of the Rohirrim. Eowyn was not sure, if battle was, what she had expected. She had longed for the glory and for the fight – for a death like a ray of fire, a final lightning before the darkness. She had wanted to feel what life was, and sought it in the proximity, in the certainty of death.

For is it not so, that one only learns to love, what one has already lost?

And so she fought blindly, did not see friends and foes fall around her. The fear was gone, now that the necessity to survive had taken her heart in its grip. They threw back the orks, now caught between the unyielding city and the wave of the Rohirrim, and grim wounds the glittering swords of the horsemen caused.

But the orks were not all that Mordor had to give.

A deep howling, new cries, foreign songs, approached slowly, at first swallowed by the sounds of the battle, but then becoming more prominent. A new rhythm replaced the battle chants of the orks, that had diminished under the attack of the Rohirrim, and before the Riders understood, the captain of the Orks already had grasped the situation.

„HARADRIM!" he cried, and the orks turned to recieve the coming reinforcements.

Some in flight, some in something, that vaguely resembled a marching order, the armies of Mordor hurried to the relative safety of the newly arrived. The orks withdrew from the fights, tried to escape the whirling hooves and biting swords of the Rohirrim, and Theoden king, sensing the danger, gave order to let the orks withdraw.

Eowyn did not hear his voice. Blood covered her sword, her green tunic, and her breath raced, as she engaged the foe before her. The orc stumbled back a few paces, encouraged by the resounding horns of the Haradrim, but Eowyn went in pursuit. She was not prepared to let go of her enemy. To many orcs there were, and this one would not live.

Her horse stumbled over the body of a dead foe, and the orc, sensing the opportunity, turned and fled, running up the hill with his kin. Eowyn pulled the reigns angrily and spurred her horse.

„Run, run", she whispered, her voice hoarse, and the brave beast obeyed, carrying her and Merry after their fleeing enemy. A strange fury had taken hold of her. Too much evil had come from the pest of Mordor, too much, to even let one of them escape.

Eowyn left behind the ranks of the reforming Rohirrim in fury. She did not hear the calling, that bid her return to her own lines. The captains cried, and even the voice of Theoden king called back the lone rider, that raced the field, but she paid them no heed.

She screamed, a sound without word, expression of her fury and despair, and it was this scream, that made Theodens eyes widen in terror.

„Merciful Valar", he whispered, his voice being swallowed by the sounds of the battlefield. „It is her..."

But it was too late, and the Lady of the horses had left her people in pursuit of her enemy.

Eowyn and Merry were half up the hill, when the Haradrim crossed the top and made themselves seen. A long row of Oliphaunts appeared like a wall unpassable. Each of the animals was large like a tower, and crowned with a saddle of wood and bone, each bearing warriors uncounted. There were no arrows yet, but there would be, and at last, Eowyn understood, that she had dared to go to far. She pulled the reigns and forced the horse to a halt, and stared, wide-eyed, at the approaching army, as her foe, that she had so furiously hunted, fled towards safety being greeted by a cheer.

„Oh no", whispered Merry, and the proud rider trembled. Her gaze darted to and fro between her own lines and the enemy's, but she knew, she could not make it.

„So be it." Her voice trembled, but she held the reigns in an iron grip. „Merry, be steady. The end is near."

And yet she feared the end, now that it was there.

A cry resounded over the battlefield, made man and horse tremble. Like agony becoming sound it wavered over the forces of Mordor, encouraging them, as the Rohirrim crumbled under the horror.

One of them found the strength to call out, and his call was taken up by many others, everyone giving form and sound to his terror.

„NAZGUL!"