The Battle of Fornost
By morning of the next day, March the Eleventh, the snowfall had abated, although the snow stood over a foot thick on the ground, greatly impeding the advance of the army. The Gondor-men shivered and cursed frequently, for the balmy clime of their southern homeland left them ill equipped to endure the rigours of a northern winter. But the soldiers decamped none the less, turning their march to the North, up the High Road to Fornost. In their vanguard strode the Rangers and Hobbits under Aranarth and Falco, who were to serve as the eyes and ears of the army as they drew closer to the lands now held by the enemy. Alongside them rode Gandalf, on a dappled grey mare borrowed from Earnur's supply train.
It was tough slogging for the Hobbits, for whom the snow was well above their knees. But by following in the wake of the long-legged Rangers they persisted, and so the vanguard marched north, past the outlying villages of Staddle, Coombe and Archet, and so to the edge of the Chetwood, that patch of tame woodland which marked the boundary of the Bree-land to the north and east. The Chetwood skirted along the eastern margins of the Road for many miles, reaching its end beyond the horizon near the southern marches of the fields and meadows about Fornost. A pall of quiet fell over the vanguard now, for they knew that they were passing beyond the region which had lain under Gandalf's sway, into the lands held by the Witch King of Angmar.
The snow sat thickly on the branches of the Oaks and Beeches of the Chetwood, though many branches appeared to have been swept clear. The Hobbits were the first to notice that on those branches sat countless Ravens, staring grimly at the marching army with unfriendly ebon eyes. "Little beasts!" exclaimed Falco, who ordered his Hobbit-archers to fire a volley at them. Some of the arrows hit their marks, but most of the Ravens flew off to the North, their harsh, mocking cries echoing across the snowy woods and fields.
"It appears the welcoming committee is off to ensure us a warm reception," observed Gandalf wryly.
"Think you that mere birds are in the service of the enemy?" asked Arnarth quizzically. Aranarth and Gandalf were riding beside each other, at the forefront of the Rangers.
"Of course they are!" frowned Gandalf. "Ravens have been servants of the dark powers since time immemorial. Though other birds may serve the powers of light; my cousin Radagast the Brown, for instance, who lives away East near the boughs of Mirkwood, is a master of bird-speech, and many sparrows, swallows and doves are his friends. But I've no doubt these Ravens will soon bring report of us to the Witch King."
"If so, then it would seem wise to scout the Road ahead of us," replied Aranarth. He ordered the vanguard to come to a halt, sending messengers to pass the word down the ranks of the Gondorian and Elven armies behind.
"Captain Gorlim," said Aranarth to one of the Rangers. "Take two-score of your Men, and advance through the Chetwood, using its trees as cover, to report on the condition of the road ahead. Return to us with your report by this evening."
"Yes, my lord," replied Gorlim, his grey eyes scrutinizing his men before selecting those most fit for the mission.
"I and a score of my Hobbit scouts shall accompany you," said Falco, who had ridden up to join them. "Notwithstanding the snow, we can sneak closer to any pickets or redoubts than you Big People, and bring a more accurate report of the numbers of the enemy within them."
"So be it," nodded Arathorn. Falco dismounted, leaving his pony to one of the Hobbits, while a score of the others accompanied him in the wake of Gorlim and the Ranger-scouts as they passed into the forest. The scouts had not been long departed when Earnur rode up on his charger.
"What's the cause for delay?" asked the Prince. "We received your instructions to halt the column. Is there trouble ahead?"
"That's what we're trying to find out," replied Arathorn. "We think we may have been spotted already. I've sent out scouts to investigate the Road ahead."
"I won't gainsay that," replied Earnur. "Though this accursed Dragon could spot us at any time, if the tales about him are true."
"He may already have done so," nodded Gandalf. "Never the less, we shall wait and see what the scouts have to say for themselves." Earnur nodded wordlessly.
The captains were joined at length by Gildor, who had been sent by the Elves to determine the cause of the delay. He asked them to send a report by messenger when the scouts returned, and then rode back to his own people, rather than bide his time alongside Earnur – who had scowled, and seemed well aware of Gildor's opinion of him.
The day passed slowly and drearily, with all the soldiers shifting back and forth on their feet and stamping their boots to ward off the chill. The Hobbits sniffed the air and proclaimed that a change was coming, and the weather would soon take a milder turn; that did not raise the spirits of Aranarth and Earnur, since it merely meant that the snowy fields would soon melt into seas of mud, further hindering the progress of the army.
Finally, as the Sun sank low in the West and the first stars appeared in the darkening sky the tireless Rangers returned, accompanied by the very weary Hobbit-scouts. Gorlim bowed before Aranarth and Earnur, and then said, "It is well we stopped, my lords. Ten miles distant is the first picket of the enemy – lightly guarded, but the first of many. We will skirmish with them if we proceed further along the Road tonight."
"We could sweep pickets aside with a wave of our hand," replied Earnur. "But I am more concerned about the main body of the enemy's forces. Were there any signs of their approach?"
"Not yet, Your Highness," replied Gorlim, "but then that is to be expected. Fornost is many leagues distant."
"We noted that all those manning the pickets were Hill-men, of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur," gasped Falco, who seemed the worse for wear after a long day of marching in the wake of the fast-moving Rangers. "There were no Orcs to be seen."
"Orcs are never much use when left to their own devices," replied Aranarth. "Doubtless the Witch King has them penned-up within the walls of Fornost, where he can keep an eye on them." He noted the exhaustion of the Hobbits with concern, though he did not remark on it.
"What now, my lords?" asked Gandalf. "I do not think we should spend the night here. The eves of the Chetwood could provide cover for our enemies as easily as it did for our scouts, should the Witch King move against us sooner than we expect."
"I agree," nodded Earnur. "We should move off the Road, to the West, and spend the night in fortified encampments. We can march up the road to deal with the pickets tomorrow."
"Might it not be best to march west and then north, bypassing the pickets entirely?" asked Aranarth.
"I like not leaving my flanks exposed," replied Earnur, shaking his head. "And the fields might be muddy on the morrow.
"Even so," replied Aranarth, "we could get even more bogged down on the Road, if the pickets are many."
"That is possible," admitted Earnur, "though we may have lost the advantage of surprise in any event. But we shall decide these matters in the morning." He rode back to his Men, issuing orders to march west into the fields and stake pickets into the snow to defend their encampments for the night. The army soon did as it was told, accompanied by the Elves, Rangers, and the weary Hobbits.
It rained over the night, and the next morning the air was mild, just as the Hobbits had predicted. The snow was melting quickly, forming bubbling rivulets, though the frozen ground had only begun to thaw.
"We may get some traction over the fields today," said Earnur, as he pushed his hands through the snow and brought up a small clod of frozen soil from beneath. "I've decided the army shall bypass the pickets, just as you had suggested, Aranarth. Our cavalry shall screen our flanks, and put paid to the savages on the pickets if they march from them to stir up trouble."
"Very good," replied Aranarth. "Though I shall not accompany you. My own route lies north and west of here."
"Yes, your secret entrance," nodded Earnur. "Very well. I wish you luck, for your mission is vital to our success, and we do not know what dangers you may find. The enemy has had a great deal of time to prepare snares and traps within the walls of Fornost."
"Many thanks for your concern," bowed Aranarth. "And I wish you luck as well, brother. All of us shall require it."
Aranarth then departed from Earnur, and ordered the two-score of them he had hand-picked for the mission to ready for their departure – the rest he had placed under Earnur's command, to use as scouts for the army on the battlefield. He then approached Falco, who sat by his party of Hobbits. They still appeared weary, though their little faces remained determined.
"Grave peril now lies ahead of us, my friend," said Aranarth to Falco. "Earnur, Gandalf and the Elves are marching directly into battle against the Witch King."
"That is also our purpose," replied Falco. Some of the Hobbits close by him nodded, though others shifted on their feet, sharing secret glances with each other – it was one thing to talk bravely of battle in the Shire, but quite another now that some of them had seen the Witch King's dreadful warriors from up close.
"I have my own mission," said Aranarth, "which you might have heard me mention to Gandalf during the course of our council at Breee. It shall lead me north and west of here at first, rather than directly to Fornost. A party of my Rangers shall accompany me. I would ask that your people accompany me as well."
"To lead us out of the field of battle, and out of danger?" frowned Falco. Several of the Hobbits shook their heads, though others appeared hopeful.
"To lead you into danger," smiled Aranarth grimly, "although it may prove a lesser danger to your folk than following in the wake of the Men of Gondor and the Elves. But I am going to a place where you shall be of far greater use to me than on the battlefield. As I have said before, the strength of you Hobbit-folk is not found in a contest of arms, but in your stealth; and it is your stealth I have need of."
Falco stared at his Hobbits for some moments, before turning his gaze back to Aranarth.
"As you wish," he replied with a bow. "To be honest," he continued, hissoft voice dropping to a whisper, "some of my people will be only too glad to proceed by stealth rather than in the open. Those of my clan, the Tooks, have always had a taste for adventure; but most of our other clans, our Proudfoots and Boffinses and Bracegirdles and Oldbucks and Bagginses and such like, are simple, quiet folk, who wish nothing more than to live their lives in peace. The boldest of them have followed me out of love for our land, and a desire to do their part; not out of any real yen to rush into the perils of the battlefield."
"Indeed?" asked Aranarth, though he had already guessed as much himself. "Well, that is probably very sensible of them," he smiled. "But let us proceed forthwith. We still have a long march ahead of us."
Falco bowed again, and then issued orders to his Hobbit-company, who formed up into columns. They marched to Aranarth's waiting party of Rangers, and then followed in their wake as they pushed their way through the melting snow to the secret entrance of the tunnel leading to Fornost, many leagues to the north and west.
Meanwhile, the other Rangers formed up alongside the Gondorian light infantry, placed under the command of one of a Gondorian major. Earnur issued the order to de-camp, and shortly thereafter the Gondorian army, followed by the Elves, and led by Earnur and Gandalf on horseback, began their march over the snowy meadows to Fornost and the field of war.
For two days the Men of Gondor, accompanied by the Rangers, and the Elves of Mithlond and Rivendell marched across the fields. Theirpace slowed as the last of the snow melted, and they became bogged down in the mud just as Earnur had feared they would. He had contemplated returning to the Road, but the Ranger scouts reported that nearer to Fornost there were many encampments of the enemy, and that the road had been torn-up and laid with traps in many places, so that it was no longer useable. Earnur received this news grimly, and ordered the army to continue its difficult march across the flat, dreary lands southwest of Fornost. Gandalf seemed increasingly distracted, and began with ever more frequency to gaze upward at the sky, searching deeply and muttering under his breath when he found nothing.
Then on March the fourteenth, with Fornost less than two day's journey distant, Earnur commanded the army to break out of its marching formation, and form up into battle-order. They had soon fallen into the famous Gondorian "U" formation; the twenty-thousand heavy-infantry at the centre, flanked by five-thousand heavy cavalry ahead and on each side, and another five-thousand light infantry, accompanied by Rangers acting as scouts further ahead on the flanks of the heavy cavalry – forty-thousand Men in all. Typically, light cavalry would accompany the light infantry, but Wealtheow's Northmen had been sent on their own path, and were not yet present. Thus the army of Gondor appeared from afar to be weaker than it truly was. The two-thousand Elves under Gildor, Glorfindel, Elrohir and Elladan brought up the rear guard, while Earnur and Gandalf rode just head of the heavy infantry. They spent the night encamped in this same formation, and the Men got little sleep amid the constant drills, watches and patrols of an army that was now ready for battle at a moment's notice.
The next day, March the fifteenth, dawned bright and clear, with a soft breeze blowing from the South. It might have seemed strange for the weather to have been so fine when the Witch King's lair was now very close, and that dark sorcerer was rumoured to be able to influence the clouds and winds themselves. But the purpose of the fine weather was all too clear; the long-frozen ground had melted entirely, and was now virtually a sea of mud, sucking at the ankles of Elves, Men and horses as they struggled through the mire. The land about was flat and empty, though the highest tower of Fornost was just barely visible to Elven-eyes; a thin sliver on the northern horizon, imbued as it seemed with a sickly green flame.
It was the fourth hour past noon, and the Sun was descending into the West, when the horses of the cavalry began to neigh and whinny, standing stock-still even as their masters spurred them to keep moving. The Elves frowned, and then knocked their bowstrings, reaching for the long, lethal arrows they stored in their golden quivers. Gandalf was alarmed, and urged Earnur to order the army to a halt.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over the heavy cavalry regiment that stood to the right of the heavy infantry. The horses were screaming now, some bolting, while others bucked violently, nearly throwing off their riders in their terror.
"What's the matter with you?" shouted Earnur, charging toward them on his steed. Gandalf following in the Prince's wake, riding just behind him. "Get those beasts under control and re-form the line," continued Earnur, "or I'll withhold a fortnight's wages from all of you!"
"No!" cried Gandalf, his voice husky, his grey-bearded face suddenly pale. "Fly, all of you! Run while you still can!"
"What?" shouted Earnur, turning his fierce blue eyes on the Wizard. "How dare you countermand my orders, you old knave! I ought to…"
Earnur never finished the sentence, for with a rush of heavy wings, and a blast of poisonous fumes he was upon them; Carakel the Silver, the dreaded Worm of Angmar!
With an earth-shattering roar, Carakel plummeted from the heavens, slamming his vast bulk into the heart of the eastward regiment of heavy cavalry. He crushed some hundreds of them underfoot, while the cries and shouts of the survivors, desperately struggling through the mud to escape his wrath, were taken up by all the Gondor-men who stared in horror at the beast. None of them had seen a Dragon before, and now they realized bitterly that the fearful tales of their ancestors the Edain, who had fought against the Cold and Fire-Drakes of the North in the Elder Days, were all too true. Moving with a speed incredible for his size, Carakel ran with ease over the trembling ground, lumbering back and forth like a great lizard, his fangs and claws and poisoned breath and sweeping tail slaying ever more Gondor-men and their horses with each passing moment.
"Form up!" shouted Earnur, bellowing now at the heavy infantry. "Prepare to charge!"
"No!" cried Gandalf, "leave that beast to the Elves. Your own work is cut out for you; look!"
Earnur followed the Wizard's arm, which pointed northward, and then swore loudly. The horizon was now black with a heavy line; the advancing army of Angmar! The Witch King had not been content to lie in wait for a siege; he had allowed the Men and Elves of the West to advance ever so close to his lair, and now he had sprung his trap.
"Westward cavalry in front of the infantry, wedge formation!" cried Earnur, barking orders to his generals as he turned away from the Dragon, riding along the front ranks of his Men. "Infantry forward; leave the Drake to the Elves! Eastward light infantry, tighten-up and guard our flanks!" The army moved forward slowly, their speed and precision hampered by the muddy ground, while the Elves ran towards the eastward cavalry, who had been nearly consumed by Carakel's assault. As they prepared to charge the Dragon, Gandalf watched them briefly, before turning and following in the wake of the Gondor-men. He had his own business to attend to, before he could help the Elves deal with Carakel the Silver…
Aranarth and his party had struggled over the muddy fields for some days, before arriving at last at the entrance to the tunnel. He had found it only with difficulty, for despite Vana's detailed description one stone seemed little different from another. But at last, it was clear; a large boulder, embedded in the side of a muddy bank, near a hedgerow whose buds were just beginning to open.
Aranarth and several of the Rangers pulled hard on the stone, at last dislodging it, and revealing the dank, dark tunnel that Vana had described. Aranarth peered briefly into the tunnel, and then turned to Falco, who along with the other Hobbits had stood by and watched the operation.
"This is where I shall need your help, my friend," said Aranarth. "You must separate your folk into two groups. The larger part shall stay here, with several of the Rangers, and disperse about the hedges and fields nearby. They shall keep a watch, and slay any servants of the enemy that come this way; for our tracks are deep in this mud, and Wargs and other fell beasts could pick up and follow our trail with the utmost ease. This tunnel shall not remain secret if they see many tracks leading to the boulder and disappearing."
"And what of the smaller part?" asked Falco.
"The smaller part," replied Aranarth, "must accompany the rest of the Rangers and myself into the tunnel. We shall journey along it, right under the walls of Fornost, and to the courtyard of the Citadel; now the lair of the Witch King himself." Falco turned pale, and the other Hobbits drew back, whispering darkly amongst themselves.
"What shall we do you help you, when we arrive in that place?" asked Falco.
"Deeds of great daring," said Aranarth. "We need to open first the Western Gate of Fornost, and secondly the Inner Gate, in the wall that encompasses the Citadel. Both will be guarded, but your folk, being small and stealthy, can risk drawing near to the levers that open the gates without alerting the guards. When the signal is given, they shall spring out and turn the levers; my Rangers will hold off the guards who arrive at the scene, until our cavalry and infantry can storm through the gates and take first the city, and then the Citadel."
"A mission of great peril indeed," frowned Falco.
"I told you I was leading you into danger," replied Aranarth with a grim smile. "Though still less danger to your folk, than if you found yourself on the field of battle at this moment, with an hundred-thousand Hill-men and Orcs and Trolls bearing down on you, and the Dragon hovering above. But come, will you aid me? My Rangers had planned on opening the gates alone, but your stealth could ease their mission, and perhaps spare many lives. No more than ten of your four-hundred need volunteer."
"I'll go," nodded Falco. "Though the thought of drawing so near to the Witch King himself is fearful to me. But, such are the perils of war. Who will join me?"
Most of the Hobbits frowned and shuffled their feet, but one by one volunteers came forth; mostly Tooks, naturally, though an Oldbuck was also present. At length, Falco had his nine volunteers, with himself being the tenth.
"Many thanks, my brave friends," said Aranarth. "Now, let us proceed." He signaled to his Rangers. Ten of whom stood by the hole, ready to seal up the entrance and then lead the Hobbits in a watch and guard against servants of the enemy who happened nearby. The remaining thirty joined the ten Hobbits, and filed into the tunnel.
One of the Rangers who stepped into the tunnel had carried a curious, lacquered case from a sling over his shoulder, and he now took it off his back, set it on the dank floor of the tunnel, opened it, and presented it to Aranarth. The Rangers and Hobbits gasped as they saw Aranarth remove Amarloke, the enchanted spear of gilded Mithril that had been presented to him by Cirdan and Gildor at Mithlond, and which he had hitherto kept secret from all others.
"A gift from friends," explained Aranarth with a smile. Taking the spear in his right hand, Aranarth then picked up with his left hand a torch that had been thrust in the mud within the tunnel entrance months before, while another Ranger used a flint and tinder to ignite it. Aranarth nodded to the Rangers on the surface, who pushed the boulder over the entrance and plunged the tunnel into darkness, illuminated only by the torch's solitary flame.
"Quietly now," said Aranarth. "It's a journey of some hours to the Citadel, and this tunnel runs deep beneath the surface; but even so we must proceed with the utmost stealth and caution. Our lives and the outcome of the battle depend upon it."
As the Army of Gondor formed into its battle order – minus the eastward cavalry, whose remnants struggled vainly against Carakel – the vast hordes of Angmar surged toward them over the muddy fields with incredible speed. To the east were columns of full fifty-thousand Orcs; and to the west, as many Hill-men of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur, both bearing ebon banners marked with the pale skull-faced design of the Witch King. Spaced irregularly amongst the forefront of both Hill-men and Orcs were massive Trolls of the Ettenmoors, bearing tree-trunks as clubs. They roared and bellowed as they charged at their enemies, their stony hides protected from the glare of the Sun by the Witch King's sorcery.
Earnur had ridded past the heavy cavalry to its forefront, and now rode ahead of them, wielding his mighty longsword, and crying "For Elendil and Anarion!" in his deep voice. His cry was soon taken up by the other Gondor-men, until their shouts echoed the roars and screams of the wild Hill-men and savage Orcs and Trolls.
The Trolls met the cavalry first, wading into them and smashing horses and men again and again with their heavy clubs. The horses screamed and bolted, many bucking their riders, while others hewed vainly at the Trolls stony hides. But the swords of the cavalry proved useless against them, merely scarring their thick hides and heightening their rage and bloodlust. The Orcs and Hill-men jeered and slavered, as they witnessed the Trolls crush and demoralize the front lines of the Gondor-men.
Earnur himself charged right at a massive Troll, which roared and bellowed, and swung its club at him. Earnur raised up his sword to parry the blow, but was knocked clear out of his saddle, and landed flat on his back in the mud as his steed reared up in panic. The Troll waded towards him, an evil grin on its blunt-featured, ugly face as it raised up a massive foot, ready to stomp him into the ground and crush out his life. Earnur held up his sword, though he knew it would prove useless against the Troll's seemingly impenetrable skin.
Then, the Troll suddenly froze as a mighty voice surged across the battlefield. That voice belonged to no less a being than Gandalf! The Grey Wizard, who had ridden close behind Earnur, stood up in his saddle. He seemed suddenly to have grown in stature, and a bright aura formed about him, as if a mighty power that lay deep within was being revealed to mortal eyes. Raising his wooden staff above his head, he cried "Arien du-esgal, morgul kelmaeg!"
There was a deafening clap of thunder, and the battlefield was plunged into darkness for an instant, and then seared by a flash of brilliant light. As the unnatural glow faded, restoring the light of the Sun, both the armies of Gondor and Angmar stood still in their tracks, stunned by this awesome display of wizardly power.
The Hill-men and Orcs lowered their spears and shields, their cries and screams now of fear and dismay. For the Trolls, who but a moment before were hewing at their enemies, had all turned to stone! The Witch King's spell had been undone, leaving the Trolls under the Sun's rays without any protection. Creatures formed of stone in the Great Darkness of Morgoth, they could not endure the Sun's light without sorcerous aid; otherwise the least ray of Sun was sufficient to undo the spell of their making, leaving them dumb statues. And so they stood now; each Troll was reduced to a mere block of stone, frozen forever in the position it had taken the last moment before Gandalf uttered the words of his counter-spell.
"Don't just stand there gaping!" cried Gandalf, turning to the Gondor-men. "Take up your swords against the enemy! Charge!"
With a sudden gleam of hope on their faces, and the fires of passionate courage burning in their hearts, the infantry and cavalry of Gondor cried "For Gondor! For Gondor!" as they surged toward their enemies, who fell back before them, their morale shaken by the loss of the once-mighty Trolls. Earnur leapt to his feet, tracked down his steed, which had recovered from its sudden panic, and then plunged into the fray, hewing and hacking at the enemy in a storm of flying Orc-heads and arms, of black blood and bitter gore.
Gandalf surveyed the scene for a moment, grunted, and then turned his steed and spurred in forward; not towards the Orcs and Hill-men, but towards the Carakel the Silver, engaged in fierce battle with his Elven foes.
Carakel had swiftly slain countless Men and horses of Gondor before the Elves charged him. Their gilded armour shining in the Sun, they cried "A Elbereth! Gilthoniel!" and drew their bows, marking the Dragon's massive form as their target.
Carkael's glowing eyes narrowed, as he turned from feasting on a score of dead Men to the onslaught of brave Elves before him. He had fought with them – yea, even with some of the very same of them – at the Great Battle of the War of Wrath, over five–thousand years before. Remembering all too well the sting of Elven-arrows, which were imbued with bitter enchantments, he lurched suddenly into the air and flew swiftly to avoid the first volley.
The arrows hissed like vipers as they hurled through the air, more than a score of them hitting their marks in the Dragon's sprawling underbelly. They could not penetrate his Mithril-armoured hide, but they lodged firmly wherever they struck, and their enchantments surged through the Mithril and into Carakel's flesh, tormenting the dark spirit that dwelt within.
Carakel roared mightily with rage and pain, as they Elves prepared to fire another volley into his thick hide. But then, his blood-lust fired by his anger, he plummeted from the air like a stone and crashed right into the heart of the Elven army!
The Elves cried out with alarm, breaking formation and running this way and that as the enraged dragon surged amongst them, slaying them with blast of his poisonous breath, and with his blood-smeared fangs and talons, and cruel lashing tail – just as he had done to the Gondor-men before. But the Elves were quick and lithe, and while many fell before him, many more evaded his grasp, firing their deadly arrows with incredible accuracy, and tormenting the mighty Dragon even more. He bellowed and screamed, his wings flapping fiercely as he took to the air again, drawing out of arrow-range before he readied himself for another assault.
"Mark him!" cried Glorfindel, the foremost warrior of the army of Rivendell. "We must keep him high in the air, before he lands again to crush more of us underfoot!"
"He is too quick," frowned Elrohir, knocking his bow regardless.
"And entirely maddened, like a bear surrounded by a swarm of stinging bees," observed Elladan.
Bellowing again, so loudly that the very ground shook, and many Elves clasped their ears in pain, Carakel hurled down from the skies again, eager to smash even more of his ancient foes. His eyes glared fiercely, and for all his pain he laughed cruelly, savouring the long-forgotten taste of Elven blood on his jaws and tongue.
Suddenly, he threw forward his wings, brakeing his flight in a desperate attempt to sail back into the air. Glorfindel turned and saw Gandalf, still mounted on his steed, raising his staff towards the massive beast.
"You remember me, it seems!" cried Gandalf, who then spoke a Word of Command. A bolt of lightening suddenly shot forth from his staff, striking Carakel broadside across the chest! As fingers of lightening traced over his armoured hide, the Dragon screamed with pain, swooping low over their heads with a beat of his heavy wings before turning and sailing straight up into the sky.
"That should hold him off for awhile," smiled Gandalf, wiping his brow. "I gave him a taste of my medicine some months ago, when he first harassed the Bree-land. He'll not be keen for any more spoonfuls!"
"He has fled from us," cried Gildor, who had ridden up and joined the Elven captains. His face was taut and grim. "Too late for my taste; many of my people lie dead. But what is he up to now?"
Gandalf's smile turned to a frown, as he followed the path of Carakel's flight; it led more than a mile distant, straight towards the heart of the Gondor-men and their heavy infantry.
For several hours, Aranarth, his Rangers and the Hobbits and followed the dank path of the tunnel, a chill cooling their blood and stirring up their fears as they drew under the walls of Fornost. Aranarth was uncertain, but he guessed that the Witch King had placed his own enchantment about his new stronghold; a Veil of Fear was perhaps a stronger guard than thick walls of stone. But he knew in his heart that there was no turning back. With words of encouragement for his Men, and especially for the Hobbits, some of whom were trembling openly, he led them on to their destination.
At last, they reached the end of the tunnel, and climbed up a narrow fight of stairs. When they stood at the top of the stairs, before a door of stone, Aranarth turned and whispered to them. "Now we stand within the Citadel wall," he said. "Beyond this door is the base of a guard tower; there may or may not be any guards before us when we open it. And beyond that lies the courtyard of the Citadel. We must now split into two groups again. Half of you Men shall hide within the guard tower, save for the Hobbits who, guided by a few Rangers, must sneak towards the lever that opens the Inner Gate of the Citadel wall, and hide nearby. The rest must follow me through the narrow Postern Gate, and then over the ruins of the city, so that we may make ready to open the Western Gate when I give the signal." The Rangers and Hobbits nodded grimly, and then divided themselves into two groups as Aranarth had ordered. Aranarth reached up and pressed the lever-stone described to him by Vana, and then the company held their weapons at the ready as the door swung open silently on its hinges.
Mercifully, they did not see a battalion of surprised Orcs standing before them, but the empty floor of the based of a garrison tower, and beyond it the courtyard and the Citadel. It was twilight, and the shadows of evening were already lengthening under the walls. Yet what they saw and smelt was no less a torment to them, and most of all to Aranarth, who had known Fornost in the days of its fairness. Steaming piles of rubbish and filth lay everywhere, dumped with abandon by the Orcish garrison. The smell was indescribable, and several of the Hobbits were quietly sick as they inhaled the stench. The walls were smeared and vandalized with graffiti, much of it gibberish, but much of it also obscene words and evil symbols. The grass of the courtyard had long since been stamped out, leaving a sea of mud. Worst of all was the Citadel itself, which glowed with an eerie, pale greenish flame, a corpse-light that illuminated nothing. A dreadful banner flew from the flagpole atop the Citadel's highest tower; ebon black, and bearing the pale, hideous skull design of the Witch King.
"This place is accursed now," whispered Aranarth, his blood running chill as he realized how near he stood to the ancient foe of his people. But then he steeled himself, and signaled to the company. Extinguishing the torch, he left in on the stairs, and they filed into the garrison tower. Aranarth reached up, finding at length the outside lever-stone, and pushed it into place, the door closing with only a slight echo as he did so. They stared around cautiously, to see if they had yet attracted any unwelcome attention, yet no enemies sprang forth. The harsh sounds of Orcish banter could be heard from up on the battlements, yet it was scattered and only occasional, as if the Citadel wall were but lightly guarded.
"Let me have a look," whispered Falco. "I can see if the coast is clear, or if any enemies stand between you and the Postern Gate." Aranarth nodded, and Falco trailed out, clutching his staff for use as a weapon in case he encountered an enemy. For several tense minutes, the company waited for him. Then, he returned, sombre but hopeful.
"Those Orc-beasts are all up on the walls," he whispered, "and there aren't many of them either. They keep gesturing and hooting, as if they're watching something from afar; the battle, I imagine. The courtyard is quite empty. I even peered into the tower in the wall by the Inner Gate, and no one's down there either. And only two Orcs stand by the Postern Gate. Our mission might not be so hard after all – though as we Shire-folk say, chickens shouldn't be counted until the eggs are hatched."
"How rustic," smiled Aranarth. "But it seems the Valar are with us. My party shall file through the postern to the Western Gate of the city; the rest shall make ready by the Inner Gate of the Citadel. The Hobbits amongst you can wait by the levers, while the Rangers hide themselves along the walls and stand guard. These piles of rubbish the Orcs have thrown about should serve as excellent cover for you."
"I shall accompany you, my lord," said Falco to Aranarth.
"So be it," nodded Aranarth. "Let us move!"
The company broke into its two squadrons, and while one filed quietly towards the Outer Gate of the Citadell wall as ordered, the other accompanied Aranarth and Falco, dashing from one rubbish pile to another as they approached the Postern Gate. Two spear-wielding Orcs did indeed stand guard, though as was the fashion of their kind they were careless, more concerned with boasting and with insulting each other than in maintaining a scrupulous watch. Aranarth made a signal with his free hand, and the Orcs suddenly found their unarmoured necks skewered by a shower of arrows, some long and heavy, others slim and light. They dropped with weapons with a clatter, gurgling as their yellow eyes rolled desperately, and then fell to the ground.
"What was that?" grunted a harsh voice from high up on a parapet. "Ugronkh! Shragnat! Get down their, you slugs, and check it out!"
"Why don't you get down there yourself, you grasping dunghill rat!" sneered another, oily voice from on high. "All barking orders and no work for you high-and-mighty officers, isn't it?" He received a snarl in reply, and the clash and clang of iron swords rang out from the battlements.
"Just as I had hoped," grunted Aranarth. "Vigilance and disciple are not their strong suits. Now, fly to the gate!" He dashed forward, his squadron close behind him, and triggered the lever of the narrow Postern Gate. The portcullis opened, and the squadron filed through. They carried the filthy corpses of the Orc-guards and their spears with them, so that the guards would appear to have abandoned their posts, rather than having fallen to their foes. Aranarth turned the lever again, and then dashed through the gate before it snapped shut. He was the last to reach the narrow bridge, which now lay under deep shadow as the Sun dipped below the Western walls of the city, and the stars began to glitter in the twilight sky. A trail of bubbles rising from the stagnant moat revealed the resting places of the Orc-guards and their weapons. Aranarth rushed across the bridge and to a pile of rubble that lay beyond; one of the many fallen houses that littered the ruins of Fornost. Fate was with him and his company again, for in their squabble the Orcs on the battlements had been distracted from seeing any of the Rangers or Hobbits file across the bridge. Now, the squadron could safely use the ruins of the city for cover, right up to the edge of the Western Gate in the city's outer wall.
"It seems a pity to still have our lads in that dreadful place, still in peril by the Inner Gate, when we already managed to open and pass through the Postern Gate," whispered Falco.
"The Postern Gate won't do," replied Aranarth. "For one thing, the Orcs will eventually cease their quarrel, and then they would discover that we had left it open. As it is they'll find it close, and simply think that its Orcish guards are shirking their duties. And in any case, while it's easy to leave the courtyard through through the Postern Gate, a hostile party entering through it would have to go single-file over that narrow bridge and then through the gate itself. They'd soon be bottlenecked, easy targets for Orcish archers on the battlements. But when we swing open the broad Inner Gate, the Citadel courtyard will soon be swarming with our Men, and the wall encompassing the Citadel swiftly taken. Then we'll just have the Citadel keep itself to worry about. But come; we must still make haste. Already the Sun has set, and we were supposed to be waiting at the Western Gate of the city by no later than sundown."
Aranarth and the squadron then set forth amid the rubble, silent shadows great and small that were all but invisible in the deepening night.
As the Sun was touching the Western horizon, Carakel veered toward the heavy infantrymen of Gondor, their sprawling mass an inviting target for the Dragon's breath and tail. He was still enraged and in pain from the sting of the Elvish arrows, and the blow dealt by the Wizard's lightening, but he was still vigorous and strong, and thirsting for revenge.
He spread his vast wings over the hapless Gondor-men, and with a mighty roar he crashed into the heart of their formation, slaying them by the tens and hundreds with every sweep of his claws and tail, and every blast of his poisonous fumes. The Gondor-men were scattered and drew back in fear, as the Orcs and Hill-men rallied and pressed turned from defense to attack against them. Earnur spurred his generals to keep their soliders in order; but the Gondor-men were terrified of the Dragon, against whom their mortal blades were useless, and the battle seemed in danger of becoming an utter rout.
Suddenly, a brazen cry echoed from the West; the peal of many horns. Carakel looked up from his carnal feast, and then saw what had hitherto eluded him in his rage and pain; the cavalary of the Northmen! Wealtheow had at last arrived, pulling within sight of the walls of Fornost at sundown on the ides of March, just as had been planned two moons before.
Bellowing again, so that the earth shook violently, Carakel shot up into the air. Though there were still tens of thousands of Gondor-men left standing, the Dragon could not resist his urge to sweep down on the Northmen, those wretched towheads who had been the enemy of his kind of thousands of years. He could have smelled them from ten miles away, were the air not thick with the stench of mortal blood. His giant wings beating fiercely, he soared towards Wealtheow's cavalry, leaving the Gondor-men to rally under Earnur's cries of "Elendil!" and "For Gondor!" as the Orcs and Hill-men fell back once again under their foes' assault. Carakel knew he could return to dealing with the Army of Gondor soon enough! First, he would taste once again the blood of Northmen on his fangs…
For some time, Aranarth and his party picked their way over the ruins of Fornost, the Rangers stopping now and again to shake their heads, and offer silent prayer for those who had once dwelt happily within the houses of the city, before they were cruelly slain by the Witch King's minions. But Aranarth, though his heart bled as much as theirs, did not permit them to wait long; already they were tardy.
At length, the squadron found themselves crouching behind the broken wall of a house but a stone's throw from the Western Gate. The towers flanking this Gate appeared more heavily-guarded than those flanking the Inner Gate of the Citadel wall, though the broad compass of the city walls themselves appeared but lightly guarded. The lever that opened the Western Gate lay inside the northern of the two guard towers, from within which sound of Orcish jeering and cursing could be heard. Beyond the walls, the din and strife of battle echoed for miles, punctured now and again by tremendous roars that could only have been issued by the Dragon. Falco and the Hobbits trembled and stopped-up their ears with their hands every time they heard that dreadful noise.
"Now is the time," said Aranarth to Falco. "The other Rangers shall stand guard here, but you and your Hobbits, and myself, shall enter the northern tower. The levers stand at the top of the stairs to the second floor. I shall stand guard, but it is up to you Hobbit-folk to sneak up to them and pull them unseen. Otherwise, my Men and I will have to charge up the stairs, and a fight with the Orc garrison will quickly ensue. But even now, I will release you from your oath, if you do not wish to dare this peril."
"I do not wish it," whispered Falco. "But I shall dare none the less." The other Hobbits turned pale, but nodded their agreement.
"Then let us go," replied Aranarth. Clutching his spear, he dashed toward the tower, peering inside the open doorway. He signaled to Falco and the Hobbits, who soon followed.
"There are the stairs," said Aranarth, pointing to a winding stair that proceeded up from the dark, stone-flagged floor of the tower. A ruddy light shone down them, and the echo of Orcish voices could be heard.
"I shall go first," said Falco with a gulp. "The rest of you wait here. No use risking all our lives, for the stealth of many is less than the stealth of one." The other Hobbits nodded silently.
"Good luck!" whispered Aranarth. "May the Valar protect you!"
"Or at least, may my feet tread silently," replied Falco, as he set aside his staff and began to tip-toe up the stairs.
For some moments, the Hobbit climbed step by step, losing sight of his companions as he approach the garrison-room above. When he finally reached the top of the stair, he peered cautiously over the rim, his brown eyes widening at the sight within. The room was lit by a blazing fire on a hearth, in which were burning bits of broken-up furniture and old books. On the far wall as the doorway to another flights of stairs, presumably leading to the battlements of the tower. Several Orcs slouched by the walls, taking deep pulls from leathern-flasks, singing and laughing harshly what seemed to be a drunken stupor. "Sauron wished his Ring to keep," they sang, "but Isildur took it for himself; what a creep!"
"What gibberish," thought Falco. "And they've no understanding of poetic meter." He continued surveying the room, until at last he saw the iron lever controlling the gate; embedded in the wall in the far side of the room.
"Just my luck," thought Falco sourly. "Now how to distract those guards, without their sounding the alarm?" His brows knit together as he frowned in concentration. Then he stared at burning chairs and heavy tomes in the fire, which had been stacked precariously on top of each other. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his slingshot, fitted it with a smooth stone, aimed it at the most precarious spot in the burning pile, and fired.
There was a shower of sparks from the fireplace as the pile of rubble crashed to the ground, scattering in flaming heaps over the floor.
"Garn!" cried the Orcs, leaping to their feet and tottering unsteadily. "I told you that wood weren't stacked right, Lugnash!" slavered one of the Orcs, wiping a trail of drool from his chin.
"Quick!" cried another. "We've got to put them fires out, before the whole damn tower burns up around us! The boss'll 'ave our heads!" Two of them rushed up another flight of stairs, searching for a bucket of water, while the third stamped on the burning books, trying to put out their fires.
"Now's my chance!" thought Falco. While the lone Orc's back was turned, he dashed across the room, leapt up to the lever, and pulled with all his might. It had not been oiled in many months, and gave a heavy, rusty groan as the iron-clad oaken doors of the Western Gate rumbled open.
"You little squeaker!" shouted the Orc, whipping around and pulling out his curved blade, which he pointed menacingly at the Hobbit. "Come 'ere!'
Falco did indeed squeak, but moreover he ran, as fast as his legs could carry him toward the stairs. The Orc was hot on his heels, but fell screaming as a hail of Hobbit-arrows were embedded in his flesh.
"You followed me up!" exclamed Falco. "I told you to wait down there." The other Hobbits smiled sheepishly.
"They followed me up," cried Arnarth, bursting forth from the shadows of the stairway. "And I came up to see what this awful racket was. So much for stealth!" He pointed upwards, where the Oaken ceiling trembled under the iron-shod boots of many Orcs, and then to the greasy Oaken-floor, on which the fires had now gained a purchase, and threatened to roar at any moment into a blazing inferno.
Aranarth thrust his spear at the lever, which cut through the iron like butter and left it shorn off at its base. "The gate won't be so easy to close," he shouted. "Now fly!" He dashed down the stairs, Falco and the Hobbits hot on his heals as the screams of furious Orcs sounded from the garrison-room above, their pursuit cut off by the spreading fires.
Aranarth and the Hobbits rushed back out of the base of the tower, and wheeled round into the archway under the open gate. Pandemonium had broken loose; the Orcs on the battlements shouted and cursed at the opening of the gates, spreading fires shot forth from the windows of the northern tower, and the Rangers who remained by the broken wall began to snipe at the Orcish garrison on the battlements with their arrows, leading the Orcs them to rush back and forth in panic and confusion at this assault from unseen foes. Outside the gates, the battle raged close to the city now, and the Hobbits shrank back against the thick stone walls of the archway as they saw for the first time the horrors of war; screaming foes, the clash and din of spears and sword on shields, the flight of deadly arrows, the thunderous charges of mighty steeds, and the stench of blood and death.
Aranarth turned his gaze to the West, and for a moment was delighted by the sight of Wealtheow's ten-thousand cavalrymen, charging toward the Western Gate of Fornost just as planned. But then his heart sank, for soaring through the air, not far distant from the walls of the city was Carakel the Silver. His heavy wings beat the air furiously, stirring up gusts of wind, his armoured hide glittered ruddily in the waning Sunlight, and his glowing eyes blazed fiercely as he soared toward his foes.
Aranarth felt his blood run hot as he saw with his own eyes the beast that had ruined his fair city and slain so many of his people; yet fear laid its icy hand on his spine as he saw that the beast was aiming straight at the Northmen's cavalry! Unless they dashed through the Western Gate as planned, occupying the city before the forces of Angmar could shore up its defences, the whole battle might prove in vain.
Bearing his long spear in his arm, Aranarth rushed to the edge of the Gate, standing just under the rim of the city wall, and out of sight of the Orcish archers above. Then he cried out, in the deepest, loudest voice he could muster:
"I am here, Carakel the Silver! Lord Aranarth of the Dunedain, Isidlur's Heir awaits you!"
The Dragon suddenly wheeled into the air, turning from his course toward the onrushing Northmen, and landed heavily on the muddy field some hundred paces before the Western Gate. The Orcs on the battlements gibbered with fear, dashing to the cityward side of the tower to exchange arrow-fire with the Rangers rather than gaze any longer on the dreadful beast, so recently allied with their master. The Hobbits cried out in terror and sank to their knees, covering their eyes with their hands. Aranarth stood tall and firm.
"I see you, Man of Arnor," rumbled Carakel, his glowing eyes shining brightly. "And I smell you."
"You smell your own death," replied Aranarth, raising his spear.
Carakel laughed, a deep, dreadful sound that shook the ground for miles. "Do you not wish to know how I recognize you as Isidur's Heir, O Prince?" he gloated. "It is the smell of your blood, which is like your mother's. Sweet was her flesh, if rather tough; but yours shall be sweeter still."
With a cry of rage, Aranarth cast his spear Amarloke, just as Carakel leapt forward, spewing forth a blast of shimmering, deadly fumes. Whether by chance, or by the will of the Valar, the spear-cast did not fail of its mark; for its sharp point sailed arrow-straight, and plunged deep into the eye and brain of Carakel the Silver! With an ear-shattering cry of rage and anguish, the Dragon soared up into the air, veering over the ruins of the city and belching poisonous fumes as he writhed in his death-agony. Then, suddenly, he plunged from the sky like a stone, crashing right into the broad moat that encompassed the Citadel. The waters foamed and bubbled as his mighty form sank beneath them, hissing and spitting at the evil vapours that bubbled forth from this watery tomb.
As the Hobbits removed their hands from their eyes, they saw a ghostly trail of deadly, shimmering vapours sail over their heads. Then they turned and looked at Aranarth, who stood wavering on his feat, his skin now deathly pale.
"My lord!" cried Falco, as Aranarth crashed to the ground. The Hobbits crawled forward, under the dissipating cloud of poisonous fumes, and grasped at Aranarth. He was still alive, but his breathing was laboured and shallow, and his skin had taken on a sickly hue.
"Quick! Pull him back into the tower!" cried Falco. Their small arms burning under the strain, the Hobbits took hold of Aranarth, pulling his heavy body over the gravel of the archway floor, and back to the entrance to the tower – the stone walls were now hot from the fire that raged above, but the smoke rose upward, and the ante-chamber of the stair was yet sheltered from Orcish arrows.
"Lord Aranarth!" cried the Rangers of behind the ruined wall, as they saw what had happened. While most of them unleashed a storm of arrows at the Orcs on the battlements, two used the volley as cover to dash toward the tower, tending as they could to their fallen lord and master. They failed to notice a Raven that had watched them from atop a nearby pile of ruins, and which cawed harshly before spreading its wings and flying at top speed toward the Citadel.
"The Worm has fallen!" cried Wealtheow, drawing his gleaming sword. "To the Gate! Charge! Charge!" With a deafening roar of triumph, and the earth itself shaking under the hooves of their ten-thousand steeds, full half the cavalry of the Northmen, led by Wealtheow himself, charged the Western Gate of Fornost. They poured through the archway and surged along the streets as they took hold of the ruined city with an iron fist.
As the mounted archers of the Northmen began to snipe at the Orcs on the walls, the other half of their cavalry who had remained outside the gate wheeled about and struck from behind at the Hill-men and Orcs on the battlefield. Those warriors of Angmar who had been demoralized by arrival of the Northmen's cavalry, and thunderstruck by the sudden defeat of Carakel the Silver, and now found themselves wedged between the ferocious attack of the Northmen to their rear, a a renewed assault by the Gondor-men and the Elves from the front. Still they fought in the gathering gloom, but step by step, they were forced back and cut down by the spears and arrows of their better-armed and better-led foes.
The Hill-men, who had already suffered terrible losses in their fight against the armoured heavy infantry of Gondor, were the first to lose their nerve. First one, then another began to trickle away from the battlefield, until the trickle became a flood. Then they broke and ran wholesale, fleeing eastward to their mountain homes, while the Northmen's cavalry ruthlessly cut them down from behind.
The Orcs proved a tougher nut to crack, for while they were ferocious and undisciplined, yet they took delight in slaughter and bloodshed, and threw themselves at their foes again and again in their madness. But their ancient blood-enemies, the Elves, charged at the Orcs and cut them down with lethal arrows and sharp two-handed pikes. Though heavily outnumbered, each Elf was the equal of a dozen Orcs in combat, and they soon drove a wedge into the Orcish forces that split them in two. The remaining Orcs found themselves besieged by Elves from within their ranks, and Gondorians and Northmen from without, yet still they would not surrender, fighting savagely to the death instead.
Gandalf, still mounted on his steed alongside the Elves, and fresh from combat with a bevy of Orcs, stared grimly at the distant prospect of the Northmen cutting down the fleeing Hill-men of Hithaeglir and Rhudaur. He had never approved of ruthlessness toward a defeated enemy; but Wealtheow had already entered the city as planned, and Gandalf himself had no authority to command the Northmen to cease from their course. Satisfied that the Orcs, who he knew would never surrender, now faced certain defeat he caught the eye of one of the Elvish captains.
"Glorfindel!" he shouted. "Leave this battle to Gildor and Elrond's sons, and follow me! There is work yet to be done in the city; the Witch King yet holds the Citadel, and for all Earnur's vows and my words at Bree I find in the breech that I am loathe to allow him to face that dark mage alone!"
"I shall follow you!" cried Glorfindel, his blue eyes shining keenly. He cut down a charging Orc with his gleaming sword, and then turned his pale Elven-steed and rode after Gandalf, who was already driving hard toward the Western Gate.
As Gandalf and Glorfindel drew near the walls, they noted to their dismay that Earnur, marked by a banner bearing the Royal Standard of Gondor, was charging through the Western Gate ahead of them in the company of a score of his elite cavalrymen. Spurring their steeds harder, the Wizard and Elf rode through the Gate after him, weaving past the debris that fell from the battlements of its northern tower, which was now burning fiercely. As they charged into the ruins of Fornost, which were now full of mounted Northmen cutting down their fleeing Orcish foes, they were interrupted by a sudden cry;
"Gandalf!" shouted a Ranger, who stood up from behind a pile of rubble. "Please, come quick! Our lord is gravely ill!"
Frowning, Gandalf pulled hard on the reins of his steed, wheeled about, and galloped toward the Ranger. Glorfindel likewise turned about and followed him. Then they saw Aranarth, pale as a winding-sheet, surrounded by a company of Rangers and several Hobbits, including Falco. The Hobbits had tears on their little faces, but the Rangers looked hard and grim.
"What has happened here?" cried Gandalf, jumping off his horse and dashing toward Aranarth's still form. "Speak!"
"The Dragon," replied a Ranger. "Lord Aranarth slew the beast with an Elvish spear; it was a sight to behold! But some of the Dragon's poisonous breath seems to have caught up with him, for he suddenly dropped like a stone. These brave little fellows," – he gestured to the Hobbits "pulled him to safety under yon tower. Then we dashed out and brought him back behind cover, dodging Orc-arrows all the way. We sent messengers for your aid, since it is plain he is beyond the skill of Men to heal."
"I must have ridden past them," said Gandalf, "though thankfully I am here none the less."
"A Cold Drake's breath is a grievous weapon indeed," gasped Glorfindel, who had also dismounted and joined Gandalf. "It is a miracle he yet lives at all." The Elf placed his long hands on Aranarth's forehead. Aranarth's breathing was terribly shallow, and it seemed clear that he was near death. Glorfindel closed his eyes, and sang soft words in the ancient Elvish tongue. Aranarth's breathing then steadied, though still his face remained shock-pale and gaunt.
"I will do what I can here," said Gandalf, who crouched down, set his staff on the ground, and reached into a leathern satchel within the folds of his grey robes. "Your Elvish-healing has drawn him back from the brink, Glorfindel, though still he lies in grave peril. But now you are needed first and foremost at the Citadel, my friend. Earnur must fight the Witch King as he has sworn, but he should not do so alone; my heart forebears it."
"I shall go," nodded Glorfindel, his fair face marred by sadness as he stared down at the Lord of the Dunedain, struggling between life and death. "Use all your powers, Gandalf," cried the Elf, running back to his steed, and spurring it towards the Citadel. "Aranarth must live!"
"I know it," muttered Gandalf, as he withdrew a dried, fragrant herb from his pouch, and held it under Aranarth's nose. "I shall not fail you, my boy," he whispered.
"Report!" cried Wealtheow, mounted atop his charger. "What is the situation on the walls?
"The walls are taken by our lads," replied an officer of the Northmen, who held up a glowing brand to ward of the shadows of the night.
"Good!" replied the general, his blue eyes gleaming triumphantly. "And the Orcish barricades by the Southern Gate?"
"Thrown down," replied the officer. "The Orcs without the walls are not yet all dead, but the Gondorian light infantry are already pouring through the Southern Gate to occupy the ruins of the city."
"Then to the Citadel!" cried Wealtheow, turning to his personal cavalry brigade; full five-score Men. "Follow me!"
The cobblestones of the streets clattered under the iron-shod hoofs of the steeds, as they drew nearer to the Citadel wall, which glowed strangely with a pale corpse-light. Muttering a prayer to his gods at this token of dark sorcery, Wealtheow cried "Sound the signal!" A trumpeter let forth three brazen peals, and then they continued their charge toward the Inner Gate of .
At length, arriving at that gate, they found it thrown open, though the clash of steel and the snarls and curses of Orcs could still be heard on the battlements. Wealtheow charged over the wide stone bridge that spanned the moat, and his Men surged into the courtyard, some nearly tripping over the piles of rubbish that were scattered about, obscured by the dark shadows of the evening.
"General!" cried a Ranger, who ran towards him from the walls. "The Inner Gate is opened as you see, but Orcs yet lie on yon battlements. Our Rangers are hard-pressed to slay the last of them.
"Dismount and up the walls!" shouted Wealtheow to two-score of his Men, and they jumped down from their steeds and drew their swords, charging towards the garrison towers whose stairs led to the upper walls. The rest surged across the courtyard, standing guard by the Inner Gate, and riding up the steps to the broad double-doors of the Citadel keep itself, which remained shut tight.
"There are no archers on the Citadel walls," observed Wealtheow. "It is strange."
"There is no sign of life in the Citadel at all, General," said the Ranger. "Perhaps the Witch King is not there."
"Coward," spat Wealtheow. "Yet that will make it easy to batten down the doors and finish this battle, all the same." He turned his gaze back to the Ranger, only to be surprised by the sight of several Hobbits, who had crept out from behind a pile of rubbish.
"Hello, my little Holbytlas!" laughed Wealtheow. "Have you had your fill of war!"
"And then some!" replied one of the Hobbits. "Falco got it easy, I think. We were nearly torn limb-from-limb by those ghastly Orcs when we tripped the lever of the gate. Thank goodness the Rangers came to our rescue."
Wealtheow was going to reply, when the clear peal of a silver trumpet sounded from beyond the Inner Gate. He turned and rode his steed back to the gate, where he saw on the far side of the bridge Prince Earnur and a score of his Gondorian cavalrymen.
"Welcome, Your Highness," cried Wealtheow, riding back toward the threshold of the Gate. "This wall encompassing the Citadel is near taken; my lads are just mopping up a few stubborn Orcs. Only the Citadel keep is left now."
"Any sign of the Witch King?" cried Earnur. "He has not yet shown his face in battle today."
"He is a coward," replied Wealtheow scornfully. "The Rangers here say the Citadel keep might not even be occupied at all. The Witch King might have high-tailed it back to Carn Dum before the battle even began."
"I trust not," frowned Earnur. "For I shall not rest until I have his head, as I have sworn. My Oath is my bond."
Suddenly, a harsh creaking and groaning sounded forth from the doors of the Citadel, as they swung open slowly on their hinges. The clashing of steel from the battlements had ceased, but now the Men fell silent, and stared through the open doors into the inky darkness of the keep.
"Perhaps we spoke too soon," smiled Earnur. "I might have my duel yet!"
The smile soon faded from his face, as he saw that which poured forth from the Citadel's open doors. Like smoke it was, or fog, and yet blacker than midnight itself, blacker by far than the shadows of the courtyard. Thrusting forth long, grasping feelers, the cloud surged down the steps, filling the yard, climbing to the top of the walls, and suddenly engulfing Wealtheow, his Northmen, and the Rangers and Hobbits within, extinguishing their torches and plunging the courtyard into darkness.
"What is this devilry?" cried Earnur, drawing his longsword. His horse shied back from the bridge, and the steeds of his cavalrymen began to neigh and paw the ground fearfully.
Then, he heard them – the screams, first distant and faint, as if from a far distance, and then loud and terrible. Earnur recognized some of the voices – they came from Wealtheow and his Northmen!
Earnur's own horse now screamed in turn, and reared back, throwing him clear out of his saddle for the second time that day. It bolted, and was followed by the steeds of the cavalrymen, some of whom desperately fought to bring their beasts under control, while others seemed infected by panic. When Earnur picked himself up from the ground, sword at the ready, he suddenly found himself alone.
The screams from the walls and courtyard of the Citadel died down, and a shroud of utter silence fell upon the accursed pile. Then Earnur heard footfalls; the steady, iron-shod canter of a horse, riding through the ebon cloud. As the cloud began to fade, Earnur stared in horror through the Inner Gate, as under the starlight he saw that the the courtyard was littered with the bodies of fallen horses and Men. But his gaze was soon captured by the being who rode forth from the gate, stopped at the top of the bridge as it stared down at him.
Mounted on his daemon-steed, its eyes glowing cruelly, the ebon-armoured Witch King held its reins in his mailed fists as he glared silently at his foe. Earnur felt his blood run cold, for he had never before seen a Man so tall, or one whose eyes and face were utterly veiled in shadow. He felt a sudden urge to turn and run - yet his courage fought against his fear, and still he held his ground.
"Depart from my path, mortal" intoned the Witch King, "and thou shalt die quickly. Stay my course and thou shalt die in torment, such that thy name shall be a byword and a warning among Men."
"This night is your last," cried Earnur, his courage returning in full at this insult to his pride. "You have cowered in your keep all day, rather than lead your warriors in battle. No longer. Stand and fight like a Man!"
The Witch King wheezed and moaned harshly, in what Earnur realized with disgust was laughter. Then he pulled his longsword from its sheath, and with an ear-shattering screech charged straight at the Prince of Gondor.
Earnur dodged aside and swung his blade to parry the Witch King's thrust. The force of his enemy's blow nearly drove him to his knees, but with incredible speed Earnur counterthrust his sword at the Witch King's mount, disemboweling it. A putrid shower of rancid flesh fouled Earnur's nostrils, but he cried out triumphantly as the beast screamed and fell to the ground, while the Witch King was sent hurtling through the air!
As the eerie flame in the falled steed's eyes flickered and died, Earnur charged at the Witch King, who had landed on his feet and quickly turned to face his foe. Their blades met in a shower of sparks, each nearly throwing the other back with his tremendous strength. The Witch King dodged and thrust at Earnur, cleaving his shield in half below the arm. Earnur quickly parried, casting aside the useless shield, and then swung a two-handed blow at the Witch King's armoured skull. The Witch King dealt a riposte, but was thrown on his back by the force of Earnur's blow.
Earnur thrust down for the kill, but the Witch King had already leapt to his feet, standing now behind him. Without time to turn around, Earnur thrust back his blade, barely blocking the Witch King from striking off his head. Then he turned, dealt his foe a swift kick to the midsection, and began to rain a ferocious, lightening-fast series of two-handed blows against the Witch King's blade.
The Witch King, plainly surprised by Earnur's speed and ferocity, now cast aside his own shield and made his own sword play two-handed. Each clash of blade on blade set forth a shower of sparks, and dealt each foe a blow of such force that it would have swept a lesser man off his feet. The Witch King possessed inhuman strength and speed, and Earnur likewise was so strong and swift that his gifts at sword play could only have come from one of his distant Elvish ancestors of the Elder Days.
For minute after minute Earnur and the Witch King fought all-out, the ring of their blows echoing against the walls of the Citadel and across the ruins of Fornost. But Earnur was the greatest swordsman in the proud history of Gondor, and at length he began to gain the advantage over his dark foe. Step by step, he pressed the Witch King back toward the moat, whose waters still steamed with the evil vapours from Carakel's sodden corpse.
With a sudden screech of fury, the Witch King then dealt Earnur a staggering blow, forcing him on the defensive for a moment. Yet the Witch King did not press his advantage, and Earnur took advantage of the lull to catch his breath, and to taunt his foe.
"Mage of Angmar, your army is defeated," laughed Earnur, "and you stand alone. Fornost is again in the hands of its rightful lord, and Carn Dum shall soon be leveled with the earth. You will never rule as King of the North! All your foul work here has been in vain."
"Thou fool!" cried the Witch King. "Thinkest thou I care for the fate of Hill-men and Orcs, or even a Cold Drake of the North? They are dross! My work here is done and done well; for Arnor is fallen, and Isildur's Heir lies dying by the Western Gate."
Earnur felt his guts twist at the news, but the Witch King continued gloating. "And if many thousands of Gondor-men lie dead upon the field of battle, so much the better," hissed the dark mage. "For the Men of the West have only begun to taste my wrath!"
Swearing loudly, Earnur charged at the Witch King, only to be thrown flat on his back by a bolt of flame that shot forth from the Witch King's sword, striking him full-on in his armoured chest. As he gasped with pain at the searing heat from his smoking armour, the Witch King lunged toward him, preparing to deal him the death blow. Yet his sword never fell, for it was parried by a gleaming blade!
The Witch King looked up, and gazed into the face of Glorfindel, mounted on his pale Elven-steed. To Earnur's eyes it seemed that the Elf-lord was suddenly veiled in radiant light, as if his fair form was but a slender vessel for the blazing spirit within. Glorfindel smiled, and charged at his foe, his steed neighing triumphantly and without any fear. A kick of its hooves, and theWitch Kingsoared through the air, his sword flying into the moat as he fell hard on his back.
The Witch King leapt up at once and gave a blood-curdling scream, like that of a carrion-bird deprived of its prey. Then the he turned and vanished into the night. Glorfindel did not pursue him, but jumped down from his steed and ran to Earnur's side.
"You are wounded gravely," cried Glorfindel, running his sword along the leathern straps of Earnur's smoking chestplate and casting aise the burning-hot armour with a flick of his blade. Then he set down his sword, pulled off Earnur's battered chain-mail and burnt jerkin, and quickly placed his hands over the sizzling burns on Earnur's bare chest. He sang words in the ancient Elvish tongue, and Earnur at once felt his pain diminish, and life course strongly within his veins.
"I am fine!" gasped Earnur, as he sat up, and then stood to his feet. He felt winded now, but still the fires of his vigour were not dimmed. "Where is that cowardly dog?" he cried. "I have sworn an oath, and I shall not stop until he lies dead!"
Glorfindel stepped back, and stared gravely at Earnur. "Do not pursue him into the night," he replied in a soft voice. "For in night and shadow are his power, and it is when immersed in shadow that the Witch King is at his greatest strength. Oath or no, young Prince of Gondor, I deem it is not your fate to send that dark mage into the Void. Far off is his doom, and not by the hand of Man will he fall."
"He shall fall by my blade!" snarled Earnur, and Glorfindel frowned as he witnessed the Prince's savage mien. But then Earnur fell into a racking cough, and sank to his knees.
"You are indeed yet wounded, despite your gallant words and my best efforts," said Glorfindel, helping him to his feet. "Come. You shall ride with me back to the Western Gate, and we shall see if the medicine of a Wizard can succor you."
Glorfindel rode fast, and within a less than quarter of an hour they had reached the Western Gate. It was fully nightime now, and the stars glittered brightly in the moonless sky, while a crisp wind blew down from the North. The fire in the tower by the gate had burnt itself out, and a tent was pitched nearby, guarded by a score of Rangers. Glorfindel dismounted, helped Earnur to the ground, and led him into the tent, which was lit by the glow of an oil-lamp within.
On a camp bed in the tent lay Aranarth, pallid and wan as a corpse. About him stood Gildor, Elrohir, Elladan and Gandalf. The three Elves had their hands laid on Aranarth's head, and were chanting softly, while Gandalf carefully spooned a medicinal broth into his mouth. Falco the Hobbit stood in a corner, staring anxiously at the stricken Lord of the Dunedain.
"I have another patient for you," said Glorfindel. "One who has faced the Witch King in single combat, and lived to tell the tale."
"The first ever who can boast such a feat," observed Gandalf, the wrinkles about his bright blue eyes deepening with concern as he stared at Earnur's scarred chest. "Be seated on the chair in the corner, Prince," he continued. "I shall tend to you as soon as I have finished giving this draught to Aranarth."
"Then Aranarth yet lives?" asked Earnur as he took his seat, while Glorfindel strode to Aranarth and joined his Elvish brethren in their mystical chant. "That fiend told me that he lay dying by the Western Gate."
"So he did – for a time," replied Gandalf. "It has been a close run thing, and Aranarth is not out of the woods yet. Not until morning will his fate be certain. But I deem – at least, I hope – that the worst is behind him. We have recalled his spirit from the shadows, and the Elves are tending to it. I am merely feeding him a draught that will strengthen his mortal body." He dipped a last spoonful into Aranarth's mouth, set aside the bowl, and then stood up. He picked up his leathern satchel from the edge of the camp bed, and strode toward Earnur.
"You are both heroes, it seems," said the Grey Wizard. "And both of you have the luck of twenty Men. For Aranarth slew Carakel the Silver by his own hand, and has survived thus far the onslaught of the Dragon's venom; while you have faced the Witch King of Angmar, and yet live and breathe."
"Aranarth's heroism is the greater," replied Earnur bitterly. "For his foe is vanquished, and mine has escaped me. If it were not for Glorfindel, I would lie dead this night."
"Come, come," chided Gandalf. "You're both lucky to be alive at all, and yours is the glory on the field of battle. Your army has finished off the last of the Orcs of Angmar, and the Northmen in your service drove the Hill-men before them like chaff before the wind. Now, let's have a look at those burns." He fussed about briefly, before reaching into his satchel, opening a wooden box, and smearing a foul-smelling ointment on Earnur's chest.
"What is that vile stuff?" asked the Prince, his nose wrinkling.
"A potent medicine," replied Gandalf, "and a gift of my cousin Radagast the Brown, who is a master of herb-lore. Your burns shall cease to trouble you by the morning, and the scars will be fully healed within a fortnight."
He smiled, his blue eyes twinkling merrily. "And now to bed with you, O Prince! You'll have an early start tomorrow."
He snapped his fingers under Earnur's nose, and spoke a Word in a strange tongue. Earnur blinked twice, yawned, and then fell at once into a deep, dreamless sleep.