Author's note: Bad me. Bad, evil me. A year to update...And it doesn't look like the next ones coming any time soon...
Oh, and thank you to my beta Mistaya Chavmen, goddess of editing.
Chapter Three: Rally Round the Flag Pole
Legolas concluded that Gandalf was either more terrifying than anyone knew, or that certain Messengers were oblivious to body language. Perhaps it was both.
The small group of Captains rode swiftly back to their lines, dead quiet and eyeing Gandalf with an air of uncertainty that had nothing to do with the fact that the old Istari had shed his grey cloak and only now wore his white robes.
Legolas silently praised the Valar that he himself had never, in all his years, ever crossed Gandalf in such a way that he would be treated like that Messenger.
"I never knew evil minions could make such a sound." Elladan croaked out, blinking his eyes quickly. He squinted ahead at the waiting men. "As interesting as that was, you could have warned me to shield my face. I have sunspots dancing a merry jig in front of me where I should be seeing an army." Legolas had to agree. Dark spots clouded his sight in several places, not to mention the speed his heart had beat at when Gandalf had...removed...the hobbit's lost articles from the Lieutenant's possession.
But, the squawk the Witch King had given, coupled with the offended air that he had stalked back through the Morannon with, almost made this slight downside worth it.
"That was interesting." Elrohir spoke up after his twin, "though were it any but you, Mithrandir, I-" His voice was cut abruptly off by the sound of well-rehearsed orc horn's blowing in the open gates behind them. Gandalf hurriedly bundled the recovered sword and coat in the cloak, burying them in the folds of his own robe.
Legolas had time for a quick glance back over Gimli's head. "Ai, Valar," he breathed softly at the approaching legions.
"Ride!" Aragorn called, and the Captains broke into a gallop that took them to the front ranks of the Men as a great jeering cry echoed up from the walls of the filling gate and more orcs poured out by the thousands.
To the west and north another orchestra of horns sounded ominously in the grey. Easterlings marched out of the shadows of Ered Lithui, ranks of men in strange garb with spears that looked as of they could gut a Mumakil.
Yet another horn sounded, and Legolas whipped his head around to the west, inhaling sharply. He could feel Gimli's hands shaking slightly at his waist, and knew that the reins before him shuddered not only because he had a bruised arm.
The western hills of the Morannon came alive with column upon column of orcs, each of them howling for blood and wishing to slake their lust for battle on the small cluster of soldiers, defenseless against the massive numbers against them. Battle had come to Mordor.
The blackness surrounded everything, all light from the outside world was severed as if it had never been. Men stood shaking in their armor, wondering what sort of creatures could drain away the light very sun.
Gandalf alone contested the darkness, a beacon in the night. He stood impassively on a hilltop in the very heart of the battle, seemingly unperturbed by the force before him. Aragorn could been seen standing beside them. How they moved so quickly was beyond him.
Legolas sat stiffly on Arod's back, dimly aware of Gimli's presence behind him. The dwarf shifted impatiently, the shaking hands stopped, watching the flood of orcs and men surround the small group. He will leave soon, the elf acknowledged. He has never enjoyed fighting from horseback. The ways of the dwarves were ground heavily into him, and some barriers you just could not break.
The orcs stood tall and silent, folding into dark ranks. The howls and jeers slowly ceased into a unbroken stillness, the only sound the wisp of the breeze and the faint echo of metal rasping on leather. An eerie shiver tingled down Legolas' spine. This was it. The calm before the storm, and this looked like it would be a tempest.
"What are they doing?"
Legolas jumped slightly. He had not even heard Pippin come up behind him, a remarkable feat for a hobbit on ponyback in a metallic sea. The hobbit rode Stybba, who was originally Merry's mount. Pippin had fallen in love with the pony in their short stay in Gondor, and eventually Merry had consented to give him to Pippin.
It took a moment for the question to register. When he did speak, Legolas' words came out slowly and deliberately, "They are waiting for us to break." The whisper sounded alone in the silence.
Then, as if his words broke the spell, the enemy took up a mounting torrent of chilling howls. Pippin's eyes opened wide and the young hobbit scrabbled hastily for his sword as the crys faded from the night. The line of orcs visibly shimmered as each of the beasts rew his hooked blade.
"Easy, Pippin," Gimli said from Legolas' back. "They will not move yet. Sheath your sword before you remove Stybba's ears with it." The dwarf's voice was steady and confident, careless of the fact that the men were outnumbered ten to one. "Legolas, will you give me a hand or should I just slide off backwards?"
Legolas turned easily around and assisted Gimli off of Arod's back. When the dwarf's feet touched the ground, some part off Legolas did not want to let this friend's hand go, to abandon Gimli to the world by himself, however idiotic it seemed.
He clasped Gimli's gauntleted forearm tightly in his for a moment longer. "Watch yourself, mellon nin."
Gimli snorted. "Do you think a single one of these orcs would dare strike me down? Nay, my axe would have long since removed their heads." He looked up, eyes somber. "But you be sure to watch your back. A bow is no use when you are stabbed from behind."
"Very reassuring, friend." Legolas rolled his eyes as the two let their grips slip apart. "Pippin, you should heed Master Gimli's words. Take care of yourself, and nothing will happen to you." Legolas smiled down at the hobbit.
Pippin lost the chance to reply when an orc, standing at least half a foot above the rest, shouted out a twisted word in the Black Tongue and, as of freed from their bonds, the orcs charged forwards in a crowd of bodies.
The blades appeared in Legolas' hands as if by magic. With a shout, Legolas kicked Arod forward with the surging mass of roaring Dunedain.
A swift slash brought down the first orc to come within range. A second narrowly missed an uruk's head, and Legolas' hand reversed the blade and brought it down in a thrust that stabbed through the orc's chest. Fighting from horseback was an art that Legolas had not practiced for long, having grown up in a wood where mounted fighting was very rare and the most useful skill you could have was the ability to slip unheard through the boughs of a tree and bring down an enemy with a silent bow.
So when the body stayed on the edge of the blade for a moment longer than Legolas was used to, he had to remind himself to twist after making contact. He roughly jerked the knife from the orc, and half-watched in disgust as the body slide to the ground, leaving a bloody stain on the white haft of his blade.
Legolas could feel his mind slipping down into the numb state he was used to in battle, caring only about the slicing next enemy before it could slice him. Everything appeared in a heightened state, almost a dream. Or a nightmare.
The rhythm was the simplest, most basic beat in the song of a war. Swing the arm up, bring it down with all the force you can muster, twist, and it all began again. It pulsed clearly through the melee. Slay them, and so save the world. Slay them, or they will slay you.
The twin sons of Elrond appeared at his sides, Elladan on his right and Elrohir on his left, each throwing a piercing Sindarin battle-cry into the fray. Their blades, already shining with blood, swooped up and down almost simultaneously in cruel parody if their identical looks.
He could feel the Dunedain behind him, before him, cut deep into enemy lines. The orcs were only a black wall that had to be torn down.
With a grin that terrified the orcs before him, Legolas voiced a lingering woodland battle cry to match the Lords of Imladris.
Around Pippin, the world surged forward and back, beaten off by the enemy. His sword was clutched in a sweating palm, and he prayed that he would not drop it.
Stybba, beneath him, tossed up his head and shied backwards. "Shush," Pippin's voice came out in a nervous whisper, and Stybba did not listen, only stepped further backwards. Pippin's eyes went forward, looking at the men falling from mounts ahead of him. They needed help, any help.Pippin strengthened his voice, "Stybba! We have to go forwards!" The pony did not listen.
"Merry!" Pippin looked around wildly. Merry had to come and control his mount! The thing would not listen to him. Only Merry could fix this.
Oblivious to the fight raging around him, Pippin let Stybba have his head and wander where he would. Swords crashed down around the pair, and Pippin jerk hard as he could on the reins to avoid a stroke aimed at his head. Where was Merry? He had to find Merry!
"Master Perian!"
Somebody was calling to him, somebody that sounded vaguely familiar. An orc rushed towards Stybba's head, twisting his filthy hand into the horses mane and bringing his dagger up for a quick stab to the pony's jugular.
Pippin did not notice his hand move. One moment, his sword was limp at his side, the next it was buried in the orc's fur-covered chest. He watched in muted shock as the body slid from his blade to the ground.
Somebody barked a laugh behind him. "Well done, Perian! A fine kill, that was."
Pippin raised his eyes from the body at Stybba's finally-still feet. Why was the pony standing still now? Oh, that was right. Somebody had taken hold of the reins.
"Pippin? Are you injured?" The voice was concerned now, and Pippin looked further up to the holder's eyes.
"Beregond!"
The guard laughed again, this time in relief. "Aye, 'tis me, Pippin."
Pippin's face lit up for a moment, and Beregond pulled lightly at the reins, bringing Pippin closer to the circle of Gondor's men. The smile vanished suddenly, and was replaced with confusion. "What are you doing with the Dunedain?'
A man inside the circle laughed, and Beregond shot him a glare. "Dunedain? Is that who you were riding with? Master Hobbit, you have indeed wandered far. You are lucky not to be spitted on a orc-blade. The Dunedain are stationed to the North. You stand now with the men of the Tower of Guard and the knights of Dol Amroth."
"Mostly with the Tower of Guard. The Swan-knights are pulling a heroic scheme and marching straight into the arms of the enemy's darker force," the man who had laughed at Pippin's confusion earlier spoke up.
A man beside him punched him lightly on the arm, "And, look, they are winning!" Pippin tore his eyes from the armed group to the line of Dol Amroth before him. The banners, etched with a silver swan, blew unheeded in the breeze as the soldier fought beneath them.
"Shouldn't we helping them?" Pippin looked back to Beregond. I wish Merry were here.
"In a moment. They are holding fine, now, by themselves. Should their line weaken in the slightest, we will join them. For now, we save our strength for later in this battle-" He was cut off by a terrifying roar.
Ahead, the line of Dol Amroth broke as the hill-trolls smashed into them.
It had lived in the hills of the Gorgorath for as long as it could remember, only having the occasional ranger and other trolls to prey on, the blood-lust never fully slaked, the urge to kill being taken out on its own kind only.
Then the orcs had come, and with them they had brought sharp objects that hurt it before it could even get close enough to smell the blood coursing beneath their skin. Then they had chained it and starved it, it feeding only when the orcs guarding it got too close.
Then this had come, and all was forgotten.
The imprisonment, the capture, was erased, the time it had lived in the hills was gone from its limited memory. Before it were legions upon legions, rows upon rows, of shiny men with sharp swords and warm flesh, and he was hungry.
The orc, huge among its fellows, that held its chain was dragged along behind it as the trolls surged forwards to meet the men.
It lumbered up, closer, and could taste the fear, to almost taste the blood in his mouth. The sharp, flying objects peppered its skin, but now it could not feel them. They were so close, so near, and all they had were pointed sticks against its overwhelming strength.
A roar to his left alerted it of a new danger. Another troll, smaller that it, stood a few yards off, running forward into its path, eyes mad with hunger and craving.
The small troll cut off its chosen path, diving forwards and smashing into the ranks before it, taking what was its. That troll had stolen his meat, had tasted the blood before him, and that was not to be forgiven.
It leaped forwards, clubbing the smaller troll's back with its huge anvil. The troll turned back to it, bellowing its rage, and the large troll leaped again, this time being met with the satisfying crunch of flesh as its teeth sunk into the jugular.
Th body sunk, forgotten, downwards, to crush those men that did not run away fast enough, and then it trampled forward, breaking through the line of men in sliver and heading for a smaller, unprepared group.
The men spread out into a line, spears brought up and jabbing. Two figures did not move fast enough to escape the club, one tall and on foot, the other small and one horseback. Their scramble to escape amused it, somewhere inside, and it brought its hammer up and swung, waiting for the sickening crunch.
Pippin saw the troll break the line and come charging at him. To his side he heard Beregond shouting orders, and dimly felt something pulling at Stybba's reins. A strangely coherent thought broke through the fog, Merry will slay me if something happens to Stybba.
"Pippin!" A voice cried off to his left, the same voice that had told the men to form up.
The troll was running towards them, its huge belly shaking violently as lumbered along.
The pony moved reluctantly under a touch, and Pippin jarred back into reality. Beregond. The man gave one last, desperate yank at the reins as the troll bellowed fiercely at them, swinging its club.
Pippin watched in amazement, marveling at the strength it must take to life such a heavy hammer.
The club swung up.
It was exactly like one from the blacksmith's shop, only ten times bigger-
The club came down.
The anvil took Beregond across the chest, crushing him and tossing him backwards. The troll turned to watch the body flung and bounce slightly as it hit the ground, as if it savored the moment.
The men thrust their spears up at it, but it swung its giant anvil once more and Gondor's line took several shuddering steps back.
Without knowing how he did it, Pippin dismounted Stybba. His legs moved of their own accord, taking him towards the troll who leaned over Beregond's body. The Numenorean blade glittered in his hands, then stretched upwards.
The blade pierced the troll's immense gut as the beast tried to claw into Beregond's flesh. The creature shuddered, the bellowed loudly before it collapsed forward.
So this is how it will end, came Pippin's last despairing thought as he and Beregond were crushed in the bloody darkness beneath the body.
Across the field rang cries of wonder and joy, The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!
Aragorn stood fuming on a hill-top.
Under reasonable circumstances, he would not be wasting time on such thoughts in the middle of a battle. In the very least, he would not be quite so focused on those that made him angry, especially if those beings were his friends.
But, under even the most unreasonable of circumstances, he would not literally be in the middle of the battle. The exact middle.
Never, ever trust an Istari. It was Gandalf's fault that he was up here in the first place. The Wizard had too good of a sense of reason, and too wise of a tongue to be talked to in any time of confusion. Gandalf had convinced him that this forsaken hilltop would be an excellent place to conduct a battle from. Unfortunately, it was true. It also kept him above the fighting, where his men and his friends were dying.
He, of course, knew that he was more use up here. Dying down in the spree within the first few minutes would have been a distinct possibility if he had remained with the Dunedain. Up here, it was all in his field of view and under his, if very limited control.
"My lord!" A call come from behind him. Aragorn turned, and was faced with and terrified aide who pointed and mumbled incoherently at the Morannon. Aragorn crossed the space on the hilltop in the span of a second. He looked out down the edge of the hill, and was faced with an early disaster.
The men of Dol Amroth and the Dunedain were being pushed back and infiltrated be the orcs. They were pressed against the Rohirrim and Men of Gondor, and the small circle of defenses was contracted even more. Aragorn glanced at the fiery tip of Mount Doom, the only light in the sky.
Frodo needs more time. If Frodo was even alive.
Aragorn eyed the rest of the company on the hill. They were not soldiers, any of them, but they could follow order. They would have to do, for what he had planned. That stopped him for a moment. Plan? He smiled grimly. More of a death sentence.
He twisted himself into his saddle and pulled his horse's reins gently from the farrier's hands. One hand closed upon them, the other closed upon the haft of a great pole, banner shrouded in black. His knuckles turned white, then his hand loosened as he whipped the staff upwards.
The shroud fluttered off, carried away by the breeze, and in its place was a white tree and seven stars, the only hope left of Gondor and the rest of Arda. The tails of the banner were toyed with by the wind, sent flying majestically behind him, and the jeweled points shone with an unnatural light and beauty of things long passed remade. It was the cloth of his Evenstar, and its chance had come.
He looked at the men before him, paltry few and thin, and said the only words of hope he could muster. "This will not be the end." He hissed it out, voice forceful and commanding. Their faces quivered into nervous smiles, and they mounted their own few horsesm less than a half dozen of them, and stood patiently behind him, waiting for the word.
He turned back to face them once more. "Go to the people of your homelands." Their was a man from Imrahil's party with him, a stratigist who had useful in the siege of Minas Tirith, and the farrier had been from Rohan. "Fight for them!"
He spurred his horse's flanks with his heels and he, with the gift from his lady, the gift that would hopefully rally the Men of World, galloped down towards the death and carnage of a battle worth dying in.
Just to let the world know, this was supposed to be much longer. But, as I am the world's slowest author and I knew thatpeople would think this was abandoned pretty soon, I shortened it up. Sorry. The next chapter will be out in a long while, as I need to catch up on less important things such as school work and work work and the rest of the world. :) Drop a review, it'll make my day! If you can, leave your email so I can get back to you without being kicked of ff. Speaking of reviews, thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter. It meant a lot to me, and I'll try and get back to you ASAP.