CHAPTER 11
A DIFFERENCE IN SKILL
The sound of two masses of warring soldiers pushing against one another drilled inside Elessar's ears. Years had passed since last he'd heard such noises: the shrill clatter of swords, the dry clanks of armor clashes, the powerful shouts, the cries of pain and the gasps of fear, but more than anything, the quiet, throaty groans of dying men all around him.
Yes, years had passed since his last battle, but the good king couldn't help but notice that this time around the sounds were different. Even as he led the right flank defenses, Aragorn had enough time and mind to spare to ponder on how the sound of this battle was different from those he had fought during the War of the Ring. Something was missing, and it took him less than a minute to realize that he could not hear the harsh grunts of Orcs, the loud rumble of trolls, nor the deafening, head-splitting screams of a Nazgûl.
It dawned on the king, even as he thrust Andúril into an attacking Easterling soldier, that all the voices around him seemed the same; the breathless groan of the one he was slaying right then was almost equal to that of any soldier of Gondor. Cold realization hit him that they were fighting and killing men; not heartless beasts spawned by an evil force, but men whose blood was as red as his own, men that were awaited by mothers, fathers, wives and children.
Pulling his sword out of the lifeless body, with something akin to nausea growing in his entrails, Aragorn watched helplessly as man recklessly slashed at man, faces disfigured with hate and fright. This battle was different, different from the indistinct haze he was used to have around him when he fought, always concentrating only on the foes at hand. That day there was no haze; every move around him became terribly clear and sharp as he witnessed the folly of his race. He stood frozen before such direness, unable to concentrate in a single action, leaving him an easy prey for the numerous eastern marauders who tried to seize the opportunity and crown themselves victors over Elessar's dead body. They would have succeeded, had it not been for Neithan's watchful eyes and swift limbs that carried him to stand between the dark soldiers and the dumbfounded king.
It was until then that Aragorn noticed the young man who had not left his side, not even when the confusion of the battle made his task almost impossible. Neithan had to abandon his horse, finding it easier to stick with the King of Men while on foot. Aragorn's mind focused on Neithan whilst realizing how near he'd been from death because of his heedlessness. Shaking his head, the king had to drive all his will to push his previous thoughts inside for later self-torment; everything was wrong around him, but no good could come to the world if he died right there and then. And so Aragorn's soul returned to his body and his mind to the battle, not before sparing a thankful glance to his savior, who dealt death to anyone who dared go near the right flank of the King of Gondor.
Gratitude instantly became wonder as Aragorn watched Neithan's full battle skills. Feeling relatively safe while protected by such a ferocious defender, Aragorn allowed himself to watch the young man for a few moments, his astonishment growing with every passing second.
Neithan fought and killed with such ease that he almost appeared to do so joyfully. All of his attacks were swift, steady and deathly accurate; Aragorn noticed how his stance and motions had an Elven grace and quality to them. It was then that he also became aware of the bloodied sword swinging weightlessly in the young man's firm hand: an Elven sword, and his foster brother's no less.
"Legolas…" the king whispered to none but himself. "How did you know he'd be so worthy of Elladan's dear sword?"
"They overwhelm us! Don't let them drive us back!" The desperate cries from the frontal line forced Aragorn out of his reverie. He swung Andúril at an Easterling who almost succeeded in strangling a young Gondorian soldier. The king hit the side of the enemy's head with the flat side of the sword, purposely delivering a non-deathly blow that saved the lad's life. Still Aragorn could not help but cringe as he heard the young man's lance being furiously thrust into the Easterling's limp body, even as he turned and made his way to the head of the infantry. It was death's feast day, and there was nothing the King of Men could do to make a difference.
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The Easterlings were more numerous, almost overwhelmingly so. Their frontal line kept thickening with more and more dark clad soldiers that feverishly pushed even against and over the dead bodies of their own companions that had fallen either pierced by the long Gondorian lances, or simply smothered by the tight-pressing crowd that struggled to break through the quickly dwindling first line of Gondorian long shields and lances.
"Hold the lines! Hold the lines!" It was the insistent and rather fraught command of every official of Gondor as pressure became overwhelming and the entire infantry of Anarion began inching back slowly, yielding position to the raw strength of the Easterling ramming front.
To make matters direr, every attack on the flanks had been to that point fended off by the brave Gondorian cavalry, but both horses and riders were wearing out at an alarming rate, and the Easterlings' attempts became more frequent and vicious as more soldiers kept coming to expand the raging lines.
Long minutes went by and hope began to fade among the western soldiers just as strength began to drain from their limbs, giving way to the numb pain that overcomes men's bodies when they are about to give up on a long strain. The men in the front line began falling to exhaustion and to the merciless sun of the southern lands, their bodies overheated and dehydrated inside the heaviness and confinement of their sturdy armors, and asphyxiated within the suffocating, tight crowd. Those who were left strong enough to resist a while longer had to struggle to keep their footing upon the slimy terrain, for under the stomping feet of thousands of warriors, the River Poros and its banks had become nothing short of a slippery sludge trap to which more and more men of both bands fell, only to be trampled to death by their enemies and sometimes by their own companions.
A desperate cry began forming in the chests of many a soldier of the Army of the White Tree, but it was one young man recently promoted from squire who dared voice it while dropping his weapons, tears brimming in his weary eyes.
"Retreat!"
"Retreat!" The voice was small and quivering, and yet most of the men around him could hear it, mirroring their own urge to turn and flee for their lives. Some arms were dropped to the sides; head low, feet aching to run away from it all.
"Stand your ground!" Aragorn's imperative, yet commanding order came just in time to prevent the tragedy as he finally arrived to the dwindling front. Every man in that field knew that if they were to turn their backs on their enemy, they would all be surely killed and all would be lost.
"My brothers, know that this day and the future of our kingdom rest on your will and strength not to yield today. This is your land you stand upon! Don't let them take one more inch from you!"
Aragorn came down from his horse as he shouted these words, and joining the group of exhausted men, he began pushing forward with all of his might.
"I do not ask you to hold the lines. I ask you to push our enemy back and out of our land!"
The closeness of the king, and his stirring display of bravery renewed the strength of many, and all thoughts of giving up left them. They could no longer hear the small and quivering voice crying "Retreat". All they could hear was the king's dominating shouts of "Forward! Forward! As one!" amongst them. But still, all of them knew that such courageous stand would wear and last for only a while longer, and unless a miracle should happen, they would soon be overrun by the sheer brute strength of the barbarian horde.
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Aragorn sighed inwardly, even as he bent his body to push forward with as much strength as he could muster. How could he inspire these battered men when he was the most fearful one among them?
The King of Men pressed his chest against the nameless soldier in front of him, his forehead pushing against the damp dark hair, feeling the man's ragged breathing and the spasmodic shudders of the soldier's worn-out muscles. It was then that Aragorn felt all traces of control slipping from him, leaving him only with the option to push and shout as valiantly as he could. There was no genius strategy he could use, no clever scheme that could save him now. There he stood, trying to hold together the thin line of desperate, exhausted men standing as last defense between a raiding host and all that he held dear: his beloved Evenstar, now bearing him an heir; his beautiful, prosperous lands; his people, who trusted only him.
He closed his eyes, his mind screaming out at Aramarth, who had walked them all into such a deadly trap.
"King of Fate, where are you now?"
A dark shadow grew inside of him, a cold voice that told him Aramarth would fail to return on time, that all would be lost because of the Elven King's haughtiness; and Aragorn's struggling grunts became roars of rage, feeling betrayed and forsaken by one he called friend.
It was then that he felt the steady strength behind him, giving him enough leverage and support to keep on pushing. A familiar head came to rest over his shoulder, the short, soft stubble brushing against the king's tired cheek.
"Neithan!"
The young man had the struggle of his life following Aragorn to the front line through a jungle of tight, pushing, armored men; but it was near impossible to tire him once his mind was bent onto something, and even though it took him a while, he finally found himself right against the back of his charge. Aragorn could not believe the bold youth had followed him so far.
"Neithan, this is about…. the most dangerous place…. you can be at. You are not even wearing battle garb." Aragorn said, trying to catch his breath.
Neithan pushed further still, supporting the winded king and giving him the, until then, implausible chance to breathe easily and rest his battered body. Aragorn felt the young man smiling against his cheek. "Well, it'd be more dangerous for me to turn back now."
"Neithan," Aragorn said, still in disbelief of the man's strength. "This is not even your battle. Why have you come to such ends?"
Neithan's smile deepened. "The Bright One posed me to protect you."
"The Bright One... Aramarth?"
"Aye. Can't you feel him coming to us? I feel them in the air; they are near now. Do not give up to despair and hold on to your hope, Estel. The Bright One will crush the eastern men to no end."
The soft murmur of Neithan's voice next to him contrasted with the ominous words he uttered. Yet Aragorn had no time to analyze the young man's mysterious ways. The doom of his army was at hand and now was the time to give out the best they had to resist the lunge of Brodda's host.
"Hold your ground! Grip your shields tightly!"
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The laughter of a mad man filled the official ranks of the Easterling encampment. "Send them all! Crush them down!"
No word of reason reached the emperor's distraught mind, no matter how hard his elders tried to convince him of the perils of packing the whole eastern army into a tight melee.
"What can they do?" roared Brodda, pushing the officials away from him. "They are defeated, and they know it. There is nothing they can do!
"I will break into the damned elf's land and pour my vengeance onto it. Send word right now for the full imperial army to come to me from the glorious Khand! We will rape and pillage all that is at hand. MY revenge will go on even to the lands of Elessar for befriending that craven elf!
"Send them all! Do as I say!"
And so it was, as Aramarth had foreseen, all of the eastern army packed together into a single group that pushed against the tired army of the White Tree, leaving them an easy prey for a storm cavalry attack.
And just when the last eastern soldier had been sent to the crowd and there was no turning back, a cloud of hay-colored dust rose from the south, wiping the maniacal smile off Brodda's face.
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Confusion broke in the disarrayed lines of the eastern host. Some turned around to face the newcomers; some kept on pushing against the now unmovable infantry of Anarion; and some, sensing the nearness of their doom, turned north and tried to flee, only furthering confusion and death as many were trampled in the attempt to escape. Those who managed to break from the asphyxiating lines ran into the thick bush-land that stretched north alongside the Poros River. It was a trap; it had been from the very beginning.
The bright, beautiful Elven armors atop vigorous steeds became visible ahead of the dust-rise, and a loud cheer arose from the army of Gondor upon seeing their rescuers arriving in full strength and glory.
'The Bright One' raised Aiglos high, causing even louder cheers, and everyone on the field prepared for the imminent collision of the Elven army against the swarming Easterling host, all eyes fixed upon the terrible beauty of Aramarth and his stony riders.
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It had to be a joyful moment for Maur-agar. The coal-colored stallion rammed against the first lines of petrified soldiers, never lowering the vertiginous speed it had reached on the race from the south, and easily avoiding the feeble attempts of the Easterlings to stop its powerful lunge with lances and curved swords. The war-horse's broad hooves trod over the throng of men as if they were mere grass leaves, crushing them down with glee, and using only the brutal strength of its massive muscles.
Perched high upon such unleashed darkness, Aramarth did nothing to restrain the horse's killing frenzy but let go of the leather reins, using both hands to add to the damage his mount was causing on its own. He had entered the swarm, lowering Aiglos with his left arm, accurately cleaving through a myriad helpless Easterlings. And now Hadhafang also sang its shrill, death song while firmly gripped in the Elven King's right hand.
It seemed to Aragorn that had the Elven King been riding alone, he would have, all by himself, broken and scattered the eastern lines. But no, he was not riding alone; the king's furious attack was perfectly followed, mirrored and carried to a disturbingly skilled completion by every one of his five hundred warriors.
The Elven host's tight lines of riders came upon the Easterlings in a wrapping maneuver that foiled every attempt of escape or defense, driving Brodda's men either into the spikes of the Gondorian lances, or the prickly tangle that was the bush-land along the north side of the Poros riverbank.
Soon enough, the Gondorians' animated cheers that had accompanied the Elven raid died down to an awed silence, as the worn out soldiers stood fixed upon the ground, inertly watching the Easterlings' demise. For Elessar's men, the eastern soldiers were worthy adversaries: strong, fast and passionate warriors who laid down their lives for their emperor without a second thought.
But Aramarth's warriors were faster, stronger, cunning and skillful far beyond the potential of any man. The advantages of their race were unflinchingly evident as they smote their enemies to an endless wreck. Nimbleness, precision, awareness, all perfected together in five hundred merciless, lethal warriors that swept Brodda's men as if they were nothing but straw-filled scarecrows.
Aragorn's relief for the now certain victory was short-lived as he was witness to a battle so unequal and unjust that he wasn't sure it could be called a battle but a killing game. He stepped back from the infantry's frontline and climbed upon his horse, hoping to get a better view, and to be better seen as well. He called back to a herald, signaling to bring his flags and trumpets.
"Sound the victory. Have the victors show mercy to our defeated foes," instructed the king, hoping to put an end to the manslaughter. The young herald hesitated in his spot, eyes fixed upon the elves that advanced upon their powerless opponents like a tidal wave.
"What are you waiting for? Do as I say!"
Standing next to the fraught king, Neithan voiced what Aragorn already knew in his heart.
"It is no use. He will not stop; he would never stop."
And seeing Aramarth's cold, wrathful eyes shining beneath the venerable helm of Elrond Peredhil, Aragorn knew that nothing within the circles of the world would end his implacable advance.
Aramarth the Bright One, as Neithan had called him, stood taller than any other man or elf upon the slaughter field the Poros had turned into, proudly leading the frightening advance of the Eldar riders. All the eyes of those witnessing his devastating charge were fixated on him, the mere sight of all that he was awakening the most varied feelings. Many eyes watched him petrified with fear, horrified by the ruin he could summon; others regarded him with awed reverence.
But two pairs of eyes watched the Elven King with such admiration that the feeling could almost be defined as desire; an overwhelming need to see and feel more of him, to be a part of his greatness. So strong this emotion was, that these two hearts were forever bent towards Aramarth; the loyalties within them irrevocably shifted from one great beacon of light to an even brighter one.
Out on the field, Aramarth's ears easily picked up the trumpet sound for clemency, but the orders given to his riders had been short and simple: no prisoners should be taken, and no mercy was to be shown. He wasn't about to change his mind over the feeble call for mercy. Instead of calling his riders to bring the attack to an end, he turned east, pointing Maur-agar's bloody head towards the Easterling's encampment… and Brodda.
Aragorn saw the Elven King turning and riding alone, heading straight to the unprotected post of the Emperor of the East. Realizing the elf's ignoble intentions, the King of Men cried, anguished.
"No! Aramarth, it's enough! Enough!"
He had to go, he had to stop him before the elf did something rash and out of spite. It was one thing to engage in battle with an enemy; but to show no mercy and break all the unspoken rules of war was beneath any elf or man, malice reserved only for Orcs and barbarians.
The infantry line stood unmoved before Elessar, even when there was nothing else to contain or fight back. Before the muddied soldiers of the Gondorian front, there was nothing left of their enemies but corpses and agonizing men, both piled and dispersed throughout the grimy field. Even then, to the north, everyone could see the elves following the fleeing Easterlings into the thorns of the bushes.
"Make me a way! Make way!" Aragorn ordered, eyes fixed upon the swift Maur-agar galloping away, carrying Aramarth to a final meeting with the defeated Emperor of the East.
Finally, the soldiers moved back, and a dicey passage was cleared. He rode hard over the desolation left behind by Aramarth's ruthless anger.
"Aramarth! Aramarth!"
All the while he cried out the elf's name, knowing that even from such a distance he could hear him. But Maur-agar's powerful legs had already reached the outskirts of Brodda's military camp, and Aragorn could by then see the Easterling officials and elders taking flight into the Haradrim wild lands.
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Brodda did not even try to run, knowing that the elf was coming for him and there was no way he could escape. He fell on his knees, and lowering his head, the emperor waited.
And before long the proud King of Elves was coming down from the great black stallion, and walked slowly but determinedly to finally stand before him so that Brodda could see the elf's armored legs, smeared with the blood of his loyal vassals.
"Raise your head and look at me." The voice was cold, but controlled.
Brodda expected to find scorn, derision, and contempt in the eyes of the Elven King who had come to be his bane. But as he looked upon the warrior's cerulean eyes, he found them to be just indomitable, filled with headstrong resolution.
The emperor's next words came out of him with great pain, as he renounced all his pride to be able to utter them.
"I ask for mercy not for myself, but for my daughters, my family, my people, and my empire that will be lost and torn apart if I'm to die at your hand today."
Aramarth reached for the emperor's red mantle, ripping it off the clasps that held it to Brodda's neck in a single, violent pull. He then silently wiped the blood off Hadhafang, putting great care into cleaning the beautiful blade.
"This is the sword of Elrond of Rivendell, sire to the Lady Undomiel," he said calmly, throwing the cloak away and raising the clean sword for Brodda to see.
The emperor remained silent, unflinching – a last proud stand even as he kneeled before his certain death.
"This is the very sword that severed your son's head from his body…" The elf paused, tilting his head toward the sword as if trying to listen to it. "I can hear the blade's icy voice… Can you hear it, emperor?
"It asks to claim the last of your verve… it craves to taste your blood! YOU THINK I AM GOING TO GIVE YOU MERCY?"
Behind the elf, the King of Men rode his horse beyond its limits, always crying out, shouting, "Aramarth, cease this! Don't do this!"
But Aramarth was not to be stopped, not even by the desperate calls of his friend, and he simply raised the sword in one unflinching hand.
"Say your prayers, emperor, to whatever it is that you pray to."
Brodda smiled softly, reaching to his chest with his hand. "It is an honor to die by the hand of such a worthy warrior. But know this and know it well, King of the Fair Folk: with all the beauty, strength, and power you hold, you cannot stop or even see the fate that hangs upon your head. It will befall you and those you hold dearest in a wintry night, when and from where you least expect it. You cannot escape it, not you, your people, or your precious Evenstar."
"Please, Legolas, NO!" Aragorn's plead seemed too distant and weak even as the King of Men was already only a few feet behind the elf.
"I do not fear the dull omens and curses of a dying man," Aramarth said, swinging the light sword at Brodda's plump neck and cleanly beheading the Emperor of the East.
Behind him, the King of Gondor fell to his knees, staggered by the rawness of the emperor's needless death, a demise he could not prevent for all his efforts.
Aramarth turned around and made his way to be off, leaving Brodda's body for the sport of the vultures already gathering for their great feast at the Poros River, and Aragorn's bent form still trying to find his voice and words to rebuke the elf for such a brutal deed.
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