In An Age Before – Part 169
Now those in the Witch King's host understood not the terrifying figure of Light that had exploded into their presence. They had no idea of what it could be, only that it had dared to assail the Ringwraith and it pressed their master still. 'Twas no foe of the mortal world, and they wanted 'naught to do with it. The further and faster they could flee its presence, the better. And so they ran at full speed towards an enemy they all hated, but could understand, the accursed Men of the West in their fortress of stone, for the bows and swords that waited there, those they understood, and with those they could contend. Yet with every step forward they took, some amongst them fell, slain by arrows that came from no source they could mark. The archers were hidden, and those in the host who bore bows no longer bothered to return fire, for that would have meant staying their flight, and that they would not chance for any cause.
As the host fled east into the darkness, Helluin laughed and taunted the wraith.
"Dispatched by thy craven master like a cur upon a doomed errand thou was't, and abandoned now too by thy minions thou art. Far hast thou fallen, O Tindomul, dishonored prince of a drowned kingdom," she flung at him in ridicule. She simply couldn't help herself.
Everything about this encounter served to enrage the wraith, and her words were but the latest affront. Mighty had Tindomul been in his king's service, and many had done his bidding unquestioned. From his birth into the royal house of Númenor, the prince had known privilege and had come to expect obedience as he exercised his will. Tindomul had wielded much power in Tar-Ciryatan's name, and many Dúnedain on the Mortal Shores had cleaved to the prince in Umbar. There he had first met Helluin in S.A. 1847, and he had despised her smug, self-satisfied manner from the first moment. Then in S.A. 2003 she had gotten lucky with her sword and had managed to slay him, and for that, he would hate her 'til the end of days. All his dreams of grandeur had died on the quay at Pelargir.
There had been incidents 'twixt them after. In Mt Doom, in Dol Guldur, upon the North Downs 'nigh Fornost, and now in Arthedain, again. The words of his master's most recent chastisement still stung, and like a goad, they drove him forward to meet her. This time, when he was pinioned naked before the Great Eye and Sauron raped him of his memories, he would rejoice in his victory. This time, he would show both Helluin and his master the worth of Prince Murazor!
As the Ringwraith charged forward into the Light, he felt a visceral repulsion and the weakening of his spirit. The ril that Helluin projected had always been a distraction, much like the fear he himself projected into the hearts of his mortal foes.
"Wretched ghost, delivery thyself unto me and I shalt free thee of thy disgrace," the ring-bladed Sarchram said as he drew 'nigh. To his sight, the Grave Wing blazed like a wheel of living fire, possessed of the same malicious will as her mistress.
"To thee I defer this night," Anguirél declared, "for aforetime did I sample his sour blood. 'Tis for thee to sample his sour soul."
With a shriek of rage that carried to living ears even so far as Fornost, the wraith viciously swung his sword. The Black Sword met his blade with a ringing parry, and then slid up the flat side towards where his heart had been. Tindomul was forced to rotate his wrist to redirect Anguirél's point away, and then desperately duck as Helluin lunged toward his neck with the Sarchram. To counterattack, the wraith directed a draw cut at Helluin's left leg, but she raised her knee so the blade slid 'cross her mithril grieve, and then she spun away, a trailing swing of her sword keeping him at bay.
O'er and o'er they clashed and tirelessly they fought, for neither of them were subject to fatigue as a mortal would have been. More than once he thought he had her, yet just as in Umbar so long ago, she had slipped aside or parried away his blade. The Light that she projected was blinding on the night darkened field, but worse still upon the ethereal plane, and he was forced to battle her whilst maintaining what could only be described as a spiritual squint.
Time meant little, for both immortals were immersed in their hatred for the other. In the distance, the defense of Fornost had begun with a rain of fire, yet Tindomul paid it no heed. His host could fend for themselves. Dearer to him than even the fall of the fortress was the fall of Helluin by his hand. Only thus could he redress centuries of humiliation and defeat. So he continued to lunge and parry and swing his sword. E'er she frustrated him and launched cunning counterattacks against which he was pressed to defend. And e'er Helluin mocked and derided him, and Anguirél jeered at him, and the Sarchram threatened.
"Thy sullied fëa like a befouled chamber pot shalt I empty into the Void," it said.
"What now, wee prince? Sauron upbraids thee, what reward then awaits thee from his master?" Helluin asked with a cackle of glee.
"Had thou still a head, I would take it," Anguirél said, "yet all that remains is thy sniffling. Wipe thy nose, beggar."
'Twixt the wraith's complete preoccupation with their combat, and his necessity to squint into Helluin's Light, Tindomul marked not at all that they progressed e'er to the east. To the occasional arrow shot body that lay in their path, he paid no mind. He didn't even notice that she was slowly giving way before him.
For two hours, the Ringwraith assailed her, and for two hours, she countered his every stroke. Yet now, all about them lay the dead bodies of Men and Yrch and horses, shot with arrows, slain by spear or sword, trampled, or fatally burnt. The ground was heavily marked with hoof prints from the passage of much cavalry. Fires exploded 'round them and a quick glance revealed lines of battle under a hundred yards ahead.
He realized that somehow, they had drawn 'nigh the walls of Fornost! O'er half a mile they had come and he couldn't remember any of it. The wraith shook his head in amazement. Then he had to lunge aside and roll to avoid a sweeping stroke of the Sarchram as Helluin spun towards him. Tindomul cursed his lapse of attention as he came to his knees, only to have to roll again to avoid the Black Sword.
Now whilst Helluin and Tindomul dueled and battle raged on the western front, the fourth night of fighting was joined in the east. Surprised was the remnant of the Host of Angmar to discover that the coming of their master had not drawn off the Dúnedain, nor split their defenses. Rather, after they had charged through catapult fire and volleys of arrows, they found the barricade manned just as heavily as it had been on each night past. Yet now the attackers numbered four thousands rather than ten, and they faced eight thousand defenders upon the field.
By this fourth night of battle to the east of Fornost Erain, the current generation of Dúnedain were full sick of the minions of Angmar. They had lost many comrades and withstood the horror of war. Since the first cavalry raids in the downs as the foe marched towards their city, they had followed the will of their king, to preserve their own lives to the greatest extent possible, even foregoing greater slaughter of their enemies. On each night of battle, they had allowed the defeated Host of Angmar to withdraw and retreat unhindered. Yet now the Men of the West enjoyed a numerical advantage of two to one, and King Araval understood that his Men had come to the end of their patience. He had restrained them for so long as the strategic needs of his campaign for the defense of Arthedain required. In the inner courtyard, as they had formed up to take the field, the king had addressed his troops, and at last he had granted them what they'd longed to hear.
"Maethyr Arthedain, gwainur nín, lasto naim!¹" King Araval called out, unknowingly echoing the words of Eldacar son of Valacar, 21st King of Gondor. "Well have you fought, and victory has been yours in battle on each day and night. Step by step, ye have achieved the advantage ye shall enjoy this night. Brothers we have lost, aye, yet the foe has lost o'er half a host!" ¹(Maethyr Arthedain, gwainur nín, lasto naim! Soldiers of Arthedain, my brothers, hear me! = Maethyr(soldiers, maethor w/ int vowel change -o to -y to form pl) + Arthedain(following Maethyr forms genitive const Soldiers of Arthedain) + gwainur(brothers, gwanur w/ int vowel change -a to -ai to form pl) + nín(1st pers poss pro, my) + lasto(listen, w/ imp suff –o) + naim(to, na + 1st pers dir obj prep pron suff -im, me) Sindarin)
In the courtyard, the soldiers cheered, enjoying the praise of their king, yet anticipating greater tidings to come. Araval did not disappoint.
"Tonight we face not only the remnant of the host in the east, but a new host brought against us from the west. Clever and wily the Witch King deems himself, I wager, yet on this night, we shall kill them all!"
The courtyard erupted in cheers, whistles, and the stamping of feet. The king let their celebration continue a while, but finally he held up his hands and the soldiers stilled.
"As two against one ye shall meet your foes this night, and on this night the prior constraints of strategy are lifted. Slay them at the barricade, advance with slaughter, and offer no quarter should they retreat. Pursue all of evil mien to their deaths that they trouble the north no more, for they are mortal, and there are no finer warriors of mortal blood in Middle Earth than you, Men of the West, Edain of the North, sons of Elendil!"
'Twas long ere the cheering that followed stilled. Their king had finally approved the bloodletting each of them craved to unleash, and when 'twas done, no longer would they needs spend another night manning a barricade of sharpened saplings. They would be able to return to their families and enjoy the peace they had bought with blood and sweat, and many tears.
When the soldiers of Arthedain took the field on the night of 4 Lothron, 'twas with a glint in their eyes and a snap in their steps. They formed ranks at the barricade and awaited the coming attack, determined to make it the last night of battle.
By now there were no real military leaders left amongst the Host of Angmar. The Ringwraith had long discouraged all traits save loyalty and obedience. Creativity, imagination, and initiative had been well 'nigh bred out of his slaves and servants. With utter predictability, they came straight on through the rain of catapult fire and the volleys of arrows, just as they had on the past three nights. They approached the barricade and saw the defenders already in the formation they had encountered the night past, with pikemen, shield bearers, and archers formed into flanking companies and the infantry ranks at the center of the line.
Perhaps the Yrch and Hillmen marked some change in mood this night, for despite the arrows shot at them from the flanks, they slowed during the final fifty feet of their charge. They came 'nigh the line with less momentum and diminished commitment, and rather than standing and defending the barricade, the Dúnedain fell upon them, charging forth the last few fathoms to meet them.
Pikemen advanced, but not straight ahead. Instead, they moved forward at an angle, inwards towards the center at the ends of the attackers' line, compressing the flanks and forcing their foes into a tighter mass. Back the Host of Angmar was driven, and the Dúnedain pressed them step by step, for now, because of their numerical advantage, the Men of the West hemmed their foes in so that they had to defend, not only the battle line to the fore, but both of their flanks as well.
The Hillmen and the Yrch fell at an increasing pace as they retreated, and if they enjoyed any respite upon that night, 'twas that the constant sniping of the Laiquendi had been stayed and none fell from hidden archers bearing deadly bows. Yet it mattered not, for as time passed, the numerical advantage of the defenders increased, and by the end of the first hour, the Host of Angmar had again been halved. Now their retreat hastened. Hillmen and Yrch withdrew at a faster pace, backing away from the lines of the Dúnedain, which now encompassed a box formation of three sides, pressing e'er inward and to the east.
The second hour of the battle found the Dúnedain closing their formation 'round the remnant of the Host of Angmar. The infantry continued to drive eastward, maintaining the intensity of the combat. As the second hour came to its end, the pikemen, the shield bearers, and the archers completed their encirclement, joining their companies at the foe's rear, and they held the Host of Angmar on the field, denying them any further withdrawal, for they were now wholly surrounded. The third hour saw the final slaughter, as a ring of seven thousand three hundred remaining Men of the West slew the last five hundreds of the soldiery of the Witch King. After four nights of battle, the eastern front was resolved.
In the aftermath, soldiers of Arthedain sat and caught their breath, took water and stared up at the stars. Sooner or later, all turned back to stare at the city. Flaming catapult shot arced up into the night sky and fire flickered off the walls of Fornost. Distant shouting and the thunder of cavalry carried faintly to their ears 'cross the half league they had come east. Eventually, the officers ordered their companies. Men gathered themselves in columns and marched back to their home. Battle still raged on the western front, and perhaps new orders awaited.
Now in Fornost, the defenders had waited atop the wall and behind their contrived barricade. The outer doors of the fortress had been closed behind them. Then, off to the west, a point of Light blazed three-quarters of a mile from the city. A quarter hour later, all heard the yelling and footfalls of a host charging towards them, and they heard too the screams of the dying. Out of the darkness, the Host of the Witch King came into catapult range and the batteries released.
On the southern wall, the westernmost three catapults launched flaming shot to light the field. The target areas required the batteries to load first and then traverse as far west as was possible, indeed so far west that at times the booms with the slings at their ends o'erhung the battlements ere they launched.
The batteries on the western wall loaded liquid shot, and each crew was at liberty to release as soon as their fuses were lit. Cradled in the slings rested eighty-pound shot comprised of a glass vessel filled with a violently flammable mixture of beeswax and lamp oil. Two short fuses of inch thick cotton rope protruded from paired openings in the top. When touched with a torch, they burst into flame, and a moment later, the counterweights were released, whipping the shot into the sky. On impact, the glass vessels shattered, streaking the field with a long burning fire that clung to 'aught that it splashed.
From the walls of Fornost, the defenders viewed the approaching host. Some things most strange they marked about their charge. The enemy came on lacking any ordering of their companies, with horses galloping, Men and Yrch at a dead run, and all behaving as if they were fleeing rather than attacking. Most hadn't even bothered to draw their weapons. More than once, they saw a horseman run down one of his own comrades. To many who watched, this assault had the appearance of a terrified mob in flight. Elves and the sharper sighted Men marked the fall of many as they charged, as though shot by archers that none could see. Indeed, the path from whence they had come was littered with bodies. 'Twas…odd.
Now the catapult bombardment began as the rabble reached a half-mile from the walls. First to fall was the flaming shot, and then, with the field lit, liquid shot was applied for effect. The first loads fell to the south of the host, keeping them from any flanking maneuvers towards the North Road and the gate. The next loads fell to the rear of the enemy, incinerating stragglers and denying them the option of retreat. Yet more landed to the north, constraining them to a field of battle 'nigh the southwestern corner of the fortress. And finally, load after load fell into the host, immolating many and turning horses into galloping torches that spread destruction wider still. The bombardment continued as the Witch King's host advanced. Men and Yrch died horrifying deaths, and yet they slowed their flight not at all. Whatsoe'er drove them forward, 'twas a fear of worse than death.
Having fled full tilt for the better part of half a mile, many of the Witch King's soldiers were gasping for breath when they arrived to attack Fornost, yet they dared not slack their pace, for now all 'round them fell a terrifying hail. The liquid shot shattered when it hit the ground, and the incendiary exploded into flames in the open air. The mixture of oil and wax was thick enough to cling, yet thin enough to splash. On impact it created streaks of fire that neither ran off, nor soaked in. Easterlings, Yrch, and horses were stricken, and they screamed in pain and fear as they rolled and flailed on the ground, desperate to extinguish the flames. Those who hadn't been struck or splashed had no choice but to race forward as fast as their legs could carry them, muscles burning with exertion and lungs heaving for air. Their charge carried them into range of the archers.
On the western front stood only eleven score Dúnedain archers, six score reservists of the King's Archers on the field, and five score irregulars upon the wall. They were too few to hold the line, or do more than sting a tithe of the rampaging Host of Angmar, yet they were not alone. To the aid of Arthedain had come four thousand infantry from Lindon, and every one of them was an archer as well as a swordsman. They fired faster and more accurately than their mortal allies, though perhaps not with such deadly precision as the Green Elves who lived by the bow alone. Still, their consummate skill with both sword and bow was no surprise in soldiers who'd had centuries or millennia to train. They nocked arrows on their bowstrings as the outer gates of Fornost opened.
So 'twas that the Witch King's soldiers charged straight into repeated volleys of o'er four thousand arrows. Indeed, they ran into the first volley without even having raised their shields, and it seemed as if a scythe had mowed down their front ranks. Four times did the archers fire volleys as the enemy passed from two-hundred fifty to seventy-five yards. Thereafter, the Host of Angmar closed on the barricade of wagons and carts, with shields raised and swords drawn. Yet in their passage 'cross the field, fully a third of their count had fallen to the arrows of Lindon and Fornost, and most of those were Rhûnwaith cavalry and the foremost of the infantry.
Now the Elves of Lindon set aside their bows and with the Dúnedain infantry, they drew their swords. Seven thousand five hundred defenders stood 'twixt the carts and wagons awaiting the clash, yet ere that, all heard thunder.
As the archers had prepared to fire their first volley, the outer gates of Fornost had opened, and now that Angmar's host had drawn so close to the walls, they had no view of what lay within. Lined up in the courtyard, and down the zigzagging avenue that led from the outer gate to E-Nbelthed Tal, waited four thousand Knights of Arthedain, five hundred Knights of Imladris, and two thousand Knights of Lindon. The order was given and they issued from the gates in a stream of horses and riders, armed with lance or spear, and long swords. After passing the gates their column turned west, and they rode down the southern wall of Fornost at a canter, broadening their ranks 'til they were 'nigh a quarter mile wide as they rounded the southwestern turret. There they turned north behind the barricade, and coming quickly to its end, turned again, this time to the west as the final volley of arrows was released.
Now they rode onto the battlefield, backed to the north by a wall of fire. There they turned south towards their foes and immediately pushed their mounts to a gallop. Lances and spears were lowered, for ahead of them stood the Host of Angmar, still running towards the barricade with drawn swords and raised shields. So compressed was the space within the boundaries of fire, and so short was the knights' charge that the Yrch and Easterlings had barely time to shift their shields north to meet the cavalry ere they were run down. Six thousand five hundred cavalry slammed into seven thousand enemies, a disorganized mix of Yrch and Men, infantry and horsemen. In the aftermath there remained but two thousand shocked and bewildered soldiers of Angmar.
The cavalry of Arthedain and their allies wheeled away, first west and then north, 'til they held the rear of the battlefield. There they stayed their ride, and now the remnant of the Witch King's host stood at bay 'twixt a line of cavalry three times their count, and a barricade where seven thousand five hundred infantry waited. They could do 'naught but shy away from both, retreating to the middle of the field, equally as far from both as they could get. There they hoped to make a final stand.
On the western wall, the Artillery Captain chose the first, second, and third batteries.
"Prepare to release once. Load liquid shot," he ordered his Men. "Crews, target the center of the field only. Make perfect your aim, for little leeway have ye now 'twixt friend and foe!"
Carefully the catapult crews checked and double-checked their settings for range and traverse. Liquid shot was loaded and the firemen stood ready with their torches. Down in the middle of the field, two thousands of the enemy stood in a loose, oblong formation facing their own infantry and cavalry, and not one hundred yards separated them. The chief gunners aimed for the nearer verge of the enemy's formation, for upon impact the incendiary would streak perhaps two or three fathoms in the same direction 'twas shot.
"Ignite and release!" The Artillery Captain ordered.
The firemen lit the fuses and the chief gunners released the triggers. In the same heartbeat, all three flaming loads arced up into the night sky. Upon the wall and the field, all watched in breathless anticipation.
On the field, the Easterlings and Yrch were at first so focused on the cavalry and infantry 'twixt which they stood at bay, that 'twas late ere they marked the incoming shot. Then they tried to scatter with all the haste they could muster.
Mounted or on foot, the Dúnedain and their Elvish allies waited only so long as needed to mark where the shot had fallen, and then they charged at the remnant of their foes. Battle was joined and the fighting resumed ahorse and afoot. The defenders upon the wall stood down and watched, for 'twas no way for them to target foes within the constantly moving press of fighters.
Now the Men, Yrch, and Elves had been wholly consumed by the progress of the battle, for the defense had entailed many plans and many orders given in swift succession. So 'twas that the fighting continued with all eyes were fixed thither, when from the west, the duel 'twixt Helluin and Tindomul arrived on the field.
The Ringwraith was in constant motion, and after two vigorous hours of frustration, he was wholly obsessed with destroying the dark Noldo. Helluin was no less determined to destroy him, and so she countered, attacked, and taunted the wraith, whilst e'er drawing him on towards Fornost. A quick glance as they circled confirmed exactly where she needed to lead him. She disengaged two paces east and taunted him again.
"Late come to the battle thou art, silly creature of shadows," Helluin chided. "A pitiful excuse for a commander thou hast been, petty prince. Thy host is destroyed."
I crave to eat thy spirit, snaga," the Sarchram sneered.
I should hew thy neck, if thou but had one," Anguirél jeered.
With a shriek of rage, the wraith lunged forward with his sword. Helluin blasted forth a ril of Light to blind him and then slapped his dagger away with the Black Sword. The stroke would have taken the wrist of a flesh and blood fighter, but only sliced through the fabric of his sleeve. Then Tindomul was again forced to roll away 'neath the ring blade as it snapped towards his neck.
The contest continued as the last of the fighting went on 'round them, and none, mortal or immortal, dared impinge upon their duel. Indeed, the mortals shied from the Ringwraith, for even whilst fully occupied with Helluin, still a terror proceeded from him as does the stench from spoiled milk. So 'twas that Tindomul and Helluin made their way unobstructed towards the center of the barricade, where stood five soldiers of Arthedain about the rear of a wagon turned half out of the line, with an open crate affixed to its tailgate.
Tindomul had barely recovered from his roll when Helluin again assailed him with the Sarchram, driving him back, and he retreated to a safe distance to regroup. Then she took three quick steps back away from him. There she waited, assailing him not. Seeing this, the Ringwraith leapt forward and charged after her.
Now Helluin stood with one foot on the bottom of the crate's open lid, and she burst into a blaze of Light, far brighter than any she had manifested 'til then. The reflected brilliance alone cowed the wraith, for the mirror had been wrought in Númenor in an Age before, and its glass was silvered with mithril. Squinting against that glare, the five soldiers she had trained brought their mirror polished shields to bear on the wraith, shields that had been forged in Khazad-dûm as gifts to the first king of Arnor…forged of mithril.
The beams of Light reflected off those shields blasted the wraith senseless as they focused on him. 'Twas an ancient Light from Aman that suffered no touch unclean, and it scorched the undead spirit of the Ringwraith as a blowtorch held to living flesh. Men and Elves held their breath and watched as Tindomul froze in place, petrified in the brilliance, and unable to attack or withdraw. And then his cloak began to collapse in on itself and his sword fell from his hand. A scream louder than a clap of thunder rocked the walls of Fornost, and Men desperately covered their ears, but it lasted only a moment. The wraith's cloak fell to the ground. His fallen sword withered as a straw in a firestorm. And finally, all was silent. Helluin extinguished her Light and stood catching her breath. The five soldiers dared open their eyes, and they looked upon the ruin of their greatest foe.
For some moments, the battlefield was silent. Then the Dúnedain and the Elves began to cheer. Louder and louder their celebration became as more and more joined in. And then marching companies returning from battle in the east joined them on the field and tidings were shared of what had come to pass. Dawn came to the North Fortress of the Kings ere the rejoicing and the festivities faded away in favor of sleep, now without fear or nightmares for the first time in weeks.
"Think thou that he is truly dead?" King Araval asked Helluin at the meeting of his council on the morning of 5 Lothron. Obviously, they had found no body and proof was lacking.
"Oh, he is dead," Helluin said without a moment's consideration. "He hath been dead since I slew him at Pelargir, but if thou means that he is gone from Arda, then in truth I know not. I hope 'tis so, but how then to prove such? Either he shall appear again or not. At least for now, his threat is relieved and his hosts destroyed."
To this, the king could but nod in agreement. 'Twas no way to truly prove a point with negative evidence. For now, His Grace would simply have to take on faith the deliverance of his realm from the malice of Angmar.
"Is there 'aught that I can do for thee, in consideration of thy indispensable aid to the realm?" Araval asked later as the council adjourned.
Helluin sighed and was silent at first, but then she said, "thy great, great, grandfather entitled me as Lady Helluin of Arthedain, and so in times of grave threat I consider myself a knight in service to the realm.
I have much to do and but one request, O king. The horse that bore hence my bag and cloak, I would have again its service for a while."
To Be Continued