In An Age Before

by Phantom Bard

Part 298 posted, in which Helluin and the Riders of Norðr-vestandóttir Bý aid the Third Marshal Haleth in Rohan's defeat of the Easterling invaders. Brutal weather, disease, and failing morale play a part. Aldburg is no sooner freed of the eastern threat when tidings come of the Dunlending's invasion from the west. OCs galore as usual.

194. In An Age Before Chapter 194

In An Age Before – Part 194

Now 'twixt the afternoon of 26 Gwirith when they fled the battle with the cavalry, and the eve of 1 Lothron, the Host of Angmar had made one hundred thirty miles all told. Thirty-five miles they had come on the first day, but their pace had waned progressively on each day after so that on the 1st, they managed but twelve miles. The Witch King's enchantments had strengthened them immensely or they would already have collapsed. Still, even the effects of his conjuring could confer but so much advantage to mortal bodies saddled with finite resources.

The Yrch and Men had escaped with only such water and rations as they carried, and 'twas not enough to sustain their bodies for so long 'neath such extreme exertion. Whereas at first they had jogged, now they staggered. Driven by the Ringwraith's morgûl, their minds refused to capitulate to fatigue, but muscle and sinew retained the limits of the flesh. The expenditure of such unnatural amounts of energy with insufficient replenishment was literally starving them to death as they ran.

Of course they engaged in murder and the consumption of their fallen. Any weakness incited predation and the host culled its most feeble at every rest stop. The meat of those too exhausted to fight off their hungry comrades provided fewer calories on each successive day as reserves of fat burned away, leaving the victims increasingly stringy and lean. Worse, rather than slaking their thirst, salty blood made them feel yet more parched. Even drinking their own urine offered no reprieve.

Neither was any succor offered by the landscape bordering Angmar. What little rain that fell rapidly soaked in. Sere was that plain and the constant winds quickly evaporated any standing water. Surface watercourses were exceedingly rare and might remain dry for a season, a year, or a decade. There were no rivers or streams marked on any map. Nor had the fleeing host time to hunt or gather, and little enough did that country provide for either activity. At heart, those cursed to dwell in Angmar regarded their homeland as no more hospitable than did the Elves of Imladris.

By 1 Lothron, the Yrch and Men of Angmar's host were as desperate in mind as in body. In their hearts they despaired, but the Witch King's spells kept them from surrendering to their growing hopelessness. Their conflicted spirits warred within themselves as their bodies failed. And during every moment of every day, every Man and every Orch strained their ears to hear the beat of hooves closing in from the rear, dreading that sound, yet becoming increasingly fearful the longer it remained absent. They expected to be o'ertaken and slaughtered at any moment.

At the head of their column, the Nazgûl reveled in the bright citrine hue of fear, the emerald viridescence of despair, and the ruby speckles of pain that tinted his host. Those colors had been increasing in intensity and purity by the hour and so much of his world was grey. 'Twas reason enough for him to run them to death.

Being as he had neither taken the king's head, nor obtained the palantíri as his master had commanded, Tindomul deemed his campaign a failure. He had defeated the realm of Arthedain, driven off its armies and its king, terrorized its people, broken Fornost, isolated Imladris and Lindon, and yet all his gains had evaporated. The Dúnedain had proven far more numerous than he had e'er suspected. The estrangement of the north and south kingdoms was far from complete, and the estrangement of Men from Elves had proved disappointing as well. At least he had not been forced to contend with Dwarves. There was still work to be done in the north, and ere he endured the derision and chastisement of his master, he would reap from the wreck of Angmar whatsoe'er he could.

Now the cavalries of Lindon, Arthedain, Gondor, and Rhovanion had ridden swiftly in pursuit of the Host of Angmar. They were grimly determined to complete the slaughter of their enemy. On the 29th they had come fifty miles. The 30th had seen another fifty miles disappear 'neath their hooves. Through the morning of 1 Lothron they covered another twenty-five miles ere their mounted scouts returned reporting that their quarry marched but five miles ahead, moving slowly and seeming to struggle against exhaustion. At noon, Eärnur called a halt to hear their tidings.

"They lag, brother," young Prince Leifr told Prince Arne. "As skrælingar¹ they stagger forth with only strength enough to murder and eat their weakest." ¹(skrælingar, barbarians Old Norse/Modern Icelandic)

Arne and those of his knights who sat 'nigh grimaced in disgust. If 'aught, these slaves of the Witch King were worse than those from Dol Guldur that they had fought aforetime. Beside them, the knights of Gondor cursed the enemy and spat. The Sindar shook their heads, for 'twas 'naught that they had not witnessed oft enough during the long years.

"Aforetime I deemed thy notion of running them another day to be needlessly cruel," Prince Eärnur said to Prince Arne, "yet now I concur. On the morrow we shall make our presence known in the morn and drive them through the day in a rout ere we fall upon them and slay them to a one."

"Yes!" Arne exclaimed as his Men stamped their feet and voiced their agreement. "We shall light our camp tomorrow night with the flames of their pyre."

When word of the plan spread through their camp, the knights cheered and their morale rose. After resting their horses and eating their noon meal, they remounted and rode at a walk 'til their scouts reported their foes but a mile ahead, collapsed on the ground as evening drew down. The cavalry pitched its camp that night without fires and eagerly awaited the dawn.

Twenty miles to the northeast of the cavalry's camp that night stood the encampment of the Knights of Imladris. Having arrived there in the evening of 28 Gwirith, the Noldor had endured the depressing lands of southwestern Angmar for the past two days. 'Twas with great relief that they received the repots of their scouts in the evening of 1 Lothron, telling that the Host of Angmar had finally been sighted.

"They march northeast as expected, if indeed a march it can be called," a scout said.

In Elrond's campaign tent, the Peredhel raised a brow in question whilst Helluin and the Lord Glorfindel hearkened.

"My lord, they stagger forth appearing exhausted. I wager 'tis only the will of the Witch King that still holds them to their course. In four thousand years, they are the saddest excuse for an army I have e'er seen."

"Hast thou espied the Ringwraith amongst them?" Helluin asked.

"Aye, the only mounted figure in that entire host. He leads them forth at a walk, stopping and starting repeatedly to allow them to catch up. I deem that even should we stay our hands, most would expire ere they reach Carn Dûm."

"That we shall not do," Elrond said. "We shall take no chances of them escaping, only to recover and renew their aggression. Nay, they must be destroyed."

"Could thou mark their count?" Asked Glorfindel.

The scout hesitantly nodded 'aye'.

"Not with full confidence, my lord. Seen against the glare of Anor's setting, 'twas difficult to reach a certain tally, yet within a margin of several hundreds, I would make that host some five to six thousands."

"Saw thou any sign of the Knights of Gondor or Arthedain?" Helluin asked.

"Nay, I did not," the scout replied.

"Where does Tindomul's rabble rest now?" Elrond asked.

"They are twenty miles southwest of our camp."

After the scout was dismissed to return and keep watch for any changes in the disposition of the enemy, Elrond, Glorfindel, and Helluin took counsel together on their next actions.

"The Host of Angmar is greatly diminished," the Peredhel said, "and I doubt not that their state results from a resounding defeat."

"Aye, and though as yet unseen, surely the host of the allies was recently victorious."

"I wager that host pursues them even now," Helluin said, "yet time they would have spent after the battle in the tending of their wounded and the burying of their dead. They certainly would not have abandoned them, or eaten them as the Yrch are wont to do."

"The scout's description tells of an army fleeing in a rout and now at the end of their endurance," Glorfindel said.

"Six or seven score miles they have fled from Fornost," Helluin calculated, "and 'naught was seen of supply wagons. They could not carry sufficient rations to run all the way to Carn Dûm."

"Nay, they could not," Elrond agreed. "Even with careful provisioning and a walking pace, the distance is too great."

"We must not forget that they spent the winter starving," she added, "and so their condition was poor ere they marched to battle."

The two ellyn nodded in agreement. The health, morale, and battle readiness of their foes was low, perhaps critically so.

"T'would seem we need but wait for them to deliver themselves to us, a day or two worse for wear, and perhaps by that time the Hosts of Gondor and Arthedain shall catch up with them as well," Glorfindel said. "At the least, we can stay them from advancing further."

"I shall be glad to spill the blood of Angmar, howe'er the Witch King is mine," Helluin said. "I only pray thee keep him from our mortal kin," she added, looking Elrond in the eyes.

The Peredhel nodded in understanding. Tindomul was likely to try to single out the Heir of Isildur in a last attempt to bring down the Northern Dúnedain, and the House of Kings was kin to them both. Glorfindel too nodded in agreement.

"Then hereafter we stand prepared for sudden battle at the appearance of the Host of Angmar," the Peredhel said. "The scouts shall remain in position to advise us of any developments."

The morn of 2 Lothron dawned with the omen of a blood red sunrise. 'Tis uncertain which host found that portent most poignant. The cavalries of Gondor, Arthedain, Rhovanion, and Lindon greeted it with rejoicing. The Host of Angmar found it perturbing though their reactions were subsumed 'neath the morgûl of the Witch King. The Host of Imladris greeted the dawn with grim determination as their long shadows stretched out to the west before their ranks and files as they stood their mounts in battle formation.

So we ride to war together at last, O Helluin, Barq said as they waited at the fore with Elrond and Glorfindel.

"Aye, O Barq, and perhaps much shall be settled ere the sun sets this day," she said.

In the east, we named such days 'Ayam Safk Aldima', Blood Shedding Days, and all warriors felt blessed to greet such a dawn on a day of battle.

"Then may the Valar bless us with victory this day."

At an order from the Lord Elrond, the Knights of Imladris advanced at a walk.

Three hours later, a scout galloped up to the vanguard and reported to Elrond and Glorfindel.

"My lords, a great cavalry has appeared from the southwest. They carry the banners of Arthedain, Gondor, Lindon, and King Frumgar of Rhovanion. When I rode hither they had yet to attack, but rather choose to drive the Host of Angmar ahead of them. 'Twas a rout, but at a walking pace."

"How far has the enemy come, and how far are they from us now?" Elrond asked.

"Since the first hour past dawn they had been driven barely a league from their last camp and I reckon they are now fifteen miles before us. They appeared exhausted and advance at barely a normal marching pace. The Witch King leads them."

"So our questions about the Host of the Allies have been answered," Glorfindel said, to which the Peredhel and Helluin nodded.

"They could charge at any time," Helluin said, "and we should be in position to reinforce them when they do. They are still an hour away."

"I agree," Elrond said. "We ride to meet the enemy."

The order to ride was passed and the cavalry of Imladris advanced alternating gallop and trot. They expected that if all continued as the scout had reported, then they would meet their foes twelve or thirteen miles ahead.

Now the cavalry of the allies had greeted the red dawn and prepared to ride after breaking their fast. They rode at the end of the first hour of daylight, and after the third part of an hour had become a threatening presence looming to the southwest of the Host of Angmar. The Men and Yrch hastened so much as they could, but so weakened were they by then that their haste amounted to 'naught but a normal marching pace for healthy infantry.

Periodically, companies of riders broke away from the mass of cavalry to make flanking feints, watching as their trudging foes recoiled away towards their center. When they felt the Yrch and Men were flagging, the Northmen sent a few dozen arrows into their rear guard to hasten them on their way. Roughly each hour, horns were sounded and a mock charge ensued, stopping when the horsemen saw their enemies begin to scramble forward.

Yet the most telling thing about that morn was the silence. No longer had the Hillmen the heart to curse their enemies through parched throats with swollen tongues. No longer did the Yrch shout challenges, threats, or war cries. They had abandoned bickering amongst themselves, and they no longer had the energy to jostle and shove each other aside. From the Host of Angmar came 'naught but the tread of stumbling of feet and the exhausted panting of lungs.

'Round the end of the second hour, a Man here or an Orch there would fall, struggle back to his feet, lurch a few more strides, and then fall again. Eventually such unfortunates were o'ertaken by the cavalry and dispatched with the thrust of a spear. There they lay bleeding, save for those trod on by horse hooves and granted their death the sooner. Yet these were not gifted peace in death. Long after the cavalry passed, when Anor set and night came to the north, they rose as wights and began their lurching trek back to Fornost, there to pass the remainder of an Age haunting an abandoned and slowly crumbling fortress.

Another hour passed and more fell, and the Host of Angmar fled another league towards Carn Dûm. The fourth hour after dawn approached and by some fluke of the weather, or perhaps by some incantation of the Witch King, clouds began to blow in from the west. The sky filled and a thickening o'ercast blotted out the sun. The light diminished and the Yrch seemed to regain some strength. They plodded ahead, gradually leaving the Hillmen and Easterlings in the rear of the host.

Now an hour ere noon saw the sky dark and the clouds low. Distant thunder rumbled. It seemed that a storm was brewing, and amongst the cavalry, Eärnur took counsel with Hírochon and Arne.

"Alas, t'would seem fate turns against us," Arne said.

"Indeed," the Prince of Gondor agreed. "The foe gains strength as the sun dims. I reckon that ere the storm breaks we must attack lest any escape."

"'Tis a strange omen that whilst the clouds and wind come from the west and Anor still tarries 'nigh the zenith that 'tis the east from which a light grows," Hírochon said. He pointed out a glow in the distance on the opposite side of the Host of Angmar.

"I have not seen the like aforetime," Prince Arne said. "Hast thou some notion of what it portends?"

"I know not," Hírochon said, still staring at the glow ahead.

"Nor I," said Eärnur. "Yet whate'er may betide, I deem that we must charge ere rain makes our footing slick and visibility less. Lightning and thunder shall spook the horses as well."

Arne and Hírochon nodded their agreement and orders were passed. Men and Elves gripped their spears, set arrows to their bows, and unsheathed their swords. Shields were lifted, axes and maces swung to loosen shoulders, and horses pranced with excitement. Then the horns of the Northmen sounded, and with a great shout, the cavalry of the allies charged on the rear guard of the Host of Angmar.

Amongst the fleeing Yrch and Men, the thunder of hooves from behind set terror in hearts already strained to the bursting by the sustained flight o'er the past five and a half days. They had been driven to collapse by the enchantments of their master, but still they fled. Then at the head of their column, the Ringwraith stood in his stirrups and drew his sword. He raised the blade and pointed it at the rear guard of his host, and he set a final, fatal spell upon them.

At the rear of the fleeing host, amidst Men outpaced by the Yrch when the sun had disappeared behind the clouds, a fey and defiant compulsion took root, and married to the fatalism that had grown in their hearts, caused them to draw their weapons and turn. With heaving lungs and shaking legs, they grasped the hilts of swords and the grips of axes and spears, and they faced down the charging horses in a suicidal last stand.

Amongst the cavalry, 'twas the Men of the North who understood most easily that impulse, to die with hopeless courage and attain glory to be recalled only by victorious foes. They raised their weapons o'erhead and shouted a salute to the doomed.

"Kveðja! Feigr!¹" ¹(Kveðja, salute, greeting - Feigr, doomed, about to die, fated to die Old Norse)

Of course the Hillmen and Easterlings had no idea what the Northmen had said. Those who responded at all shouted curses and war cries as they raised and shook their weapons. 'Twas exactly the response of futile defiance that the Northmen had expected from stout hearted warriors. To those Men they gave a grudging measure of respect, whilst the fleeing Yrch they cursed as huglausi, cowardly.

Now of the Host of Angmar, two thousand eight hundred Men had survived and 'nigh four thousand Yrch. Though the Men had no strength to charge against the cavalry, they stood their ground and wielded their weapons with desperate prowess. Not long could they withstand the press of battle, but for that time in which the Ringwraith's strength could still avail them, they fought with surprising vigor. They were met by a rain of arrows from the mounted archers.

First to crash into their front were the Northmen with Prince Arne at the fore. Into the chest of a foe he planted his spear, and then his sword swept out and he hewed his enemies with ferocity. Behind him his riders charged, slamming into the mob of Men with their spears, axes, and swords. Unlike when they had previously assailed a long, narrow column, now the Men of Angmar were gathered in a disorganized mass with no clear ranks or files. They thrust and slashed at the horsemen with wild abandon, wounding riders and horses whensoe'er they could.

Within the press, the momentum of the cavalry was soon lost and a melee ensued. Yet unlike the more specialized cavalries of the Elves and the Dúnedain, the Northmen had no reluctance to dismount and fight afoot. Now, though they were actually disadvantaged in numbers, the Men of Rhovanion matched swords with Hillmen and Easterlings, swinging axes, and maces, and swords. 'Twas a form of combat familiar to all on both sides. Singly or in small groups, the mortals fought, yet the exhaustion of the Men of Angmar and the ferocity of the Northmen created a clash whose outcome was preordained.

Prince Arne laughed as he engaged his foes. The fighting heated his blood and the exhilaration of battle came upon him. One after another, enemies fell before him. All 'round the field 'twas much the same. The Men of Rhovanion were heirs to a martial culture stretching back many generations to the fathers of King Ërlick 'nigh a millennium aforetime. Of their blood had come Vidumavi, mother of King Eldacar. They spent their lifetimes practicing at arms and horsemanship, and they cultivated courage and honor as the core of their culture. Upon a field of battle, t'would have been a fatal mistake to judge them the lesser for that they aspired not to high courtly manners or built grand halls of stone.

For an hour the battle raged, and though some riders from the north fell, the outcome was ne'er in doubt. Prince Arne slew two dozens, his younger brother Leifr seven, and with their fellow Men, worsted the Men of Angmar to the last. For exhausted Men who had run 'nigh a hundred and fifty miles, they had put up a surprisingly praiseworthy fight and they had earned the respect of the victors.

"All these fallen shall be laid with their weapons and honored with pyres, for though we know not their ways, we shall honor them as warriors with our own," the prince declared.

'Round him, his men shouted 'yea!' in agreement. Preoccupied in that moment with the heat of battle and the flush of victory, the practical fact that there were no trees and little else to build funeral pyres with was o'erlooked. In the end, they would carry their own dead with their wounded in their supply wagons when they returned to Fornost.

Now the Yrch had continued to flee behind the Witch King, and whilst Prince Arne and the Northmen worsted the Men of Angmar, they had come 'nigh a mile. Prince Eärnur and Knight Commander Hírochon led their knights at a gallop in pursuit. With them rode the Knights of Lindon. They swept past the battle as the Northmen dismounted to fight afoot, and charged after the Yrch. Four thousand there were, running as fast as their exhausted legs could carry them, but pitted against the horses of Gondor, Arthedain, and Lindon, their lead swiftly dwindled.

Finally, the knights slammed into the rear guard of the Yrch, planting lances in their foes and crushing bodies 'neath the hooves of their mounts. They did not allow the momentum of their charge to flag, but instead spread to the flanks and rode clear. Behind, a seemingly endless stream of knights continued the charge whilst trampled bodies littered the ground in the wake of the battle's progression. Unlike the Hillmen and the Easterlings, the Yrch ne'er turned to fight.

The knights who had ridden out of the press turned their mounts and rode to the rear of their host, regrouping there to await their turn for their next charge. So 'twas that the cavalry circulated to attack again and again, whilst only the wounded stood off to the sides.

The Host of Angmar was being gobbled up from back to front, and finally the Ringwraith acknowledged the failure of his retreat and the loss of his host. 'Nigh half had already fallen and shortly, none would remain. He looked back on the battle and saw the Knights of Arthedain ride into his soldiers with swords, axes, and maces swinging. Nowhere amongst them did he mark the king or the heir of the North Kingdom. His eyes fell upon the Knights of Gondor as they rotated to the front of the cavalry column and took their turn charging into the rear of the Yrch. There 'neath the banner of the South Kingdom rode the knight commander he had marked aforetime and he renewed his vow to destroy him.

O'erhead the sky had continued to darken whilst the Men were falling, and in the far distance rumblings of thunder could be heard. Tindomul gave thanks to his master for the turn in the weather. Then he cursed, for the boon of a sunless sky had come too late to save his servants. As he continued to watch the destruction of his host, the storm moved closer. Now he could see streaks of lightning arcing 'cross the sky. Soon enough they would be striking the ground.

Violence begets violence, he thought, as below, so too above.

The battle continued and the cavalry charges proceeded without respite, for there were still twenty-four thousand knights to prosecute that strategy. The lightning drew closer and thunder boomed as the Host of Angmar was diminished. Three thousand, then two thousand, then a thousand remained. In minutes, the last would fall. The Knights of Gondor prepared to take their turn as the Knights of Lindon rode to the rear. Prince Eärnur charged for the fifth time, and he led his Men into the thinning mass of Yrch. This time, the knights burst through the enemy's front.

Eärnur looked ahead. The glow that Hírochon had pointed out to him seemed much brighter, as though its source now lay much closer. But directly before him, not a hundred yards ahead, sitting upon a tall black horse was a figure draped in a tattered black cloak, a rusted sword raised in his gauntleted fist. The Prince of Gondor felt the projection of a fell power radiating from that foe, for surely foe he was. It beat upon him as a hot wind or a wave upon the shore, and in his ear he heard a voice, low, cruel, and threatening, grating out the question, who art thou to stand against me?

Faced with a threat meant to intimidate, the Heir of Anárion reacted like the prince he was, for no foe would cow him. One day, he would be king of the most powerful realm in Middle Earth. He rose in his stirrups, pointed his sword at the Witch King, and declared, "I am Eärnur, son of Eärnil, heir to the throne of Gondor!"

With a crack of thunder the sky opened and torrents of rain poured down. The prince's horse pranced and tossed its head, showing the whites of its eyes. Laughter filled his ears and the Ringwraith's black horse stood upon its hind legs, pawing the air. Then the Nazgûl charged the prince at a gallop. Lightning blasted the place where he had been and thunder shook the ground. Combined with the fear projected by the Lieutenant of Sauron, Eärnur's horse turned tail and fled, bearing the prince south towards the North Downs that lay two score miles away. The Nazgûl's laughter followed him.

Yet the Nazgûl like his master in an Age before had marked not the threat that approached from the direction least expected. From the east whence lay 'naught but his citadel of Carn Dûm, came a fiercely brightening light. With his foe fled and his host destroyed, his mind finally cleared and he marked the shadow cast by his own horse stretching out before him 'neath the black clouds. He wheeled his mount and beheld 'aught to reflect the fear he had just cast, back into his own dead heart.

Not a hundred yards away stood the might of Imladris, Knights of the Noldor glowing with the Light of Aman. Silver bright was their armor, plate and mail crafted in Ages past, for their gear of war had endured as had they, from the Elder Days, from Gondolin, Nargothrond, and the hills of northern Beleriand. Tall were their helms and mirror polished were their shields. Runes for the bane of their foes were etched in metal wrought by smiths long gone from Middle Earth. One or two of these perhaps he could have laid low, but o'er four hundreds? Not a chance. They would drive him hence, for they felt no fear of him, and on their swords he read spells meant to wound and slay the servants of evil.

Through the now blinding haze of Light he marked those at the fore and had he still a heart, t'would have been ice. Centermost, sitting upon a chestnut gelding was the Peredhel, son of Eärendil, Lord of Imladris, whom he deemed an assailable target, but not save if he were alone. He still wore the armor he had worn when he came to war against his master as the herald of the last Elven High King.

At Elrond's left hand, sitting a white stallion that seemed to glow through the curtains of rain was that horrid Elf lord Glorfindel. As a phosphor he shone, blindingly bright, painful to even glance upon, let alone fight against. Dead aforetime and risen again, this one he would flee even if the contest were one against one.

But worst of all to him for the personal history that lay 'twixt them, was the black armored figure sitting a dark bay stallion that he swore was of eastern stock. 'Twas his nemesis, Helluin Maeg-mórmenel, the absolute last person he e'er hoped to see. Her horse took a step towards him and through the glare, he saw her smirk, as cruel and threatening an expression as had e'er shaped his master's features. She held no reins for she rode her horse bareback, and with her free right hand she drew the black sword. With her left, she lifted the mithril Ring and it blazed like the sun.

'Tis but a matter of time, it whispered. Best t'would be we end this day.

He had read the cirth upon that weapon aforetime, in the Sammath Naur, and it had chilled him to the core if its incantation was to be believed. In that battle, the Sarchram had hewed the neck of the hapless Adúnaphel. In the aftermath, she had ne'er been seen again, and if his master knew 'aught, he spoke of it not. Of one thing though, Tindomul was sure. That incantation was akin to the inscription on his master's Ring, and the Sarchram had been created first.

In the time he had spent in thought, Helluin's horse had taken another two steps closer so that it stood a body length ahead of the other two. Unlike Eärnur's beast, it seemed to have no fear. It took another step closer and then another. The Knights of the Noldor blocked his flight east, the downs lay to the south, and the cavalry of Gondor, Arthedain, and Lindon stood to the west. In the next moment, his decision was made for him and his course was chosen by another's will. Helluin charged him with a shout of "Draut gijak-ishi!"

Blue fire erupted from her eyes and her body blazed with the Light she had accrued in Aman. Blinded, the Ringwraith gave in to his doubts and fled north as fast as his horse would carry him. Craving his destruction, Helluin gave chase.

"Run now as thou hast ne'er run aforetime, O Barq," Helluin told the Easterling horse.

Barely do I feel thy weight, O Helluin. None shall outrun me, Barq replied.

Both horse and rider believed his words true, for they gained on the fleeing Ringwraith though its horse ran with the wind and the strength of the spell it had existed 'neath since the newly recovered Murazor had commandeered it in Rhûn in 1948. Indeed that horse had died o'er two decades past, ridden 'til its heart burst and then reanimated by the will of the Witch King e'er since. 'Twas now as unnatural as its master, a fact the Easterlings had soon marked, horsemen that they were, for the beast ne'er ate or drank, and it slept not.

Behind they left the cavalries of Imladris and the allies as the rain passed east with the storm. The Noldor had seen such single-minded purpose aforetime and wished their Ghâshgûl well. The Knights of Lindon at least understood Helluin's undying enmity for the Nazgûl. Perhaps this time, she would manage to destroy him. The Knights of Arthedain knew from lore that she had fought and defeated the Witch King aforetime and hoped for her victory again. But the Knights of Gondor and Rhovanion had watched the Ringwraith send the prince to flight, and they had marked the unnatural prowess he had bequeathed to his troops. He was a fearsome adversary who had defeated the entire North Kingdom. They could not for the life of them understand how a single knight had chased him from the field.

The new cavalry that had appeared was eldritch to the Southern Men's eyes, too bright, too flawlessly armored, and somehow just out of place, or perhaps out of time. O'er the course of the campaign they had grown accustomed to the strangeness of the Elves from Lindon, but these were a different story. So flashy were they and so antique was their gear that they seemed sprung to life from some tale of the Elder Days.

As the Witch King with Helluin in pursuit grew e'er more distant, Prince Eärnur returned, seething with embarrassment and eager to give chase for to reclaim his honor. After all, one day he would be king.

Only with difficulty had he mastered his mount, though 'twas still spooked. The dwindling of the rain and the passing of the storm had helped, for no longer did lightning flash o'erhead, and what thunder as was still to be heard was now far away. He approached the Cavalry of Imladris as Hírochon rode up.

"Mae govannen, Prince Eärnur, I am Elrond of Imladris and I rejoice that you return uninjured," the Peredhel said.

"Mae govannen, my Lord Elrond," the prince said, stifling his rage with effort and bowing his head to hide his amazement. I am met by the son of Eärendil! Ne'er did my father speak truer than when he said I would meet some to whom my own deference was due.

Glorfindel was staring to the north, tracing Helluin's progress into the distance, but now he turned his bright eyes to the prince. When the young Man met his glance, he read his heart clearly. 'Twas 'naught to be gained by allowing him to exercise his current impulses.

"Do not pursue him!" the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower said. "He will not return to this land. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall.¹" ¹(Quote taken verbatim from LotR, Appendix A, (iv) GatHoA, pg. 1027)

The prince shifted his eyes to the north and then back to the Elf Lord. He had many questions.

"He is Glorfindel, once a lord of Gondolin, but now a lord of Imladris," Elrond offered.

The prince's eyes again started from his head, which he bowed in respect. Slayer of a Balrog! He died and was returned to life after by the Valar!

"My lords, 'tis my honor to greet ye both," he said after mastering his amazement, "and I thank thee for thy counsel, Lord Glorfindel." After watching the bright speck that was Helluin disappear o'er a low rise, he asked, "Thou feel thy knight shall slay him so that he returns not to these lands? They ride further off by the moment."

"I believe that if any can slay him, 'tis she," Glorfindel said. "She hath slain him once already and defeated him thrice after."

The astonishment he had just controlled exploded again in his mind. Úlairdacil Helluin Maeg-mórmenel whom lore accounts the greatest living warrior of the Elder Kindred! Just wait 'til my father hears of this!

"Pray offer our thanks to King Eärnil, Lord Eärnur," the Peredhel said, calling him back to the present. "Thy aid in defeating Angmar and redeeming the freedom of the north is greatly appreciated."

The prince nodded his thanks for Elrond's praise. Many had had a hand in freeing the north. Though the Lord Glorfindel's words had cast doubt on any chances he might have for defeating the Witch King and redressing his shame at being driven from the field, still he had a hope that perhaps one day he could do what even Helluin had failed to do thus far. Time would tell. He cast a last glance to the north, but the chase had passed beyond his sight. The war was done and his mission achieved, and as his father had hoped, he had met many of the influential powers of Eriador.

"My lords, it hath been my privilege to meet ye. Perhaps in the future, the league of brotherhood 'twixt Arthedain and Gondor shall become closer and we may meet again. I hope t'will be so, and that we can speak further ere we take our leave," the prince said. "I must attend my knights and await the arrival of our support staff. We have wounded to treat and fallen to honor, and I must hear tidings from our allies as well." He dipped his head again to the lords of the Noldor and then turned his horse to rejoin his host, knowing that his knights would have many questions.

As he rode away, Glorfindel and Elrond traded silently in thought, eye to eye.

Thou know he still yearns to confront the Nazgûl, Glorfindel said.

Aye. His pride is wounded by the fright of his horse and the laughter of his enemy, Elrond said, shaking his head. Ill omened I deem his future shall be should he find an opportunity to follow his rage.

I had hoped my 'prophecy' would help to dissuade him, Glorfindel said with a wink.

'Twas a good inspiration, meldir nín, and being mortal he is willing to believe such pronouncements whilst remaining headstrong enough to ignore them.

To this, Glorfindel groaned and shook his head.

'Tis not thy burden to bear, Elrond said. Should the Song allow Helluin to finally destroy Tindomul, or even to just drive him back to Carn Dûm, at least he shall be far from Gondor.

The Lord of the House of the Golden Flower nodded in agreement to this.

I shall keep hope that t'will be just so. After a pause, he added, we should have asked after Fornost, Prince Aranarth, and perhaps King Arvedui as well.

Of those things, I wager we shall hear ere many years have passed, Elrond said. For now, let us discover if our allies require any assistance and then take our leave of this wretched land. I find it hath given me a headache.

To Be Continued