Chapter 1: There Are Some that Live that Deserve Death...
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any of the other Tolkien masterpieces. However, I did borrow one very courageous Gondorian knight from the RPG, The Third Age. Although they have the same name, Berethor in this story is actually Berethor III, not the original Berethor. Anything you recognize is not mine. All hail J. R. R. Tolkien!
A/N: Two things. (1) This story is now going to take a flying leap to the future. It is now approximately 2600 F. A. (Fourth Age). (2) I need more reviews to keep such a wonderful story going... hint hint.
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Valgorúth looked into the eyes of his opponent. The Westron obviously was much more experienced, being more than twice his age. A great battle scar ran from his left eye to his exposed chest.
How do I beat this?
The battle began; the blades clashed in fury. The scream of metal filled the air. Valgorúth looked for an opening, but there was none. Attack, attack! Maybe he'll wear down first. In came the Westron's blade. Successful parry! Recover. Another blow came, knocking Valgorúth back a few paces. Another, and another. Running out of room, Valgorúth feinted for a killing blow, but the Westron connected the blades. The parry sent Valgorúth of balance. He watched as his opponents blade flew closer, knowing there was nothing he could do.
"Halt! Touch Berethor, fifteen to fourteen. Bout!"
Berethor approached his student to shake hands. "What did I tell you, Valgorúth? After you parry, always riposte! A strong counter-attack like a riposte can be your best strength. You would have had me there if you riposted!"
"Do you actually think I can beat you? You're way too good for me."
"If you remember why you were named Valgorúth, nothing can stop you! Control your anger and focus."
"That's what Ada tells me. Good bout, Berethor."
"You too, Val."
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"This is your twenty-first birthday. According to the customs of this city, you may officially join the council today. Anything we decide is now your responsibility, too." Araniel looked down at his son with pride.
"Yes, Ada."
"However, Val, you are of the Estelli. This means that even though you are twenty-one, you only really have the maturity of the eight-year-olds of the other men."
"Yes, Father."
"It is an honor, son, a privilege to be one of the Estelli. There are few of us, and all look up to us. Our family is the only Estelli family in Minas Aran. I am the head of the council."
"Yes, Father. It is an honor."
"Come, my child; we will go now."
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The council gathered, Araniel taking his place at the head. Three hundred in all was his estimate, and most of them he had appointed himself. Their council system worked, although at times it was tedious and confusing to outsiders. At two hundred thirty-seven years old, Araniel had the most experience, but he was still young by Estelli standards. He had helped found this city which still bore his name, Minas Aran. Suddenly, Araniel noticed a stranger in Easterling travel garb. He addressed the outsider. "Who is this new stranger in our midst?"
"Araniel, I am Túka. I come from Minas Quodi, on the eastern border."
"Speak, Túka."
"Our people are in danger. They sent me to ride to Minas Aran to seek the Wise Araniel. We need the help of Aran. Easterlings of the worst nature are coming. They are but three days away, and it is that far betwixt our fair cities! Not a moment can be spared!"
Now began the tedious proceedings of the council.
"The motion before the council is the aiding of Minas Quodi with all possible speed. Is this the will of the council?"
"Araniel!" came the shouts from the members of the council.
"The council recognizes Berethor." Valgorúth's father spoke with a level voice, dreading the resistance to was that most of the council had. Araniel did trust Berethor, however, even with his own life.
Berethor stood. "As head of the Battle and Stratagem Committee, I would request information from Túka on how many are needed." He resumed his seat.
"The council recognizes Túka," replied Araniel.
Túka looked upon the council with grave anticipation. "Ten thousand come from the Uncharted Plains. Our city has seven thousand fighters. Another seven thousand should be–" His final words were drowned out by cries from the men of Aran.
"Seven thousand! This man is insane!"
"Order! This meeting will return to order!" Araniel fought to have his voice heard.
"Milord!" Berethor again signaled Araniel.
"The council recognizes Berethor," sighed Valgorúth's father, obviously glad for a repose in the turmoil.
"Our city contains twenty thousand able-bodied soldiers. I believe we can send half of what Túka requests, and no more. That should give Quodi a slight advantage."
A man in the back raised his hand. "The council recognizes Đørin."
Đørin had a strong Plainsman accent. "I believe wid all accurasty, dat de men of Aran are not willing to fie for anoder city!"
Cries of agreement and of "Milord!" filled the room.
"The council recognizes Elrodan." Araniel pointed to the aged man near the center of the crowd.
"Thank you." Elrodan turned and glared directly at the Plainsman. "I believe this deed should be done, and without further hesitation! Quodi needs assistance. Remember threescore years past, when we needed assistance and Quodi proffered it freely? We must aid any city in the realm of Gondor, especially our former benefactors! We must fight!"
"The motion before the council is the sending of three thousand five hundred soldiers to Minas Quodi in response to their request and their previous generosity. Is this the will of the council?"
"Where weer dey but twenty-odd yers ague?" Đørin shouted out.
"That was an ambush on the women in the fields! Completely impossible to foretell an ambush, it is!" Elrodan was very adamant for his age.
"ORDER!" cried Araniel. "I will not say it again!"
As the time ran on towards midday, Valgorúth became more and more frustrated with the slow movements of the council. It seemed that the elderly and battle-worn men in the council agreed to the battle, but the young did not remember the valor of the Quodi's ride to Aran's aid. It seemed that every member of the council had a new suggestion, opinion, or outbreak in response to the motions. Finally, Valgorúth stood up in anger.
"Father!"
"The council recognizes our newest member." Araniel smiled at his son. He must needs control that temper.
"It is my belief that if we are to send out soldiers, it should be done within this year! If some are opposed to fighting for those who have helped us before, maybe we should form a volunteer army. That way, none will ride who does not wish to do so. That should satisfy all."
"A volunteer army. Good idea. The motion before the council is the forming of a volunteer army to send before the forces gathered at Minas Quodi. Is this the will of the council?" Araniel looked for dissenters, but finally there were none. Such a simple plan. The gavel dropped with a sullen thunk. "Approved by the council. I, for one, will volunteer. Berethor, please write a note for one of the pages to post throughout the citadel. We ride at dawn!"
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Araniel took down Bárang from its post above the mantel. The iron glinted in the firelight. The warrior felt the weight of the weapon and checked the tang and blade. Clean, straight, perfectly balanced. No notches in this sword. He set the blade in its sheath slowly. He cleaned the belt again, watching for the telltale holes of disuse. He approved the knife in the other side. Single-edged, left-handed, ten-inch blade. The knife was almost ten times older than Araniel, rumored to be a gift of an Elven queen.
Moving silently to his room, Araniel withdrew the lengths of mail from its crate. He hadn't the time to check each link, but he inspected the important areas. The arms, shoulders, mending a few about the heart. He put on the heavy armor, covering the steel rings with a leather jerkin bearing the emblems of Gondor and Minas Aran.
Next came the helm. This too was an ancient piece. It was rumored to have been worn by Eldarion himself as he explored the Uncharted Plains. Araniel left the helmet on its stand until the rest of his armor was secure.
He heard a sound behind him and turned as Valgorúth entered the room. "Ah, my son. So that's where my gauntlets are." Bemused, Araniel watched his child try to wield Bárang by himself. "Don't worry, Val. I couldn't pick it up until I was fifty-seven."
"Father, I volunteered." There, the truth was out. Valgorúth cringed at the coming explosion.
"Volunteered?" Surprisingly, Araniel was calm. "You know I can't let you go. You're not ready."
"I almost beat Berethor today, Ada. Fifteen to fourteen."
"Almost isn't good enough in life or death, Val."
"Father, I can beat any grown man except you and Berethor. Why should a few barbaric Easterlings be any different?"
"My son, there are thousands of Easterlings out there. They have good armor and hide behind tall shields. They are well-trained, despite their barbarism."
"They don't scare me!" Valgorúth tried to sound defiant.
"My son, if there were only one or two small bands, I would allow you to go. However, ten thousand is a large number. What would you do when surrounded? Berethor hasn't taught you that, yet."
Silence emanated from the boy.
"War is not a desirable thing," Araniel continued. "It brings me no joy to see the fields of blood and dead bodies. It brings me no thrill to see a man's head become sundered from his body. Happiness does not rack my heart when my soldiers are slaughtered!" Araniel knelt before the child. "And I do not wish to see my son die before my face."
Valgorúth looked into his father's gaze. Love and tears mingled together in the starry pools of light. "I just want to be a hero. Like you."
"You shall be, my son. Do not wish for age too quickly. It comes soon enough into all lives, even ours. You are only twenty-one. When you can wield my sword, I'll let you fight all the battles you want. How's that?"
"I still wish to fight, Ada." Valgorúth was determined.
Araniel sighed. The Estelli were cursed with a strong will. "Stay at home. Be safe; have peace."
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Valgorúth followed the battalions at a safe distance. With Estelli eyesight, Val could spot a fly at two thousand yards. He wasn't looking for flies, though. The cry of battle beckoned to him. He was ready. He could beat any foe, no matter how strong. His only worry was that his father might glance back and see him. So far the journey had been through woods and hills, but soon they would enter the Eastern Plains, flat country with no trees or shrubbery as far as the eye can see. When they enter the Plains, Val would have to track from a distance.
Valgorúth glanced at the light sword he held. Although it was good for long battles, the sword wasn't very menacing. Val's tactics were mostly attack, attack, but a sword as light as this wouldn't push the enemy back any.
"This sword isn't worthy of a name." Valgorúth eyed the sword with contempt. He shifted his buckler on his arm. "Shields are for cowards," Val thought. "Why would they issue a shield?" Valgorúth became annoyed with the limited movement the shield caused and threw it away.
The strength of Minas Aran was in its calvary. Like the fable Ride of the Rohirrim, the Arani could sweep through foot soldiers like a blade through water. However, the main point of a calvary is to overwhelm the enemy. Valgorúth knew it would be impossible to charge onto the field by himself. He decided to dismount when he got close and sneak up on them. If he remembered correctly, there was an old forest near Quodi. He hoped it was still there. There were rumors of moving trees in that wood. Valgorúth recalled the story of Isengard and the Ents who lost their Entwives. He always thought the Eastern Plains would be a place they might like.
"Enough of children's stories," Valgorúth muttered. "Focus. I must focus."
There is a war to be won...
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A/N: Thank you to all the reviews. By the way, if anyone doesn't wish to log on before reviewing, I have recently enabled that feature. Sorry for the inconvenience.
We're finally into the story. My favorite parts are coming up in a couple of chapters... Keep reading!
Sarahbarr17: Thank you for reviewing! My first one. I'm happy. Yes, I have read the Silmarillion, as well as many other works of Tolkien. The idea of the Estelli came from one of Tolkien's writings in which he stated that Men don't go to Manwë's hall after death, that only Elves do so. Keep reading.
Dalamar Nightson: Thanks for reviewing. HEY EVERYBODY, THIS IS MY BETA! It's all your fault if you miss anything. Hehehe. Yeah, I fixed the problem. I hope.
"Beauty- something that when you finally believe it, it doesn't matter, doesn't even exist anymore."
–A very nice young lady...