Land of the King

Chapter 2: The Hooded War

"In all the long years of Arnor's history, the most feared of their weapons has always been their bows. It was said that the Men of Sea send before them a great cloud, as a rain turned to serpents, or a black hail tipped with steel; and in those days the great cohorts of the King's Archers wielded bows made of hollow steel, with black-feathered arrows a full ell long from point to notch. These were the greatest bows in the world, stronger even then the famed goldenheart bows of the Summer Isles or the weirwood bows of the First Men. Even bows made of dragonbone in Valyria would pale in comparison to the strength and range of the steelbows. In the hands of a Dúnedain, they had a range of up to a 1000 yards, more than thrice that of lesser bows in the hands of lesser men."

- Excerpt from "A History of the Wars of the Dúnedain"

Elendur

It had been three decades since his people had landed in Westeros. Thirty years spent gathering strength and prosperity. The numbers of the Dúnedain had grown slowly at first, but at his grandfather Elendil's order, their people had begun marrying younger and having more children. As a member of the royal house, Elendur was exempt from this order to a certain extent, as it would not do to have his heir die only a few decades after himself. Still, he was expected to marry by his 100th year at the very most. Thankfully that was still many years away.

The first winter had been hard. Elendur still felt like shivering whenever he recalled it, remembering how the Dúnedain had almost starved to death in the 3-year long winter. Thankfully their supplies of lembas had seen them and all their vassals and allies through the winter. It had been luck that they had landed in early summer; enough time to build shelter and make foodstocks. 'The winter had been hard but they had only grown stronger from it,' he thought as he looked at the city.

Annúminas was immensely beautiful. He beheld the citadel atop Amon Erain with awe even now. It recalled in some way the memory and splendour of Armenelos the Golden, capital of Númenor. The great Tower of Elendil shone like a spike of gold, reaching high into the heavens. The strong walls of the city housed the Dúnedain and their allies. There were but 20,000 souls living in Annúminas now, a small number when compared to the millions who had once dwelt in Armenelos and Rómenna but he foresaw that it would grow in the following centuries.

Who knows? Perhaps one day, Annúminas will become greater than either Armenelos or Rómenna. A fresh start for the Númenórean people.

"Elendur, come here old friend!"

He turned around to see his dear friend Corlos. The years had not been kind to him. Grey hairs streaked through his brown hair, wrinkles adorned his skin, and his body had no doubt begun to tire of life, yet his eyes still burned with the same fire of the hotheaded youth that had picked a fight with a Númenórean prince. Elendur smiled as he recalled how they had met in the woods that fateful day.

His friend had founded a noble, lordly house by the name of House Casterly following his ascension to chiefdom upon his father's death. His banner had been a gold lion, to honour the lions they had slain together, on a field of black. The house was rather unimaginatively named after Corlos's father Caster, as was his eldest son. What is it with this man and the name Caster?

"Corlos, my friend, what are you doing so far from Casterly?" Elendur asked, embracing his old friend firmly, wincing slightly when he noticed Caster was not as strong as he had once been.

"Can't I take some time off to visit an old friend?" He replied with a mischievous grin.

Elendur raised an eyebrow, "You and I both know you have no time for fun anymore, you are unfortunately tied down with that lady of yours."

That had them both laughing, reminiscing on the foolish days of their youth. They shared a few more good jokes and laughs before Corlos's face turned serious.

"You haven't aged a day. I guess you truly are long-lived." Corlos said, envious and amazed.

Elendur grimaced. The First Men had been awed by the knowledge that his people's lifespans were upwards of three centuries. They had initially refused to believe them, and yet were forced to see the truth when decades had passed and none of the Dúnedain had shown any signs of aging. The First Men had thought them gods at times, or blessed by them at least. Yet, Elendur wondered, was it possible that their awe and amazement would turn to envy and hatred one day? Like his own people's love of the Eldar had.

"Your grandfather has summoned me and all the other vassal lords of the First Men." Corlos said with a grim look. "I think it is about those bandits."

Elendur frowned. Not all of the First Men had joined with them and those who had refused to join with Arnor had been driven off into the hills, becoming a nuisance to their people, especially in the outlying regions.

"Well then we best not keep him waiting then."

When they had arrived at the citadel, Elendur had glanced briefly at the White Tree as he passed it on his way to the Tower Hall. His father had planted it after the citadel was constructed and it was in full bloom now, its white leaves glistening in the sunlight, the beauty of its flowers attracting the attention of onlookers. The health of the tree was a sign of his family's prosperity and fortune. His grandfather had said that the fate of the tree had been tied to the wellbeing of their line ever since his father had risked his life to save it from the Burning of Nimloth the Fair. The flowering of the tree could only mean that his family would persevere through their troubles.

Eru has been good to us

Before they could reach the throne room however, Elendur felt something barrelling into him. He looked down to see his ten-year old brother Aratan, jumpy and excited.

"It's good to see you back Big Brother, Grandfather has been waiting for you and Lord Casterly." Aratan said excitedly.

"Yet I'm quite certain he hasn't been waiting for you Aratan, go on now. Back to your lessons. You know Mother is not happy when you run off from them."

His brother pouted but obeyed him. Elendur turned around to see Corlos looking at him strangely.

"What?" He asked

"Nothing, it's just that I still find it strange that you have a brother forty years younger than you. I mean you're old enough to be his father for goodness sake!"

"When you live as long as we do, friend, a brother forty years younger is one of the less strange family relationships once could have." Elendur replied. "Shall we? He asked.

Corlos nodded and they entered the Tower Hall. The throne room was large, high and wide. All around, large tapestries, statues and suits of armour decorated its white-gold walls. Ahead of them, marble steps lead up to the throne, all white as snow and raised high above the rest of the room, symbolizing the high position of its owner. His grandfather, King Elendil, was seated upon the throne and watching the discussion below unfold.

"They have five thousand men, and every day that passes they grow stronger. I propose that we mobilise Arnor's army and put an end to them now," one lord said.

"Aye, five thousand armed in what? Bronze? Stone? And wearing naught but furs and leathers! Hardly a threat, I say."

"They may be no threat to your guards, Lord Ascarnil, but they are very much a menace to our smallfolk. It is our duty as their lords to defend them," The previous lord retorted.

"Lord Reyne speaks true, Your Majesty," said Corlos as he entered the conversation. "These bandits are a threat but I fear that they are not just bandits but also rebels supported by the Hooded King."

Immediately Corlos's words sent the room into uproar. Some agreed him, others did not.

"We have a truce with the Hooded King. Would he dare to break his word?" One lord questioned.

"I say he would, or are you too craven to fight this supposed king?" Another demanded

Needless to say, the discussion soon devolved into a mess of arguments and furious insults. Finally, his grandfather ended it.

"Enough!" spoke the king as he rose from his throne. "I have called you all here to discuss the best way to deal with this threat. Instead I find you all incapable of rational thought and discussion, choosing to bicker and squabble like petty little children. Lord Casterly is correct. The bandits are indeed allied with the Hooded King and their combined army is marching south as we speak."

None dared to gainsay the king, nor counter his words. One lord spoke up, choosing his words carefully.

"Forgive me Your Majesty, but what is the source of your information?"

"Do you think that the eyes of the White-Gold Tower are blind, Lord Farman? I have seen it. With my own eyes. Few things can be hidden from the palantiri and certainly not this gathering of men."

"If Your Majesty's reading is correct, then we must muster the army at once!"

"Aye. Each one of you is to fulfil your oaths and contribute soldiers to my son Isildur's army. He is gathering a host from the city already. Once and for all, we shall end the menace of this Hooded King!" Elendil ordered.

Elendur knew then in his heart. War had come and Arnor would answer.


The Hooded King

He was Morgon Banefort, Hooded King of the Banefort, third of his name. His ancestors had ruled Banefort since before the Long Night of legend. He hailed from a proud and old line and he would never surrender his pride or the Banefort. How could he bear to meet his ancestors in the afterlife if he had shamed himself by surrendering their legacy to foreigners? Once he had thought all First Men believed the same. But he had been mistaken.

Thirty years ago, there had been countless petty kings, lords, and chieftains all scattered throughout the western mountains. Now however few were left. Almost all of them had knelt to the accursed Dúnedain.

They had rallied many of the First Men to their side with their promises of new knowledge and wealth and had scared others into submission with a few shallow shows of power. Bah! The whole lot were spineless cravens, scared by weak shows of power and lured in by a few tricks. No true First Men would kneel without a fight!

One by one. The petty kingdoms of the western mountains knelt to the Dúnedain. Houses Reyne, Farman and Crakehall had been the most notable of the First Men to join with Arnor. They had bent their knees and acknowledged Elendil as their king. They were all traitors to the ways of their ancestors. They had even abandoned the Gods of the Forest for this Eru. A false god worshipped by a false king.

But Morgon was different. He was true and loyal to the ways of the First Men, their ways were the old ways and they had been first in Westeros. He had formed an alliance with House Westerling and many other tribes and clans. Together they had a host of five thousand men. He had been sending them to raid Arnor, masquerading as bandits, for the past few years but he had recalled them all recently.

The time for petty raids was over. The time for war had come. With the blessing of the gods he would destroy Arnor, take its people as thralls and when all the former lords of the First Men were brought before him, he would give them a choice. Denounce their false god Eru or die.

Morgon had been gathering his army at the seat of his wife's family, The Crag, and had been preparing to march south. He had been one of many surprised to discover from the scouts that a four thousand strong army had been sighted three day's march away, however he had brushed off his confusion.

They have saved me the trouble of marching south to crush them.

Morgon had then lead his army south to meet the Arnorian force. He had passed through thick woods and low hills on the way south. Barely a day's march south, he was shocked to find the Arnorian army encamped on a hill commanding the road south.

Those blasted scouts told me they were three days away! There's no way their army could have marched so fast!

However, he soon realised that there were at most two hundred archers entrenched on the hill in front of him. Ah, I see.

It was a sound plan he realised. The hill overlooked and commanded control of the surrounding area. The Arnorians had to have known that he would reach the hill long before they did. If he

secured it, he could bleed their army dry as they tried to assault his superior position. To avoid that they had sent forward a small advance force to secure it and hold it until reinforcements arrived.

Smart. But not smart enough. He had five thousand men against the Arnorians' two hundred. They were outnumbered.

Admittedly it would be playing into the enemy's hands and he would lose a lot of men, but he did not have a choice. If he waited too long, the bulk of the Arnorian army would reinforce them and he would never take the hill.

However, if he could take it before they arrived, he could fortify it and command control of the surrounding area.

My men will bleed but it has to be done. Those Arnorians are exhausted. They had to have marched through the night to get here. My troops are fresh. We'll crush them and secure the hill by nightfall.

He had formed up his army and told them they would assault the hill, watching carefully as they formed up and marched towards the hill.

All bows, except those made from weirwood, have a maximum effective range of 200 yards. That is 200 yards that the Arnorians can use to slaughter us. However, with enough men I can get past their archers and it will all be over for the Arnorians.

"Men, ahead of us lies a contingent of the Arnorian army. We must secure this hill by nightfall and fortify it against their true force. Glory awaits! Charge!" He shouted to his army.

With a great war cry, his men charged up the hill with him. As they came within 600 yards of the Arnorians however, he realised something strange.

They're drawing the bows? But why? We're not in range yet!

To his horror, Morgon realised that the Arnorians wielded no ordinary bows, but bows that were made entirely from metal. Slowly, like a cat readying to pounce, the Arnorian archers raised their bows and took aim.

Realising that he had made a terrible mistake, Morgon turned to his army and barked a fierce order, "Wait! As your King I command you to turn back now!" But in their bloodlust and fury they did not heed him and continued the charge.

In years long after, men would tell tales of Morgon's doom. In that moment, they say the steelbows sung, the twang of their arms, the loosing of their strings, were like a melody. A melody of death.

"LOOSE" cried the captain of the archers.

As one they unleashed the volley. Two hundred black arrows flew down the hill and for the briefest of moments they looked like rain, blown by a strong wind. And like the hammer stroke of a blacksmith they did smite the host of Banefort.

Every last arrow found its mark. In eyes, hearts, chests and legs. The steel arrowheads cutting through bronze and leather armour like a knife cutting through butter.

Morgon had survived the first volley, but he knew he may not survive a second. Even as some of his men continued recklessly charging to their deaths, others followed him as he fled down the hill. They needed to retreat.

As they ran down the hill however, Morgon despaired when he saw a large army in front of him. The accursed banner of the White Tree flew from their standards and all the host was arrayed in glimmering steel. Their formation was a thick and impenetrable shield wall.

How? Why? They must have snuck behind us through the woods!

With those abominable archers on the hill behind him, harrying his troops still, and this new host in front of him, Morgon knew the battle was lost. "Men of Banefort. Forgive me. I have lead you to your death. But a glorious death it shall be!"

And with that he charged one more time. His army behind him. They would not go quietly. Would not die without a sound. They would fight until they could no longer move their bodies and hold their swords. They would fight until the end!

To this day, scholars marvel at the bravery of Morgon and his army. We admire their courage in standing their ground against a superior foe, yet we also pity them for their foolishness in underestimating Arnor.

Which wound was it that eventually killed Morgon, son of Morgal? Was it the arrows buried in his chest when he charged the shield wall? Was it the spear that pierced his stomach? Or was it perhaps the thousand cuts he acquired as he fought and bled, the last survivor of his army. We can never know for sure. Perhaps the correct answer is all of them.


Isildur

Banefort's army had fought to the death. Men always fight hardest when they are cornered because they have nothing left to lose. But die they did and for what? The pride of some petty king? Unable to accept that his house's time in the sun had ended?

Isildur pitied the poor souls who had followed their king to their deaths. He prayed to Eru that he need not kill anymore when he conquered The Crag and the Banefort but he knew that was unlikely.

The destruction of Banefort's army had been no battle. It had been a slaughter. The celebrations of his soldiers turned to ash in his mouth when he thought of the life lost.

In the end, Banefort could not break the shieldwall and the Arnorian archers had continued mowing them down. When their arrows ran out, his infantry had moved in and finished the rest. He had lost 100 men in that slaughter. A hundred who would never return home to their loved ones. Banefort's entire army was dead, killed to the last man.

What a waste

He had ordered his army to retrieve their arrows from the battlefield and when that was done, to pile the corpses of Banefort's army on a great pyre, give them their last rites, and burn them. The smoke from the fire would be visible from miles around and Isildur suspected that those in the Crag would see it as well.

It had been before the pyre that she had come. Isildur did not know how she had walked amongst them unnoticed but she revealed herself to him. His royal guard had immediately drawn their swords.

"Peace, I mean you no harm,' she said.

She was short, the height of a child at most. Her slanted cat-like green eyes contrasted beautifully with her brown complexion. Her hair rested above her heart-shaped face, looking like the leaves of a tree, Isildur thought. There was a strange inhuman beauty that she possessed, an air of mystery and mischief hung around her like a cloak

'A child of the forest' Isildur realised.

"My name cannot be pronounced by any man but you may call me Maple," the child said, her voice sounding like the rustle of the wind in a forest.

"Why have you come here Maple?" Isildur demanded

"The gods wish to speak with you Isildur, son of Elendil. I am here to bring you to meet them."

"And why should I? I respect the faiths of others but I recognise only one god."

Maple laughed, but her laugh sounded more like the giggle of a mischievous child.

"I was told you would say that. You are summoned by the Maiar, Isildur Elendillion. Do not keep them waiting."

Isildur had had no choice but to follow Maple after that.


Author's note: Pls forgive me if my description of the battle is lacking. Hope you all liked it. Also Morgon Banefort is not the legendary necromancer defeated by Loreon Lannister in WOIAF but rather his ancestor.