Author's recommended listening: Bruckner, Symphony No. 8 in C minor
CHAPTER XXII: BATTLE OF MUNDBURG
All too soon, Truva saw the approaching figure of Éofa from her watch post. A quick nod from a distance indicated that it was time to move out. She made her way into camp and roused the Hidlands fighters, though many were already awake; Truva was not the only one to have spent the time sleeplessly.
She could not be sure whether the sky indicated day or night by the time the company set out, for there no longer seemed to be any significant differentiation between the two. Nevertheless, the gloom provided excellent cover as the King's army emerged from the Grey Wood and proceeded once more along the North-South road, having bypassed the enemy forces that lay in wait.
They travelled swiftly, hidden not only by the darkness but by tall, tufted grasses that rose clear above the heads of the mounted Riders, proving Éofa's recollections accurate. The road was smooth and wide, and they soon found themselves breaking southward beyond the furthest foothills of the great Mindolluin. Behind them, the queue of White Mountain peaks could be seen waiting their turn for something unknown, patient but expectant, extending back across the lands of Gondor to the Mark and beyond.
Far ahead of Truva and the Hidlanders, who still rode amongst Éofa's éored, Théoden King increased his pace. A fiery red glow appeared upon the horizon off in the distance, illuminating the bones of the mountains with an unnerving wash of bloody crimson; the White City was indeed aflame. Still the darkness pressed down as ever upon the Riders, so complete that were it not for the light of battle ahead, Truva might wonder whether she had been rendered blind.
The company came to a sudden halt, the distance and the darkness and the high grass preventing any attempts by those at the rear to discern their reason for stopping. Éofa rode ahead to learn what he might, while horses and riders alike shifted anxiously in the stillness. Quite some time lapsed before he returned and gathered the leaders to him.
"We have had news from the out-riders," he said, his voice low and carrying only to those chieftains gathered closest. "The Rammas Echor of Mundburg have been destroyed, and are but lightly occupied, for the enemy forces are focused on the assault. We must use this to our advantage. The other two éored will approach from further eastward, whereas our fighters shall attack from the north and drive as far as we might across the fields before sweeping westward toward the main gates of the city.
"It has been said that a man who once dwelled within the Wold is certain that already the wind is turning. Do not despair, brave Riders, for though this hour might be our last, we will meet it honourably and with stout heart!"
He never once raised his voice, yet the strength it conferred to Truva felt as though he had shouted these words to the high heavens; she could see too that its thrill roused the others, and as the captains returned to their companies and clans, she quickly manoeuvred Bron to Éofa's side.
"My lord Marshall, I have but one suggestion," she murmured.
"Please, Truva, even in these strange circumstances it is unsettling that you would call me anything save Éofa. But speak," he said.
"I believe it might be beneficial if the Hidlanders were to proceed ahead and eliminate what few enemy forces still remain upon the outer wall. If it is as you say, our opponents will be distracted and my fighters will have the opportunity to ease into combat, rather than being overwhelmed when we finally engage in open combat upon the fields beyond."
"That is an inspired idea," said Éofa, "And it is advantageous, for the Hidlanders excel at close-quarters combat, and may do their work quickly and quietly. Very well; command your fighters to dismount when we approach the wall, and those that remain behind shall take charge of your horses. Let us plan to reconvene upon the opposite side of the Rammas."
"I understand, my lord."
"Éofa, please."
"Yes, my lord Éofa."
Éofa rolled his eyes, good-humoured as ever despite the circumstances. He swung his horse around and led the third éored forward behind the rest of the army. It was but a short distance they travelled ere the outer walls loomed in the darkness, towering far higher than their depiction on Gríma's map had led Truva to believe, their solid construction apparent even from their position.
When the hulking individual stones of the wall became visible, the two other éored branched off. That which Elfhelm led circled far to the southeast as Éomer's made toward the central gates, following the King. Éofa's forces watched them disappear into the gloom, lingering at a bend in the road just out of sight of the Rammas.
There the Hidlanders dismounted, passing their reins to waiting Westland Riders, Éofa himself taking charge of Bron. Truva darted across the wide road to the high grasslands opposite, beckoning the other Hidlanders to follow. They avoided the spaces which lay flattened from the forces of Mordor and their assault, weaving instead through the grasses that still stood tall. Stiff, serrated edges sawed at their armour, catching the warriors anyplace it did not cover, yet even as Truva wiped away a trickle of blood from her cheek, she was thankful for the concealment the grasslands lent their approach.
She halted the Hidlanders just out of range and crept forward to scout the Rammas. Great destruction had clearly been wrought upon the colossal walls, for fallen boulders and massive rends in the stonework created easy entry points for the fighters. Truva divided them into groups before indicating where each was to scale the wall.
"Aim to kill as silently as possible," she said, her voice scarcely a whisper. "The less alarm these adversaries raise, the better. Their appearance is gruesome, yet do not allow that to daunt you; for I have fought these creatures before, and I am certain beyond all doubt each and every one of you has sufficient skills to succeed in this task.
"I know you feel fear, for I once felt it, too – and feel it even now! But do not allow it to control you, for this is our opportunity to prove to all who would question us the ferocity that lives in the hearts of Hidlanders!"
Not a word was said in response, though each fighter touched their clenched fist to their chest in silent acknowledgement. Truva peered from face to face, seeing the steely determination that burnt in their eyes, and nodded once. On that signal, each group set off to their specified location, swimming unseen through the towering grass. Truva motioned to the group she herself was to lead, loping gracefully to where the marble wall had been so roughly hewn it took little effort to ascend the outer face of the ramparts.
Truva cautiously raised herself to peer over the edge, where the parapet had been cloven straight down to the wallwalk. She could discern a few Orcish figures through the opening, most of whom were engaged in wanton destruction or even sitting down to eat, absorbed entirely in the battle that raged far off toward the city. Truva lifted her body fully onto the wallwalk and, drawing the dagger from her boot, crawled to her left where a trio of orcs foolishly hacked at the stone with their blades, their backs to the outer lands and the attacking Eorlingas forces.
Truva allowed some time for the other Hidlanders to take their positions before slipping behind her nearest target and silently slipping her blade between its ribs. The death was quick, yet the rattle of its final breath alerted its companions to Truva's presence. She promptly dispatched the remaining two, though it was a struggle to maintain a quiet presence, as not to jeopardise the other fighters.
When all three Orcs lay lifeless at her feet, Truva glanced up and down along the ramparts, fearsome exultation and pride welling within her breast when she witnessed how the Hidlanders overwhelmed their opponents at every point. Further along the wall, Théoden King's forces could also be seen encountering similar success.
Even as Truva stood upright upon the ramparts of the vast Rammas then, looking southward to where the vast city burned – nigh on ten miles across dark fields scarred by innumerable trenches of fire – she felt it, too; an ever so slight ripple of breeze, tinged with the scent of salt. It smelled peculiar to Truva, almost stinging. She allowed the southerly wind to wash over her, then there! Far off beyond the spiny ridges of Mindolluin, she caught a glimpse of a lightening in the sky; faint, yet enough so that even the shape of clouds could be distinguished – daylight!
No sooner had it come than it was gone – replaced by a deeper darkness, threatening to extinguish the small seed of hope that still lay dormant in Truva's heart. Nevertheless, she turned and motioned to the Hidlanders, and together they descended the staircases on the inner side of the wall, rejoining the rest of the éored as the horsemen streamed through the Rammas' shattered gates. Truva accepted Bron's reins from Éofa and mounted back up, only to be quickly swept away by the swell of Riders flowing into the fields of the Pelennor; like the snowmelt in spring, which cascades down with a roar from the mountains after a winter of heavy storms they were, formidable and irrepressible.
The forces of Théoden King raced across the plain, still unchallenged by those of Mordor that lay spread before the gates of Mundburg. Horses raced through Truva's heart, pounding with the beat of Bron's hooves as the enemy lines grew ever closer until at last individuals could be discerned. From the east the King's horn blew, and upon its sounding the sun threw her rays with all her will and might, penetrating the murk that shrouded the sky and crowning the White City with dawn.
Éofa and all the Riders raised their horns to their lips in response to the King, and their call in turn was echoed by those behind the great walls of the city, welcoming the Riders. The ensemble of horns was soon joined by a chorus of voices as the Eorlingas broke into song and raucous battle cries. A senseless scream ripped from Truva's throat as she raised her blade aloft, images of all she had lost replacing the ghastly army before her.
Yet even as the Eorlingas bore down upon the hindmost ranks of Orcs, Truva saw one figure dart out before the others: Chaya, her unmistakable braids visible even from a distance, her voice clear upon the wind:
"For Eilif!" she cried, rage driving her faster and further than the others, thus coming into the enemy's range sooner. Truva urged Bron forward, watching in horror as the first row of enemy archers drew their bow in unison, singling out this foolhardy rider. Yet no sooner had the first Orc released their arrow and missed than he toppled forward, struck down by a shaft of Blackbramble's own.
In that brief span of time, Éofa's warriors covered the remaining distance and crashed upon the ranks of adversaries in Chaya's wake, cutting them down with swift accuracy, for nothing could halt the roiling tidal wave of Eorlingas. They swung their flashing blades to drive through the enemy forces, using their high, mounted positions to their advantage. Many of those less determined foes fled before them, yet the numbers of Mordor were so great that even so the Riders found themselves assaulted from all sides.
After a tremendous struggle, the third éored succeeded in cutting through the enemy ranks to their vicious siege-engines: battering rams and catapults and towers, the last of which were each borne by two massive, ugly beasts. The brutes stood tall as two men, wide as four, and the muscles of their backs bulged and writhed under grey reptilian skin as they shoved massive Orc-infested towers inch by inch across the uneven field.
"Trolls!" Truva cried, manoeuvring Bron through the ranks of Orcs to position herself within range of the behemoths. Of all the mystical creatures that she encountered on her recent ventures, she desperately wished these had not been one.
She drew her bow and nocked two arrows to the string, pulling the nearest of the towers into view. She waited until Bron was on a steady course to release, pleased to see both points drive deep into the base of one creature's skull. Instead of keeling over, however, it simply swatted at the arrows and grew enraged before turning back to its labours.
"Ah, Helm!" Truva swore under her breath, circling back toward the main group of Riders, beyond the range of retaliating Orcs high upon the towers' platforms. "Stay clear of the towers!" Truva warned the others.
Then a thought occurred to her as she cast about across the battle and the fiery trenches of the enemy drew her attention. "Archers to me! Archers to me!" she rallied, slashing indiscriminately through the swarms of Orcs to clear a path for Blackbramble and the other Hidland archers, many of whom had been thrown from their horses and now fought on foot.
"Target the catapults! They are stationary and have fewer guards!" she called out over din, dipping an arrow into the flames the Orcs themselves had created. She leased it in the direction of a catapult that was being loaded even as they watched. "Aim high on the frame, where they will struggle to extinguish it!"
The Hidland archers leapt immediately to their task, though Truva relied instead upon her sword to defend them until a greater number of Eorlingas arrived at their position. As soon as the Hidlanders were sufficiently protected, she sought out Éofa, who was some distance back and locked in vicious combat with a bulky Orc-chieftain. She arrived just as the newly appointed Marshal dealt the final blow.
"The towers, Éofa!" she cried. "Their numbers are too great to pick off individually ere they reach the wall, and the Orcs are quick to put out the fires we set. The trolls, too, are infuriatingly resilient."
Éofa glanced ahead to where the towers continued to creep forward. The Orcs used their vantage point to launch an assault upon the Hidlanders, yet in spite of darting this way and that, the archers' flaming arrows found their target. Even as Truva watched, the nearest catapult became engulfed in flames.
"From the bottom up!" exclaimed Éofa, and he sprang forward through the melee to snatch the sling from the burning wreckage of the catapult, fending off its Orcish operators. Truva followed, confused at first yet in time discerning Éofa's idea as he tossed one end of the still-smouldering sling to her. She dismounted in an instant and hoped the tower's occupants would continue to be occupied with the Hidland archers, giving the two sufficient cover.
Truva darted quickly between the leftmost troll and the tower then circled back around, ducking under Éofa's end of the sling before sprinting in the opposite direction. She pulled with all her might as Éofa's horse bounded ahead, cinching the sling tight about the troll's legs.
The creature swayed unsteadily for a moment; Truva dug her heels in and threw her body against the tug as it attempted to take a further step. At great last, it crashed to the ground with such a force Truva felt shockwaves leap through her legs. She moved swiftly to slash the troll's hamstrings before it could rise again. Darting toward its upper body, she raised her sword high above her head, then drove it deep into the base of the beast's neck, hoping such a stroke would prove sufficient where two arrows had not.
The colossal body went limp.
"That must surely count as two," Truva said to herself, recalling with surprising fondness the strange contest between the Elf and Dwarf at the Battle of Hornburg. She struggled to parcel away her worry for the Grey Company as she pulled her sword free and spun around in search of Bron, only to find him directly behind her, having just sent an encroaching Orc flying with a rear kick.
"Good boy!" she said, giving his neck a loving smack. An idea sparked in her mind then, and she led him by the reins toward where the second troll – that which she had struck with arrows earlier – struggled to advance the tower alone. She aligned Bron so that his hindquarters were situated right at the troll's side, and though she knew that of all the living Mearas, Shadowfax alone could understand the speech of Men, she hoped Bron would somehow still instinctively understand.
"Come on, give us a kick!" she pleaded. To her great pleasure – albeit not great surprise – Bron did just that. The troll's knee buckled inward but failed to give way completely, yet before Truva could react, Bron bucked again and sent the troll sprawling. Truva extricated her arrows from the nape of its neck and drove them down again with all her might, which finally proved fatal for the beast.
Truva remounted in a flash and wheeled Bron away as the Orcs looked to discover the cause of their halt. The Hidland archers' arrows had at last succeeded in setting fire to the tower, as well, and flames began to consume its wooden frame. The fighters of Mordor scrambled to descend from the structure's heights, falling or leaping to the ground to escape the inferno.
Truva once again looked to Éofa, who with the help of a trio of Westfold chieftains had succeeded in eliminating the trolls that drove the next tower, yet in doing so had caused the second beast to crash down upon the base. The tower teetered even as she watched, top heavy and threatening to fall. Truva knew not what moved her, yet she found her bow in her hand once more, an arrow upon its string and strange but familiar words upon her tongue:
"Aiya Eärendil Elenion Encalima!"
The arrow sprang from her bow and streaked toward the tower in the same instant it reached the tipping point. The shaft exploded on impact, sending orcs and debris flying, driving the frame sideways so that it missed the Eorlingas by the fraction of a hair as it tumbled to the ground. Truva stared agape as flames licked up the shattered wooden beams. Éofa turned to her in astoundment.
"Is that not the same effect you described to me in your encounter of the fellbeast?" he cried through the chaos. Truva nodded dumbly, in disbelief herself. "Did you determine how to control it?"
"No!" Truva called in return. Surely it was not her own skills that had given rise to such success; it was clear to her that Lady Arwen's gift held some significance beyond what was merely visible to the eye. "I still do not understand!"
It was then, in that brief moment of exhilaration, that Truva felt the dreaded chill sweep across the plain. Her gaze rose up and she beheld, there, taking flight from the tremendous main gates that now lay in ruin: the fellbeast. In the murky half-light of morning, its full features could be discerned in a way unlike previous encounters.
Truva saw then that she had greatly underestimated its immensity, for even from the distance across the battlefield its wingspan appeared as though it could engulf mountains. Its foul hide was akin to no bird or beast that Truva had knowledge of, black and featherless and coarse as it was, and its long neck snaked out to a skull spiked with an array of repulsive teeth.
It winged high into the bleak sky, beating the air with its spindly, web-like wings, only to release an ear-splitting shriek and plummet back down to earth where the battle roiled thickest in the south. Squinting into the distance, Truva could faintly discern the King's banner amidst the fray.
"Éofa!" Truva cried, indicating the splash of green, yet Éofa had already lifted his horn to his lips and blown a short blast. Even the thrown Hidlanders chased down their horses and mounted again as all riders of the third éored reassembled, breaking their way southward to rejoin their King and leaving destruction in their wake.
Yet the distance was to great, and they could do no more than watch helplessly as the scene unfolded before them: the fellbeast's claws digging into the flesh of a white horse that could only be Snowmane, beneath it the unmoving body; the head of the fellbeast being rent from its serpentine neck by the lone Eorlingas warrior that remained to defend the King's banner; the terrible figure that lunged from the back of the dead fellbeast and the tiny Hobbit that slashed its leg; the warrior cleaving the foe's crown from its headless body before collapsing himself.
Truva urged Bron on faster, faster, and though he galloped at full stride it took all of an eternity to cover the remaining distance. Éomer and his éored arrived simultaneously, but the frantic flurry of their horses' hooves came to a sudden standstill as the Eorlingas looked on in horror; for Snowmane in his death throes had rolled from the body beneath him.
It was Théoden King who lay upon the field of battle, pure white hair strewn across the grass like the first dusting of snow in winter. As Éomer leapt from his saddle, the King motioned feebly for him to take up that banner which lay beside his slain standard bearer. The Marshal did so with eyes downcast, though in the very moment he raised the banner high, the wind picked up and upon it flapped the proud emerald fields of the Mark and her white stallion. A light rain began to fall.
"Hail, King of the Mark!" Théoden King whispered, his voice almost inaudible over the surrounding clamour. "Ride now to victory! Bid Éowyn farewell!"
And with that, the King's spirit passed; perhaps to ride his companion Snowmane throughout the fields of the Mark until his body could be put to rest. Silence settled over the Eorlingas, and Éomer's head hung for a disheartening moment, yet all at once he repossessed himself, driven by immutable duty as he was.
"Mourn not overmuch!" he spoke to the Riders, his voice ringing out clear and bold. "Mighty was the fallen, well-met was his ending. When his mound is raised, we then shall weep. War now calls to us!"
Yet it was with tears in his eyes that he ordered the King's knights bear his body from the field. Truva could likewise not stem the flow of her own tears, for though she had no rightful family, Théoden King had shown her care as a true father might; to her he had given a home, a life, a purpose, and most significant of all, love.
Her heart sank even further when she dismounted and looked to the King's sole defender, confirming her suspicions. She turned the warrior's lithe body from where it lay prone upon the empty robes of the enemy and, clearing the long golden locks from the Eorlingas' face, kissed the fair brow.
"Éomer," she said gently, turning the Marshal's attention from the King to his sister. He stood unmoving, as though he could not comprehend the truth of what his eyes told him, then fell to his knees beside Truva and drew Éowyn into his arms.
"Éowyn, sister Éowyn! How can it be? What madness or devilry is this? How can you be dead in my arms when you are to be back safe in Dunharrow?" he wailed, burying his face in Éowyn's hair. His body broke under the sobs that wracked him, only for the strangled cries to be replaced by an unsettling stillness. The Riders stood about him, shifting uncomfortably, unsure of how to comfort their leader. Truva lay a hand upon his shoulder, yet he gave no indication of corporeal awareness.
He then leapt suddenly to his feet, startling the Eorlingas about him. Throwing himself into the saddle, he spurred Firefoot forward and charged back into the thick of battle, the mass of Riders following close behind.
"Death is upon us!" he cried, his voice distraught. "Ride, ride to ruin and the world's ending!" All Eorlingas took up his call, the Hidlanders loudest of all, and the echoes of Death! flew across the field to strike terror into the hearts of those who still dared stand in opposition.
Yet the truth of Éomer's words seemed undeniable, for even as they dove amidst their adversaries the rain began to drive harder, and off eastward more enemy forces could be seen advancing upon the road from the river. The armies of Mordor that crashed and broke against the city walls, as waves of the sea do upon rocks, turned now to lay their onslaught against the soldiers of Mundburg that streamed from its gates.
But to the south! When Truva gazed in that direction, she was met with the sight of something most incredible:
"Oliphaunts!" she gasped, openmouthed in astonishment. Hearing her exclamation, Éofa likewise turned southward and caught sight of the magnificent, lumbering creatures.
"In tales it has always been said that oliphaunts are as big as a house," he said. "I should like to meet he who first described them as such, for he is surely rich beyond measure – never in all my days have I seen a house so large as that!"
Truva wheeled Bron about and flew after Éomer in his charge against the advancing ranks of Southrons, who marched ahead of the gargantuan oliphaunts. What few mounted riders the men of the South had were easily outmanoeuvred by the skilled Eorlingas, and their foot soldiers were run down to their doom. Yet even the stouthearted Mearas were spooked by the unfamiliar oliphaunts, and upon learning this the Southrons flocked to the massive creatures.
Truva forged on ahead as Bron skittered and shied away from the strange and intimidating beasts. Arrows rained down from the war-towers perched high on their backs. Dismayed to attack such majestic animals, Truva wove this way and that, endeavouring to divert one of the beasts from its path toward the walls of Minas Tirith, while simultaneously fighting to keep Bron safe and under control.
She loosed an arrow in the direction of the Southrons sheltered in the war-tower but missed by a wide margin. In reaching for a second arrow, her hands grasped at no more than air, and she was forced to swoop upon the bodies of fallen soldiers – some allies, most not – and pull what shafts she could gather while in motion.
Truva turned once more to the oliphaunt and circled Bron around to its flank. She could see the ropes that anchored wide bands about the beast's belly, securing the war-towers in place; a desperately small target under the best of circumstances – let alone on a moving animal – yet determination has no greater ally than desperation. Truva drew her bow with an oily black Orc arrow nocked, inhaled deeply, and let loose.
High above, the rope snapped free upon impact, causing the band to slip slightly in the rear and send the war-tower careening to one side, though it was still held fast by a harness about the beast's shoulders. Pulled by the tower, the oliphaunt veered to its right, charging directly toward Truva's position. She drew another arrow, this one the flaming orange hue of padauk; Southron origin. Having regained some of his senses, Bron sidestepped neatly as the oliphaunt hurtled past them, allowing Truva to take aim at the forefront of the tower.
The war-tower had begun to fall before Truva even realised she had released, and the screaming voices of the Southrons could be heard as they tumbled to earth, the bands slipping around the oliphaunt's frame and the tower swooping beneath its trampling feet. In a mere instant, the glorious war-tower was reduced to naught but wooden splinters and broken bodies.
In a moment of disconnect, Truva also found herself upon the ground, for a well-aimed bolt from high in the tower had struck her from the saddle even as she was aiming. The shaft protruded from the seam in her armour at the left shoulder, its barb digging deep into the joint between chest and arm. Truva dismissively snapped the arrow shaft clean off and discarded it, remounting without hesitation.
From her vantage point upon Bron, even more reinforcements could be seen pouring in from Osgiliath. Orcish hordes had succeeded in coming between the Eorlingas and soldiers of Gondor, who fought to emerge beyond the gates of Mundburg. The Riders were cut off at all quarters, isolated from any hope of succour just as their situation grew most desperate. The kernel of hope that had burrowed deep into Truva's chest at the outset of battle, having endeavoured to so much as remain dormant, began to shrivel. After the death of both Théoden King and Éowyn, her own seemed imminent.
Éomer and the Eorlingas continued to drive toward the haven of Harlond in the south, which lay scarcely a mile away; yet thick were the squadrons of fierce Southrons and Easterlings that still stood between them and the port. For each wave of adversaries the Riders overcame, another bristled behind.
Truva exerted herself beyond what she had thought physically possible, struggling to stave off utter exhaustion as the rain seeped into her clothing, weighing her down and chilling her body. She watched as steam rose from the Eorlingas' horses and the Eorlingas themselves. The pain in her shoulder pulsated. She thought she could not despair more, but then a cry went up from the fighters at the forefront:
"The Corsairs of Umbar!" they shouted, "Look, the ships of the Corsairs!"
And Truva saw upon the River Anduin vast dromund ships that sped along the dark waters, propelled by innumerous oars and great black sails filled with a strong wind that still blew from the sea. Behind the ships came a clearing in the clouds, after which the rain ceased and the sun beamed down perversely upon the ominous sight.
So this was to be their final stand, Truva thought; this would be how the songs and legends would remember their fall, if any were to survive them – strange allies, the horselords and slave fighters from a distant land, come to aid the Men of southern cities. Truva wept at the knowledge that it was she who had led these newly emancipated Hidlanders to their short, brutal deaths; though her own she feared not.
Éomer sounded his horn and rallied the forces of the Mark to him, where they arrayed themselves as a breakwater against the incoming swells. Upon a hill stood Éomer, Éofa at his side, all warriors of the Mark arrayed about him, striking a fearsome sight. To Truva's left, Chaya threw her shoulders back in a daunting display of ferocity, and beyond her Blackbramble and the others looked to the ships with nothing save determination in their eyes.
Even as the wind whipped his golden hair, glorious as any crown, Éomer stuck his standard into its crest and raised his sword in defiance at the approaching dromunds. He let loose a guttural yell, joined by the voices and horns of his warriors; and it felt a relief to Truva when she succumbed to the raw emotion that actualised itself in her cry.
The pure savagery and ferocity of the Eorlingas drove the remaining enemy forces back, providing the Riders a brief respite. In that space, they were met with a sight almost unbelievable; for in response to the burning of Éomer's sword in the sunlight, the foremost ship unfurled its banner. Black it was, that of the Corsairs, yet upon it was emblazoned the White Tree of Gondor, and arrayed about it were seven stars with a crown above.
"The crest of Elendil!" Truva shouted. "Aragorn! He has returned!" She raised her own blade in greeting, and watched in amazement as the sun likewise glinted off the drawn swords of those upon the deck of the approaching ships.
Their own good fortune spelled ruin for their enemy, who now quailed at the sight of the black sails. Some took up arms again while others turned and fled, though all were caught between the advancing ranks of Eorlingas and the Grey Company that now disembarked upon the docks at Harlond, leading warriors gathered from the fiefdoms in the south. Before all strode Aragorn, his figure tall and proud as he ascended the hill.
"Thus we meet again," said the Dúnadan to Éomer as they met upon the crest.
"Never was a meeting of friends more joyful," the newly anointed King said. "Twice blessed is help unlooked for; you come none too soon, for much loss and sorrow has befallen us."
"Then let us avenge it, ere we speak of it!" Yet in raising his blade, Aragorn caught sight of Truva, and in a few quick strides he was before her. Inexplicably, Truva found herself incapable of movement or speech, yet she longed to tell Aragorn of how her heart soared to see him unharmed, of how a great many of her thoughts had turned to him of late, of how his reappearance after but a short absence now allowed her to perceive the calming effect his presence had upon her.
He too spoke not. Even as the battle whirled about them, he reached out and laid a hand upon her shoulder, as one leader might to another; yet perhaps she saw her own maelstrom of thought reflected in Aragorn's countenance, and for the briefest of moments they stood suspended within the midst of the storm.
Then, just as suddenly, the illusion was shattered, and they turned to face the oncoming enemy. The forces of the Mark and Hidlands stood together with their southern allies, the steely Rangers and all their odd companions: the Elves of Imladris and the Woodland Realm, and a lone Ereborian Dwarf, all of whom fought side by side to vanquish the enemy forces that remained.
The Southrons and Easterlings fought fiercely, unwilling to relent. Long after their Orcish companions had either perished or fled across the river, to swim or drown, these allies of Mordor persisted as the day wore on, countering their opponents at every turn and rallying each time they appeared to be well and truly routed.
Even as the sun sank low in the sky, Truva battled on foot with a circle of Easterlings, though it would have been challenging to determine which side was more exhausted. When survival was at stake, however, even at her most weary Truva was accustomed to inhibiting thoughts of failure in order to persevere, thus it was at long last that she found herself the only figure standing.
In her lassitude, she collapsed spread-eagle upon the ground as the sky spun overhead, and all sense of time and meaning was lost to her.