A/N: Okay, first off I want to apologize to Ellyn, who liked the last chapter and hoped I would update soon if I wasn't too busy in the next few days. Unfortunately, I ended up being busy for the next few WEEKS. Sorry, but it wasn't anything I could help. As such, this chapter may not be as coherent as the last few, since I only worked on it in the spare minutes I found myself up to writing. Anyway, here's chapter four, I hope you like it.
Chapter Four: Rider of the North
Léofric swung his sword from astride Déorwine, bringing it down hard upon the unprotected head of an Orc. The foul thing crumpled to the ground, a bloody gash upon its forehead.
Three kills to my name, thought Léofric with grim satisfaction. I will become a warrior yet.
A fearful roar caught Léofric's attention. A huge, towering Southron Mumâk, its war tower hanging haphazardly to one side, charged towards him, its eyes maddened with pain and rage. Déorwine let and a fearful whinny and reared back onto his hind legs. Léofric did his best to hang on, but was thrown from his mount, as Déorwine galloped away, terrified.
The titanic beast's footfalls shook the very earth under him as Léofric rolled out of the Mumâk's path, narrowly avoiding being trampled by the monster. He stood, shaking slightly, as the enormous monster stomped away, leaving death in its wake.
When he had first set eyes upon them, Léofric had not believed that creatures so large could still exist. There were Trolls, yes; his people had long known of the ugly brutes, but the Oliphant's sheer size dwarfed that of any Hill-Troll. There were dragons, he had been told, but most had been killed a long, long time ago, and those wyrms that still lived hid beneath the earth and slumbered away the centuries, weary from long-forgotten battles of old, still healing old wounds. Yet these colossal beasts were so large as to dwarf any creature that still walked Middle-Earth.
There was a moment's lull in the battle as Léofric looked about, unsure of whether to retrieve his horse or to continue the fight on foot. No one noticed the lone, horseless Rider standing amidst a pile of bodies; some Rohirrim, some Orc, even a few Southrons.
Southrons…these too were unknown to Léofric until this day. The Men of the Mark knew their neighbors to the south, the proud kingdom of Gondor; they knew the savage Dunlendings who lived on the outskirts of the Riddermark. Elves they had heard rumor of; strange beings who walked through the woods at night, sometimes benevolent, sometimes mischievous, but always beautiful beyond mortal comprehension. So too had they heard of Dwarves; bearded men who lived in the mountains, digging gold and deep secrets out of the earth. But of the strange, dark men who lived in the barren wastes south of Gondor no tale was told and little was known, only that they were hard, fierce warriors whose hatred for the proud, free peoples of the north knew no bounds.
Léofric had not yet faced a Southron on the field of battle, and he hoped to avoid doing so. He was a valiant man, like his Eorling forefathers, and he feared no foe, but he did not look forward to killing another Man. To slay an Orc was a difficult task; the creatures were born and bred to war; but there was no shame or guilt in it. Orcs were vicious and barbaric, and had to be killed for the good of all. But these dark, mysterious Southrons were Men, despite their exotic appearance and their fealty to the Enemy, and to kill one would still be to kill another human being. If he faced one on the Pelennor today he would not shy from the fight, nor would he hesitate to kill his foe. But he would take neither satisfaction nor honor from the killing.
A band of Orcs, cut off from their company by the Rohirrim's charge and the ensuing chaos, appeared through the smoky veil of battle like wraiths in fog. Léofric turned to face them, sword and shield in hand, as he realized with a sinking feeling in his heart that there were too many of them to overcome on his own…
The Orcs charged, howling their fearsome war-cries. Léofric gritted his teeth, grim determination in his eyes, and steeled himself for bloodshed and death. The Orcs were nearly to him when a great grey stallion rode up beside him, a mail-clad Rider of Rohan astride the horse, his armor shining brilliantly in the morning light. The Orcs cowered in fear of the sight of the fell Rider and his steed, and fell back, none willing to be the first to fight such a deadly foe.
The Rider reached out his hand, and Léofric saw that it was his kinsman Ardhelm. It did his heart good to know that his friend still lived this battle. As he climbed onto the back of Greyhest, Ardhelm's steed, Léofric thought of his family.
He had fought at Helm's Deep in defense of his lord and land, and in the defense of his family: his mother, grey strands just beginning to show in her straw-colored hair; his brother, who wanted so badly to fight but was not yet strong enough to hold a blade; his sisters, who were too small to understand what was going on and could only huddle against their mother, whimpering with fright. His father had been lost that day, and he had been left the head of his family. There was no time for Léofric to properly mourn his father or to help rebuild his shattered family. Lord Théoden needed all the warriors he could muster, and Léofric was bound by duty and honor to obey the commands of his liege-lord.
And so he rode to battle the forces of evil at the ending of the world, without saying goodbye to his family.
A change in Greyhest's direction attracted Léofric's attention. There, galloping towards him on the battlefield, was his enemy. Not an Orc, but a Man, broad and dark-skinned, astride a mighty black stallion. He was garbed in the clothing of the Southron nomads, a serpent banner trailed from his horse, and he carried a mighty lance.
"Léofric! Ready your spear!" Ardhelm shouted, and Léofric did as his kinsman commanded. Ardhelm now grasped the reigns with only one hand; the other held his shield. The Southron horseman galloped towards them at full canter, lance readied and pointed towards the two Riders. The gap between the two horses lessened rapidly, the pounding hoof beats drowning out the sound of battle. To an observer it would have looked almost as a tournament joust, but the fell look in the eyes of the horsemen gave no doubt as to their deadly intentions.
They were only a few yards away from each other, now only a few feet. Then Léofric felt a jarring, violent impact as the Southron rider's lance made contact with Ardhelm's shield. Ardhelm himself was knocked off his horse, and went tumbling to the ground.
Léofric was not as skilled a Rider as his kinsman, but he wielded any weapon that fell into his hand with deadly skill. The Southron horseman carried no shield, and Léofric's spear-point dug itself deep into the man's gut, Greyhest's momentum forcing it in even further. The spear's haft snapped in two, and Léofric tossed the now-useless weapon away as he rode away, leaving his enemy mortally wounded.
I felled the Serpent Rider, thought Léofric. So this is how it feels to kill another Man. He felt no joy, only a sick, guilty feeling in his stomach.
He edged forward into the rider's saddle and brought Greyhest around, searching for Ardhelm. After a moment he spotted him crouched by the massive corpse of an Oliphant, a group of Orcs slowly enclosing him, jeering grins on their faces at the prospect of easy prey.
Léofric unsheathed Isenlof, his father's sword, and gazed at the morning sunlight reflected off the shining blade. The loss of his father had left a hole in his heart, a hole that needed time to heal. His already-wounded heart could not bear the loss of another loved one, and no one on the battlefield was closer to him than Ardhelm, his cousin and oldest friend. He had lost one family member already; he would not lose another this day. He would not.
So swearing to himself, he charged the Orcs with a grim smile on his face, sword held high.
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Only two chapters to go…
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FireChildSlytherin5: My plot is thick enough to taste? Maybe I should get some sweetener for it ;-). Jokes aside, I'm glad you're enjoying it.
Virtuella: I don't find Artharion quite as fascinating as the other characters, perhaps because Tolkien explored the "valiant Dunedain soldier who sacrifices of himself" a bit much in the books. Aragorn, Faramir, Beregond, Halbarad, etc. Thanks for the compliment on my writing style; people particularly seem to enjoy my narration. I do tend to over-describe sometimes, but that's because I have a very fixed idea of what's happening and I want to communicate that to the reader as best I can. Also, this story does attempt to vaguely mimic Tolkien's style, which is very heavy on the descriptive. You're right, though, it is largely a matter of preference.
CalenlassGreenleaf1: Ugh, the Orc chapter is next. Wish me luck with that. It did strike me as awkward to start so many paragraphs with "Artharion," but there was no real way around it. Using a general, vague noun like "the soldier" just seemed like too much of a cop-out. Sorry ;-).
Ellyn: I finally did update this, and I'm really sorry for the wait. Hopefully the next chapter will come more quickly, but no guarantees.
szepilona10: I finally updated, but none too soon. Only two chapters left…