Chapter 20: Watchfires on Amon Sûl
They had left the site of the dead wargs far behind and again, the hooves of their horses pounded the turf and the wind streamed through manes and long hair. Cloaks pulled back and bits jingled and the wind whipped the trees.
Galdor rode fast beside Glorfindel and Glorfindel glanced at the Elf from the Havens in curiosity. That he had the power to weave such a glamour to hide the injured horse and Elf was unexpected. And he had been in the army of Last Alliance though Glorfindel had no memory of him. But Elrond had thought it fit to share with Galdor as well as Tindómion the news that a Balrog had appeared in the Mirror in Phellanthir. What they did not know of course was that Maedhros too had appeared.
Clouds bowled across the sky, gathering hugely so they towered up and up, and ahead of them the line of hills made an undulating ridge, rising sometimes to a thousand feet and here and there falling to low clefts or passes leading to the eastern lands. Along the crest of the ridge were remains of green-grown walls and dikes, and in the clefts there were still the ruins of old works of stone. And ahead of them, Glorfindel could see the the distinct hilltop of Amon Sûl, the great watch tower now no more than a tumbled ring of stones, like a rough crown upon the old hill's head.* But the broken towers reminded him also of Phellanthir. Glorfindel felt the hairs on his neck rise for he could not help but think of Rhawion, and a sense of foreboding crept over him.
Trees clustered thickly about the foot of the hill of the watchtower, and huge broken boulders scattered about the hillside. They wove their way tiredly between and came to the old road to the fortress, no more than a path overgrown by bracken and thorns.
Glorfindel turned and looked back over his shoulder. He could not hear them but he felt the approach of the Nazgûl from the East, their terrible steeds beating the storm clouds with their great reptilian wings.
'Dismount.' He gave the order and the Elves wheeled and turned, sliding down from their horses, quickly taking reins and bridles and saddles from their hot and sweating horses. 'Gather dry wood, tinder and enough wood to keep the watchfires going all night,' he instructed Elrohir, who called a number of men to him and did as he was bid.
'There is a narrow gorge through there,' Galdor said, pulling off his gloves and throwing his cloak back over his shoulder. His green-grey eyes slanted towards a narrow gorge that cracked between the great granite cliffs. 'It will be safe for the horses. I have sheltered there before.'
Glorfindel nodded at Saeldir who stood waiting for Glorfindel's agreement but Galdor's men were already sending their horses off into the narrow gorge and they trotted off snorting and shaking their heads, glad to be free of the rein and bit.
'There is a stream and plenty of fodder,' Galdor said. He looked up at the darkening skies. 'We should not linger. I can smell the storm on the air.'
Already Tindómion was climbing the broken road to the ruined entrance to the ancient fortress. Above him the storm clouds scudded, their ragged edges tinged yellow. Elrohir was calling to the other men, urging them on to follow Tindómion. They scrambled quickly over the boulders towards the summit of the watchtower. The wind tore through the treetops, and the clouds scudded across the sky, their edges torn and ripped. And then huge drops of rain spattered on the already wet ground beneath his feet and streamed off the boulders. Galdor urged his men onwards and they were scattered over the rocks, climbing upwards when the thunder cracked and rolled across the skies. A flash of lightning lit up Elrohir ahead of him and Glorfindel sprang up over the rocks and clambered after him. Tindómion was already on the summit and there was a sudden flare of fire, red-gold scorching heat and for a moment Glorfindel hesitated.
It is not the Balrog I should fear, he reminded himself. That can only kill you. The Nazgûl can take your soul and sever your ties to Arda. You will be adrift...No. You will cease completely.
Glorfindel paused, for he felt a tremble of fear. The Nazgûl were no longer just wraiths. They would devour his soul. Until now there had been some sort of binding laid upon them by their Dark Lord that they could devour, enslave the souls of Men but not Elves...
Cold seeped into his bones. His hand caressed the hilt of Eruvatúrë. No, he told himself as firmly as he could. I have a greater destiny.
But the cold lingered.
The stones of Amon Sûl stabbed upwards and he scrambled over the ruined and crumbling walls and into the old citadel. It was completely ruined, unlike Phellanthir but it had never been a city. Only a fortress and watchtower. He remembered how it had been overrun by Angmar's armies, and every man slain...horribly.
He saw that Galdor stood near the cairn at the centre of the ring of ancient stones, his gaze full of regret and grief, and Glorfindel wondered if Galdor had had some part in the history of Amon Sûl that he looked so grieved at its ruin. The broken stones were blackened as if with fire and the turf was burned, scorched to the roots. This was where the Nine had come upon Gandalf in the Wild, Glorfindel realised. This was where Frodo had been stabbed by the morgul blade. Glorfindel shivered. The morgul blade that could cut the spirit from the body, so the Nazgûl could hunt and devour the spirit. A terrible foreboding gripped him and he felt cold creep down his spine. He looked about the ruins
Elrohir was already throwing great bundles of dried wood into a stack and Tindómion crouched beside a pile of kindling, striking his tinderbox with his flint. A flame caught and Tindómion carefully held a lit taper to the twigs and kindling. One fire was already lit and Elrohir had dropped to his knees to blow on the small flame. It was this fire that had been the sudden blaze that had alarmed Glorfindel a moment ago- of course Elrohir must have put his own fiery Power into it to make it flare and catch so easily. Now it quickly settled to burn. It was not long before there were good sized bonfires at each corner of the old watchtower and Glorfindel stood on the ramparts and turned East.
'Now we give them a beacon to find us,' he murmured and Galdor drew beside him.
'They will come in on the storm,' he said. 'Do we have enough to stoke those fires and keep them burning?'
'No,' said Glorfindel. 'Not for long. But we seek merely to delay them. To cover our friends' departure so they might leave in secret. No more.'
'No less.'
0o0o
The waiting was the worst part. As always, Elrohir thought.
He stood silently on the tumbled stones of the ruined ramparts and felt the storm gathering on the East though the rain had not fallen for long, the air was heavy and the clouds pressed upon them. Far away, the eastern sky had a reddish glow though the sun had long since sunk beyond the distant hills of the Shire and away to Mithlond. Behind him, men hurried about, building up the watchfires that Glorfindel had ordered, carefully stacked so they would burn as long as possible. The hurried, hushed voices were whipped away by the wind that streamed from the East. He had instructed the archers too, and they ranged about the watchtower with arrows already wadded and tipped in oil so they could burn.
Tindómion stood above him, one foot resting on the next broken step to the destroyed tower, his long hair pulled back in the wind and burnished and fiery in the watchfires. His silver eyes glanced to where Elrohir stood below him.
'They are coming,' he said. Elrohir did not speak.
Ash Nazg durbatulûk...Ash Nazg gimbatul...
The words of the Ring seemed to resonate now as they had not before his encounter with the Nazgûl in Phellanthir. He shifted in discomfort. He could not help the shudder that gripped him, for Angmar was coming and the WitchKing had reached out and changed him irrevocably. It seemed to Elrohir now that a black script wound and scrolled through the wind, in the ragged clouds, in the beat of his heart. Words that were woven now into his muscle and bone, written on his skin. The wind pushed his cloak back, pulled his hair back from his face like cold hands.
My lord will give you all that you desire if you but bring him the One, Angmar had said in the shadow of Phellanthir. You know where it is. We can see it in you. Tell us where and I will release you to the Shadow. You will have dominion. You will make your brother whole. When my lord has the One, you will have your yôzaira.'
The Nazgûl knew him now. They knew his fear, his secret despair and dark lust.
But they did not own him.
He would fight.
His fists clenched over the hilt of Aícanaro and the sword's bright anger, spitting and hissing at the approach of the Nazgûl, ignited his hatred. Vengeance. That was Aícanaro's desire. It was his also. He stood silent and still on the edge of the darkness and limned by the red fiery light. But inwardly, he seethed and burned with fury and desire. The images that the WitchKing had unearthed in the darkness of his soul leapt into his thoughts...
The fiery light of torches in sconces gleamed on the rocky wall. He found himself moving forwards, silently easing through the oily dark that clung to him, and the shadows with their horrid skulls and sharp little teeth slipped along in his wake. Ahead of him the torchlight lit up a body that hung, stretched to its limits, from shackles, from chains that disappeared into the dark. Long, pale gold hair streamed down around it…Ah! Eru…He almost cried out for the lust that flared and ignited in his loins and the shame that blazed in his heart…But this flat-bellied, lean hipped figure was absolutely male and around the pale skin that was already marked with blood, was a shape painted onto the skin, a wild whirl of colour and abstract… The sound of a lash against flesh cracked and a muffled cry made him jerk and pulse with desire.
'Your yôzaira.'
He found himself stiff with lust, with desire to subdue, to master. How could that be? He hated Legolas. But he admired him too, and wanted him. Angmar had recognised something that Elrohir himself had not...And the temptation that Legolas Thranduillion posed was a seductive lure to Elrohir's dark lust.
His breath caught in his throat and he wrestled his heart down. I will not think on him. I will not be enslaved.
'Elrohir?'
He blinked slowly and looked towards Tindómion where his friend stood above upon the fallen tower. A second image threw itself against Elrohir's determination to resist.
In Tindómion's chamber, an Elf, barefoot and white linen shirt gaped wide, and in the soft lamplight his pale skin gleamed. His shirt had slipped off one shoulder and Elrohir saw the outlandish colour and swirling patterns inked on his skin beneath the shirt. Pale gold hair fell loosely and unbound over his broad shoulders and straight down as far as his lean hips. It was Legolas Thranduillion. Barefoot and his long green eyes were dazed with lust. When he saw it was Elrohir he blinked slowly and his mouth, warm and wanton, opened in a gasp.
And then later that night, Elrohir had seen Tindómion slip from Legolas' rooms, his bronze hair long and straight down his back, his pale grey eyes sleepy and sated, he carried his tunic in one hand and had not bothered even lacing his shirt of breeches. Soft with sex. Sleepy with it. And Elrohir had boiled, his blood hot and furious and he had wanted to burst in and crush Legolas...
'Elrohir!' Tindómion had leapt down from his perch and stood now in front of Elrohir, his face close to Elrohir and concerned. 'Come back to yourself my friend,' he murmured and lifted his hand to Elrohir's face.
Elrohir pulled away despite himself, startled and he found his fists clenched and ready to strike... his friend.
Elrohir forced his clenched fists down hard at his sides, fought the need to lash out at his friend. His friend...He breathed out of his nose and looked down, forced the fury away.
Tindómion had been with Legolas. They were right together, he told himself with a twist in his gut of anger, of brutal, bitter desire, that he ruthlessly suppressed. Tindómion had never hidden his affairs, not flaunted them either out of respect for the people of the Valley, for they were a mix of peoples and beliefs, but he had never hidden. And he was brave and fair and Elrohir could not blame Legolas for being smitten...Or Tindómion either...
'Elrohir?' Tindómion called again. Elrohir lifted his eyes to look into the concerned face of his friend.
'The rain is coming.'
Tindómion turned his head at the sound of Galdor's announcement and Elrohir blinked slowly. Rain. That would put out the fires.
'Tindómion, Elrohir,' Glorfindel called to them from across the ruined fortress. 'Do what you can to ward the fires. We will need fire against the Nazgûl when they come.' He turned to Galdor. 'Have your men wad the tips of some arrows and dip them in oil so they will burn.' Galdor nodded quickly, for they would fire at the Nazgûl and hope to drive them off with flames.
Elrohir turned automatically, instinctively doing as Glorfindel asked, welcoming the distraction from his dark thoughts. A hand pressed against his shoulder. It was Glorfindel of course, and he felt a warmth, hope. He glanced up into Glorfindel's fair and fearless face, his unhurried calm soothed and inspired every man for he spoke to each one.
Elrohir wondered if the Elf Lord had been as calm standing on the Cristhorn with Ruinátoró pounding towards him, wreathed in flame and black smoke wings. He had been white-faced in Phellanthir when he stood and faced his old foe, bade them all to run and leave him to face the Balrog alone. Elrohir gazed into the flames of the fire he tended, the glowing logs shifted and one fell, cinders blazed upwards into the darkness and remembered the strangeness of the Óromardë, and the blast of white Power that Glorfindel had sent against the Balrog, and hoped the same Power could be used now, against the Nazgûl.
Light rain pattered lightly onto granite and dusty earth, quickly dampening the earth. Elrohir felt it mist his hair and face and clothes and it sizzled on the flames of their watchfires. Tindómion crouched beside the biggest fire, coaxing it, invoking the fire to respond to his own blood, the House of Feänor, Spirit of Fire itself. Elrohir's hand fell to the hilt of Aícanaro, feeling the incipient warmth of it in the palm of his hand, how Aícanaro almost hissed, curled into him at the prospect of battle against the Nine.
0o0o
The night deepened. The drizzling rain had stopped and the clouds tore raggedly so the Moon sailed high and then disappeared behind cloud once more. Pressure built and pressed down upon them. Elves were ranged about the tumbled ramparts, archers gathered in small groups with arrows easily at hand. The watchfires were guarded and faggots of wood built up to keep them burning, and the archers were alert, their eyes kept glancing upwards where the sky darkened and deepened.
Glorfindel picked his way carefully towards the tumbled ramparts where Elrohir stood, one foot on the parapet and sharp grey eyes peering below into the forest.
'There.' Elrohir glanced at him and then turned back. 'You see movement? A glint of steel perhaps? You hear the grunt of an Orc?'
Yes. He heard it then. The muffled pig-like squeal of one, another's grunting. Orcs then.
'Wargs too?'
Galdor appeared beside them and cocked his head on one side. 'There are Wargs too, he agreed before Elrohir could reply.
'Well then,' Glorfindel drew Eruvatúrë.
'Well then,' agreed Galdor. His own sword came ringing from its sheath and firelight poured along the runes engraved upon the blade. Glorfindel glanced at it briefly for it was well made indeed. Almost he peered closer for there was a long scrolled tree engraved on the blade that was somehow familiar. But then came a long howl from below and a horrid yelping.
Elrohir turned his head towards Glorfindel and his eyes were fierce and brilliant. 'What is your will, lord?' he said formally now that battle was about to begin.
'How many?'
'Saeldir says fifty at the most. We have men stationed all around the fortress. None will get through. We can simply wait if you wish it.'
Glorfindel looked up into the sky. 'It is not the Orcs we wish to engage but their masters. But nor must we be overrun when they arrive. Let us dispatch these troublesome distractions. Galdor, tell half your archers to defend the walls and the other half to stay in the centre to shoot the Nazgûl's steeds when they come.'
Galdor bowed his head briefly and jogged towards his waiting men. They gathered about him expectantly, excited and he spoke quickly. Many nodded or glanced over to Glorfindel briefly and then back to Galdor. A number of them detached themselves from the ranks and ranged themselves on the broken stones of the crumbled ramparts. They strung their bows as they ran, fitting arrows. Elrohir's men were already ranged about the summit and swords gleamed in the flickering firelight.
'Tindómion,' Glorfindel called. He came quickly, the firelight flickered in his silver-grey eyes, stroked his long bronze hair that was pulled back into a thick horsetail high on his head. 'Do not let that fire go out,' Glorfindel said in a low voice. 'When the Nazgûl come, we will need it to keep them at bay.'
Tindómion glanced at the gathered Mithlond Elves in concern. 'Their bows are short,' he observed. 'Suitable for shooting Orcs but to reach the winged basilisks of the Nazgûl?' He left the rest unsaid.
Below, a darkness crept. Like a black tide of beetles scuttling and chittering, Orcs began to climb the shoulders of Amon Sûl. The wind blew through the empty towers and a brief shower of rain spattered again on the cloaks and helms of the Elves waiting. Firelight licked along the drawn steel of swords and arrows and sharp elven eyes narrowed as the first Orcs came charging up the steep hillside.
There was a moment of calm upon Amon Sûl and then, suddenly, arrows zipped through the air. A dozen Orcs fell and more came on, treading on their fallen comrades as they charged. More arrows zipped through the air and more Orcs fell but now a few had broken through and the clash of swords joined the sound of arrows. Indeed their bows were good enough for shooting Orcs, thought Glorfindel as he plunged his sword through the chest of an unwary Orc. He heard the first elven cry as one man fell. Two Orcs came hurtling towards Glorfindel and he had no time now for there were Wargs too and he turned and swung Eruvatórë in an arc about him, slashed through the throat of a Warg and then thrust upwards in time to stop an Orc sabre.
Behind him he heard fighting and Elrohir's bloodthirsty battle cry. Orcs were swarming over the battlements and arrows whizzed past, but now there seemed far more than fifty. They would not keep them out, Glorfindel realised, not with so many. All around him was snarling, yelping and Orcs ugly cries. A huge Orc lunged towards Saeldir, a great sabre gleaming bloodily in its fists and Glorfindel leapt in front of it, beat down upon its arm. It howled and dropped the sabre, clutching its arm and instead lunged towards Glorfindel, teeth bared and yellow eyes maddened with hate and pain and fury. He did not pause but hacked Eruvatórë through its neck, the veins, sinew and bone. The ugly leering head rolled off and he kicked it hard towards a Warg which instantly distracted, leaped upon the grisly ball and snapped and chewed at it.
Glorfindel saw Tindómion appear from nowhere and plunge his sword deep into the Warg's belly and ripped open its hide. Screaming the Warg threw its head around, snapping and snarling with its fangs bared. At the same moment an Orc sprang forwards at Tindómion, sabre high and Glorfindel's sword clanged against it and he whirled swiftly and slashed open the Orc's throat. Tindómion leapt onto the thrashing Warg's back, sword high and crossed with his long white knife and plunged his knife into the base of its skull. The Warg fell instantly dead.
Glorfindel whirled about to find Elrohir standing immediately behind him with Aícanaro deep in the twitching body of an Orc. Neither paused for the fighting was thick then and deep and there were Elves injured and on the ground, and Orcs still swarmed over the ramparts.
Too many, Glorfindel noted as he plunged into a gang of Orcs and swept the bright blade through their slow and ponderous bodies. The Elves would need to be free of this rabble when the Nazgûl arrived. He could not risk capture; he would not lose one bright soul to the Wraiths! He had lost one already.
To his left, a gang of Orcs had converged in one place and with horror, Glorfindel saw that Saeldir was on the ground and struggling to pull himself up onto one elbow, sword in one hand but too unconvincing to be a threat.
Glorfindel seized a burning branch from the fire and with Eruvatórë in one hand and the flaming brand in the other, he leapt over the still twitching body of a Warg towards Saeldir, careful to land away from the Warg's teeth for you never knew with Wargs. An Orc leapt after him, landing heavily, sabre dripping with red blood and yellow eyes glittering. It charged at him and Glorfindel simply lifted Eruvatórë to slit the Orc's throat.
He pulled Saeldir to his feet and settled him near the wall where he could defend himself more easily. He seized the moment to glance about, to take in the damage. There were more Orcs climbing over the ramparts, knives in their teeth as they used their hands to scramble over the tumbled stones, sabres on their backs and wicked hunger in their yellow, alien eyes. Too many.
'The Nazgûl are coming!'
No! It was too soon, he thought panicked. The archers from Mithlond, who had gathered upon the ruined tower, rained arrows down upon them and a swathe of Orcs fell, Galdor's men quickly followed and despatched the Orcs
'They are coming! To me, archers!' cried Elrohir. He stood before the watchfires at the base of the ruined tower, and the flames seemed to leap up in response to his urgency.
Those archers not already ranged upon the ruins of the tower struggled through the fighting to reach the fire and Elrohir handed them arrows he had gleaned more from the bodies of Orcs and Wargs. A couple of warriors were ranged behind the crumbled watch tower to protect the archers. Some Orcs seemed to realise what they intended and a gang of them lurched towards the archers but Elrohir put himself between the Orcs and his archers and was a whirl of silver steel and black. The Orcs fell as if scythed and the dark blade slicing through the air reverberated as if it sang.
Glorfindel strode between the struggling, shouting groups of Orcs and Elves, striking dead many Orcs as he passed, almost casually so little energy did he waste in their despatch. He counted the fallen Elves as he passed; three Mithlond Elves dead. More Elves from both Imladris and Mithlond wounded but able to fight on, for a while at least. More Orcs dead and eight wargs. Arrows stuck out from the bodies of both Orcs and Wargs and he admitted the effectiveness of the short bows of Mithlond...but they would be nothing against the thick hides of the Nazgûls' winged steeds. They had to hope the Nazgûl dismounted and they could send fire into their black shrouds.
Suddenly he paused. 'Where are the rest of the Wargs?' he shouted about the din of battle, the cursing, clanging of swords, snarling of Wargs and Orcs. Saeldir was leaning on his sword nearby, breathing heavily, injured but not incapacitated.
He looked up at Glorfindel confused. 'Have we not killed them all?'
'No! There are a dozen bodies here but there were more. Maybe five, six more?'
And then it struck him. A terrified whinny came from below and Glorfindel jumped up onto the ramparts. 'The horses! They have gone after the horses!' The narrow gorge had not been protection enough and he cursed himself for not taking the time to check what Galdor said.
Tindómion was beside him, the light blazing in his pale grey-silver eyes, his beautiful face hard and grim. Like his kin. Like Maedhros.
'Go! Take...' He did a quick calculation. Maybe there were not so many Wargs below but they were hard to kill and infinitely more dangerous. Orcs were easy to kill and even with three times the number of Orcs as Elves, he did not think them much of a threat without the Wargs. But the Nazgûl were coming. 'Take seven with you. Protect our friends! And then return.'
Tindómion did not pause. He touched the arms of Elves nearby and they instantly leapt over the broken stones and disappeared down the dark slopes of the hillside fort.
Glorfindel strode over to where two Orcs were clambering over the tumbled stones to reach the archers. He struck one with this sword across the back of the neck and the other in the belly as it turned to see what had happened to the first.
There were handfuls of Orcs still fighting, and yet more clambering over the low walls.
Suddenly they stopped; every one of them froze, turning towards the East as if they had been called, intently listening. On their disfigured, ugly faces was the same identical expression; hatred, loathing...anticipation.
The Elves did not pause but launched themselves against the distracted Orcs, slashing and stabbing. Suddenly a small group of Orcs broke away, surrounding one of the Mithlond Elves. Glorfindel saw Galdor fighting his way towards the man but the Orcs grabbed the Elf and dragged him, slipping and sliding over the rocks and tumbled stones and away into the darkness beyond the old fortress walls. To Glorfindel's horror, a few Mithlond Elves leapt over the ramparts and followed, disappearing into the darkness. Three of them running headlong in pursuit of Orcs, and with no knowing what else was out there.
'Fall back!' Glorfindel shouted, running towards the crumbled wall over which the Elves had gone. He gripped the ramparts and leaned over, peering into the dark. 'Fall back!' he cried again to the three Elves.
There was nothing.
And then a gurgling howl followed by a shout of anger.
Galdor was suddenly there with him, his face contorted with rage and horror and grief. He made to climb over the walls and Glorfindel threw out a hand to stop him.
'Hold, Galdor! We will do this properly. They seek to draw us out, to split us up.'
The sound of a brief, furious battle in the dark where the Mithlond Elves had disappeared. Steel clashed against steel. Then silence. Glorfindel stopped, staring into the darkness beyond the walls of Amon Sûl. Other Elves had detached themselves from the fighting and ran towards them. Glorfindel threw out his hands to stop them from charging after those who had already gone. 'Fall back!' he shouted again angrily. 'Do not let those Orcs overrun our position on the tower!' Then he leaned forwards to listen, to pinpoint where the Mithlond Elves had gone so he could direct a search.
There was silence for a moment.
Then a sound; it started like a thin whine at first, grew into a cry of pain and grew into a wail and then screaming that went on and on and on. A cry to Elbereth from another elven throat. Glorfindel threw out his hand to stop Galdor from leaping over the wall in pursuit but Galdor turned his face briefly towards Glorfindel.
'Those are my men, Glorfindel. Do not dare to stop me.' And he was gone.
'Galdor!' But the darkness had swallowed him and a few moments later the screaming stopped abruptly. Then suddenly in the forest below the cacophony of battle erupted again the terrified whinnying of horses and the thunder of hooves below in the darkness, Wargs baying and snarling and the sudden clash of swords and sabres behind him on the hilltop.
Glorfindel gripped the edge of the rampart and leaned over, peering into the darkness below.
He felt a hand clasp his shoulder and whirled round. Elrohir was beside him, hand on his shoulder and Aícanaro with bloody strings of guts looped about the blade like a festoon. To Glorfindel it seemed the sword hissed and coiled in pleasure at the blood that dripped on the blade. And even as he watched, the blood vanished as if the blade absorbed it, drank its fill.
'Hold,' Elrohir murmured. 'This is to lure you out. They think you have the Ring.' The firelight flickered in his eyes.
'I know.'
'It is no easier knowing,' Elrohir said, his face hard and like cut glass.
The darkness was deep and the churning clouds thick. Orcs and Elves struggled together within the old fortress, the red light of the watchfires gleaming demonically on the ugly Orcish faces, teeth bared and bloody.
'Hold,' said Elrohir again, even more quietly. His hand gripped Glorfindel's shoulder more tightly and Glorfindel knew it was as much to hold himself back as Glorfindel. 'Remember why we are here,' he said through gritted teeth.
Glorfindel turned his head in acknowledgment and Elrohir's grip loosened on his shoulder. 'Yes. It is Tindómion down there, and Galdor. They have fought in more battles against Orcs and Wargs than I can count. And we have the Nine to consider.'
He glanced around at those remaining and saw how their ranks had thinned though the Orcs were considerably lessened too. He felt suddenly that he had lost control of this skirmish and that the Nazgûl, directing this from afar, were gaining the upper hand. Tindómion and Galdor were below somewhere in the forest with a number of warriors. Their force had been split no matter his intention and strategy...But perhaps it was for the best anyway, he thought quickly. After all, he wanted the Nazgûl to come, to engage them for long enough that Gandalf made good his departure from Imladris under cover.
He beckoned to Saeldir, who broke away from the struggle and fought his way to Glorfindel's side. 'Take ten men. Go and help Galdor.' 'Leave me ten archers.'
'I will send them with Annael,' Saeldir said stoutly. " And I will remain with you.' Before Glorfindel had time to even speak, Saeldir had turned away and clasped Annael's arm, speaking hurriedly and Annael was nodding vigorously.
Then from the East and borne upon the cold wind came a cry, a thin wail. Faraway, huge serrated wings thumped down on the air.
I have come for you, Glorfindel of Gondolin... I have not forgotten...And you cannot slay me. No man can slay me. It is as you foretold.
The cold malice sneered and sliced against his own fear. Sent ice into his veins.
Angmar.
'Archers!' He heard Elrohir's voice command. But the bows of Mithlond are too short, Glorfindel knew with a dreadful certainty.
The wind suddenly blew, gusted through the trees below so they tossed and surged like a sea, .
'It is only fear!' Elrohir strode amongst the men still fighting off the remaining Orcs. A short black bolt whizzed past his ear and he turned and stabbed Aícanaro through the belly of the Orc that shot it. 'Fear is their greatest weapon and they are terrible,' he continued without pause. 'But it is only fear.' He was magnificent, the firelight catching on his cuirass, pouring over the mithril runes of dark Aícanaro. His hair pulled back in a high tail that streamed down his back and his sharp eyes and sharp cheekbones emphasised in the firelight as he raised his wicked sword and cut into Orc flesh so the blade streamed with black blood.
Child of Finwë indeed, thought Glorfindel, seeing in his mind Fingon as he rode into battle, and then he launched himself once more into the fray, slicing through an Orc's throat and stabbing another in the gut.
In the forest below the trees writhed as if in anguish as the wind grew stronger and howled through the empty and ruined towers of Amon Sûl. A few loose pebbles skittered down from the watchtower. Glorfindel looked up. Slowly, emerging from the dense cloud and circling, was a huge winged creature. It disappeared into the darkness like it had never been there. Was a ghost.
'Archers ready!' Glorfindel cried and leapt upon a fallen stone. 'Stoke the fires!' He climbed rapidly until he was level with the topmost archer. The archers had burning stakes driven between the stones so they could pass their arrows through fire and the smoke was thick around them. The wind pulled back his hair and cloak and firelight gilded him. ''Ware above. Aim as it comes out from the cloud but waste not your arrows. Remember, the Nazgûl can be driven off by fire but not their steeds.' There was the creak of bowstrings and arrows glinted in the firelight.
Silence.
And then, high, high above, out of bowshot, huge wings stretched out on the wind and drifted out of the clouds. A hoarse bellow reached them and more than one archer quailed, but the creature swooped over them far above, weaving between the clouds and then faded from view.
'Hold!' Glorfindel commanded for they could not waste arrows but he felt the fear that trembled through the ranks, the cold and darkness settled upon them, crushed them.
One of the archers lost his nerve and sent a gleaming arrow speeding through the air. 'Hold,' Glorfindel said again, his voice was not loud but he filled it with Power, courage. Calm, he thought, it is only fear and sent out a wave of reassurance, of light into their hearts.
Gibbering and harsh cheering from many Orcish throats reached the ears of the Elves watching, waiting on the top of Amon Sûl, so they knew that Tindómion had not defeated the Orcs. There were no sounds of fighting in the forest below. Not now.
Glorfindel caught a look from Elrohir that was filled with loss. Surely Tindómion, the last son of the House of Fëanor would not have met such an ignoble end? But better die by the hands of Orcs than the Nazgûl, he thought and the sense of foreboding deepened. Is this where I too will meet my end, he thought.
Sudden lightning tore through the sky then and lit up the huge wings of the great basilisks that circled in the sky. Slowly. Still out of arrow range for the short bows of Mithlond that were more use to hunting than war. Another flash of lighting gleamed silver on the reptilian hides of the beasts and the slow flap of serrated wings on the wind.
Lightning struck again and when it passed, they were plunged into darkness. It was worse, knowing what was up there and not seeing.
A hoarse cawing was right above him and a wind blasted him. Something swooped towards Glorfindel, and he threw himself to the ground, shouting a warning. Huge leathery wings hissed past him and something clawed at him as it flew past. Arrows zipped through the air and clattered uselessly onto the stones nearby. He grabbed the arrows lest they be wasted and scrambled to his feet.
'It is the Nazgûl! Archers, hold until they are close enough!' It was Elrohir.
A shower of arrows sped through the air into the sky and the black shadows that were circling high above split and soared. One veered off course slightly and dipped its wings. Then it righted itself and turned, screaming towards the tower. It dropped like a hawk and suddenly other huge shapes emerged from the dark, suddenly swooping above them. Wailing filled the air, high-pitched shrieks and Glorfindel felt it pierce his ears, like a spear of sound disrupting his Song, unpicking the notes, peeling them off. He forced himself not to clutch at his ears and instead peered upwards, and saw that the throats of the beasts were pale, vulnerable.
'Aim for their throats!' Glorfindel cried, pulling Eruvatórë ringing from its sheath while Elrohir signalled for another shower of arrows that whizzed around them. One winged beast reared up, thrashing its great wings and beating the air into a storm and Glorfindel spotted a small arrow sticking out from its gullet.
Behind him the archers were frantically wadding arrows and dipping them in oil and fire, passing them up to the best of them for the Nazgûl were close enough to hit. A deadly cloud of blazing arrows hurtled through the air over his head. The huge winged beasts swerved and dipped drunkenly, great serrated wings flailing against the arrows. Wind from their wings beat through the ruins, ripped cloaks and hair and rocked the elves on their feet and the screaming of the wraiths pierced the air.
The Nazgûl whirled their steeds away. Two sped upwards almost vertically until they were beyond the reach of the flaming arrows which fell to the earth far from the hill and plunged into the forest below.
'Hold fire!' Elrohir's voice called for not one of the dreadful beasts was in bowshot now and the archers immediately scattered, searching for arrows.
A raindrop splashed on Glorfindel's hand. He looked down at the water droplet spreading over his skin, already evaporating in his heat. Then another. And another.
He turned towards Elrohir and met his eyes. Both knew.
Thunder rolled around the hills. Instantly Elrohir was throwing the dried kindling they had gathered earlier onto the fire. Glorfindel nodded at Saeldir who beckoned to some of the Imladrian warriors guarding the perimeter of the old fortress and set them instead to watch the fire and keep it burning. Tindómion had woven a warding about the fire before he had left and it would hold for a while, thought Glorfindel. But not forever. He saw Saeldir pull his cloak from his shoulders and throw it over the remaining tinder. Sensible man, Glorfindel nodded at him approvingly. They had fought in Angmar together, knew how things worked, and he was glad to see the wound had not slowed Saeldir.
While the archers scurried about gleaning arrows and then leaping back to their places on the tower, Glorfindel leaned out over the ruined parapet and peered into the darkness below. Suddenly there were sounds of a fierce battle breaking out. Wargs snapped and snarled and there was the clash of swords. Horses' hooves pounded on the turf below and there was cries and horrible guttural shouting. He almost shouted with relief for surely this was Tindómion's small band! He hoped too that they had joined with Galdor.
He looked about himself quickly and considered. They had already lost two men earlier in the Warg attack, then four more had vanished after the Orcs and Galdor had followed and there were five in Tindómion's band. He had sent ten more including Annael and was left with ten men and some of those were injured, although lightly and they could and would fight. Orcs they could kill. Wargs they could kill...But the Nazgûl?...Few of them could defeat Sauron's most dreaded servants. And Angmar, no man could slay. Glorfindel himself had foreseen that. Fire had been a key part of his defence but now the rain was coming and it would put out the fires, no matter how hard they tried.
He was right; moments later the rain came down hard. The fires hissed and sputtered, struggled to stay alive and Elrohir was shouting to Saeldir as they ran from one fire to another in the drenching rain, coaxing each fire to stay alight. The cold rain battered against Glorfindel's eyelashes, wet his cold cheeks. In minutes it had become a downpour. He heard Elrohir cursing.
Glorfindel moved to stand before the archers' position. 'They have not gone,' he said to Elrohir and glanced back over his shoulder. 'They wait for the fires to go out.'
The archers stood together, back to back and stared out into the pressing darkness. There was no moon, no stars for the dense rainclouds obliterated them, but even though the driving rain, they could hear the battle that raged below in the forest; they could hear shouting, the clash of steel on steel. A horse screamed in terror somewhere and there was a mighty crash down in the trees.
But on the hilltop, it was absolutely silent. The rain gradually eased and Glorfindel stood guard over Elrohir as he tended the fires, coaxing them gently with his own Power, his Finwëan blood so there was still a smoulder. But it was not enough.
The dark pressed around them and they could no longer see their own feet, or anything in front of them.
But suddenly it was cold.
The rainclouds tore apart to reveal the hard bright stars. Then, from the Eastern side of the ancient hill rose a huge shadow, blocking out the sky. Serrated wings stretched the width of the hilltop itself and an eerie green glow lit the beast as it rose up from the darkness of the forest. Upon it was a greater darkness and it seemed to draw in the night to itself. Angmar.
The creature hovered for a moment and Glorfindel saw that something was wriggling and struggling in its talons. A piteous screaming whinny came and Glorfindel saw then it was one of the horses; the chestnut horse that Elrohir had ridden. Beside him Elrohir gave a cry and stepped forward. Then he snatched up a crossbow from a fallen Orc and lifted it to his shoulder, firing the bolt straight and true. The horse went limp. The Nazgûl lifted its hand effortlessly and the huge basilisk rose up and swooped above them, its ugly cawing resounding through the ruined fortress. There was a tremendous crash and Anguirel's broken carcass was dropped before them, his poor neck twisted and his glossy chestnut coat gouged and bloody. Elrohir gave a cry and ran to the horse but the bolt he had sent was true and there was no breath.
Before they had time to move, another body was dropped from on high and landed beside it. This time, it was an Elf; the warrior who had pursued the Orcs when they left the hilltop. His eyes had been gouged out and his ears cut off. It had been a dreadful death.
Furious, Glorfindel leapt upon the rampart, sword drawn and clasped in both hands, he brandished it like a flame before him and light poured along the blade forged in Aman by Aulë himself. He felt the churn of Power charging through him, the Power he had blasted against Ruinatóró in Phellanthir, the Power he had used to drive back Pitya-angu and rescue Legolas although too late for Rhawion.
'I am for you, foul one!' He thrust a bolt of Power like lightning against the huge winged basilisk. It reared back, struggling to turn but suddenly there was the soft implosion of Power. And then suddenly it was hurled away by the force of Power, so it spiralled, out of control, its huge wings flapping uselessly and struggling against the sheer force. The Nazgûl's enraged shrieking was lost in the darkness.
Above them, another huge shadow swooped suddenly from the darkness. The archers ranged upon the ruined tower sending showers of arrows swooshing into the sky. The basilisk swerved to avoid the arrows, sending its tail crashing into the ramparts where Glorfindel stood. Stones skittered and fell and Glorfindel ducked, dragging Elrohir with him. The air beat around them. A rancid stink, warm and salty like rotting meat, hit him as the fell beast passed. Glorfindel saw Saeldir leap up and plunge his sword into the creature's belly as it flew low and the beast veered sideways and twisted, turning back and screaming, swooping towards the Imladrian warrior so it could pass low again. This time, as the beast pounded the air, the Nazgûl rider lifted its thin hand, almost carelessly and Glorfindel watched as Saeldir fell to his knees, clutching his own throat.
The basilisk's great talons were raised as it came crashing towards Saeldir and Glorfindel shoved himself away from Elrohir and leapt in the beast's path, Eruvatórë lifted and held straight against his body like a lance. He saw the beast's pale underbelly rear up before him and its forelegs thrashing but it was too late to stop and its headlong plunge took it straight onto his bright Eruvätoré. He shoved Saeldir out of the beasts' path and felt the blade sink into its underbelly up to the hilt. Hot blood pumped out over his hands, flooded over his arms as the blade sank deep. He was pushed along the ground by the beast's weight and speed and crashed against the crumbled wall. With a grunt of pain, he pulled Eruvatórë free and squirmed out from between the wall and the cold smooth hide of the Nazgûl's steed.
He struggled to his feet, breathing hard, and stopped.
Before him, it seemed that the darkness itself had gathered, coalesced. Drawing itself up, a tall and shrouded figure, an empty hood, an iron crown. In its gauntleted hands a long sword in one, and in the other, a morgul blade.
Angmar.
And from the shadows, another shape stepped, a thin black shroud that fluttered in the wind and a long sword raised before it like an ancient salute
So Khamûl is here also, Glorfindel thought.
I have come for you, Glorfindel of Imladris. Glorfindel of Gondolin.
I will devour you.
And they struck. Simultaneously, ancient swords wound about with sorcery and dark magic, met Eruvatórë with a resounding clang and sparks flew. He turned and caught Khamûl's blade against his own and let it slide down, then struck out hard with his foot, meeting old armour beneath the thin shroud. Already he was bringing Eruvatórë up and parrying the blow from Angmar even as a cold wind tore his hair and pulled him back and a terrible shrieking filled the air.
From somewhere to his right, he heard Saeldir cry out and caught sight of him standing on the remains of the tower and shooting arrows. But the fires were mere smoulders and not enough to fight the Nazgûl. He saw how the shadows reached for his archers, his last warriors, and the thin black shrouds fluttered as the Nine emerged from the dark. Above were three more shapes, huge shadows that circled hungrily for the Nazgûl also had their steeds though one at least was lost.
Angmar struck again suddenly, twirling the blade in his iron clad fists as if the heavy sword were nothing. Khamûl struck simultaneously and struck hard again. Glorfindel fought back hard. Under his feet the mud was slippery and rocks and stones had fallen, so he had to leap and step over unseen obstacles. And from his left, he saw another dark shape approach.
He could not fight all Nine, and his archers without fire, were almost defenceless. He whirled about and launched himself towards the last fire and seized a smouldering brand. He felt the Power charge, felt how it ran into his fingers and there was a crackling light, a surge of Power.
'Narë-usto,' he whispered and let Power ball in his fists and surge into the brand. Instantly the flames burst into life and he thrust it first into the smouldering ashes and then swept it around him in an arc of fire. The Nazgûl in front of him shrieked and hacked at the flames with its sword. Cinders flew up into the darkness and flickered on the wind that swept through the ruins on the hilltop. But Angmar was not deterred and wielded his sword in two hands and cut the brand as he swept it before him. Glorfindel rammed his white Power against the WitchKing, forced it to slash down over him. Angmar threw up his ancient broadsword and strove against it so that Glorfindel felt the strain as he pushed, pressed down, struggled to bring the bladelight close enough to strike the Nazgûl lord. Abruptly he pulled back and then shoved it hard so it broke through the darkness of the Nazgûl; for a brief moment, the light shone upon the WitchKing of Angmar, showed his terrible face, the skull that had been eaten away by Time, the terrible pale eyes that hungered, that starved for light, for a bright elven soul.
Elrohir snatched a burning brand from the newly kindled fire and held it against the remaining arrows wadded and dipped in oil. "Archers, rally!' he cried. 'A blow for Mithlond! A blow for Imladris!'
But above him wheeled two huge shapes and suddenly one plummeted like a hawk. Glorfindel saw Elrohir looking upwards in shock and in the next moment, he was leaping from the great height and the winged basilisk was crashing into the ruined tower.
Suddenly there was enormous crushing pain and Glorfindel found the cold, wet earth beneath his cheek. Crushing pain on his chest. He blinked. He was beneath a huge boulder that had fallen upon him. Stars exploded in his eyes and crippling pain crushed his shoulder, his arms, his legs. Darkness clouded his sight and he knew he was helpless.
0o0o0o
tbc