Recommended listening: Mahler, Symphony No. 5

Note: This chapter comes with a great many details regarding the city of Pelargir and its layout. There is a map up on AO3 (under the username 'blueoncemoon') for any who desire a little help getting oriented.

CHAPTER V: THE BATTLE OF PELARGIR

The Alcarindur drew abreast of Pelargir's eastern wharfs. In the darkness loomed the city's battlements, so massive that little was visible beyond, save the crest of a few turrets. At the forefront of the city rose the grand Tower of the Ship-kings, its very foot plunging into the converging waters of Sirith and Anduin. From this tower to the northern reaches of the city, portcullises had already been lowered where waterways disrupted the stone wall. The sheer mass of Pelargir's outward face dwarfed the newly-arrived reinforcements.

'I did not think it possible to like any mode of transportation less than those confounded horses, yet I do believe boats to be entirely more detestable,' groused Gimli as they disembarked onto the staith.

A man most tall and dark – his features clearly boasting of Númenórean origin – stood waiting patiently to greet the forces out of the north. Upon spying Aragorn, he fell into a deep bow.

'My Lord,' said he. 'Long has it been since you have come to our docks, and during equally troubled times.'

'It is unfortunate that our paths should cross again in this way, Minister Tinnedir, but there is neither need nor time for such genuflection,' said Aragorn, bidding the man rise. 'May I introduce King Éomer and his Second Marshal Truva, who by mere happenstance were in our midst when the summons came?'

'Ah, King of the horselords!' said the Minister, turning to Éomer. 'Though you do not know of me, I have heard a great deal about you. With great humility do we thank you for coming to our aid; more than once have your lands lent succour to the furthest reaches of our kingdom, and once again your Riders prove an unexpected boon.'

'For too many years have the warriors of Gondor protected the Mark's Eastern borders, and kept at bay the rising tides of evil,' said Éomer King. 'It is but our duty to repay that heavy debt.'

'No debt lies between the Mark and the Reunited Kingdom,' said Aragorn. 'We come together under a united cause, alongside Legolas of the Woodland Realm and Gimli of the Glittering Caves – though perhaps, Minister, you are more familiar with our Gondorian representatives: Captain Maeron of Harlond, and Captain Bardlorn of the royal navy.'

'Ah yes, Bardlorn and I spent several years in each other's company when we were mere sailors,' said Tinnedir. 'As for Captain Maeron, I do believe we have exchanged extensive communication with regard to transport between our wharfs – though it has been some time since Captain Bardlorn overtook that capacity.'

'Ah yes,' said Maeron. 'I was about on other business at milord Aragorn's behest this past winter, though my path likewise finds me here now.'

'Well, it is good to meet you at last, though the circumstances of our meeting are somewhat less than fortuitous,' the Minister replied. 'But come, let us turn to matters and decisions inescapable.'

He turned and made for a narrow gap in the fortifications, ascending a shallow stair that fed into a junction of narrow streets. Beyond the heavily fortified gate, central Pelargir finally revealed itself: spires of old governmental buildings, courts and gardens, trade schools and libraries of record, residences, bathhouses, taverns. Bridges crisscrossed a veritable web of watery channels, no less numerous than the cobblestone roads. Each was traversed by fitting vehicles, whether long, flat-bottomed boat or narrow cart or otherwise. The sights rivalled even those of fair Osgiliath – for the port city had endured far less destruction in the many years preceding the War than its northern counterpart.

Truva gazed about in wonderment. To see everything she had been called upon to defend laid out in front of her — homes, shops, an elderly poulterer and his equally wizened wife making with all haste northward through streets busy with soldiers — the weight of expectation fell far more heavily about her shoulders. This was not a battle for the mere retention of some Gondorian burg, but the safeguarding of its residents' very way of life.

'Accommodations have been readied for your soldiers – those that will not remain aboard the Alcarindur,' said Minister Tinnedir, shaking Truva from her reverie. 'It is best they get some rest, for I fear all their strength will be required anon.'

He beckoned to a deputy, who stepped forward with a pair of stable hands. Taking Firefoot and Roheryn into their care, the deputy gave a short nod to the Minister and marched off towards the city's military complex, northern reinforcements in tow.

The Minister escorted the commanders in the same direction, albeit at a slower pace. The two kings fell in together, as did the two captains, leaving Truva to trail silently behind, followed by Legolas and Gimli. The company was led past officers' quarters and advisors' residences, then crossed a bridge, beyond which the recruits were already filing into regimented, utilitarian barracks abutting the battlements.

Just past the military complex lay the citadel walls and its ornate iron gate. With a hail from the guard, the company was granted access to the inner courtyard: a maze of low hedges and lawns and scattered trees, regimented rose bushes and bubbling fountains. Not even the Corsairs had seen fit to lay waste to such beauty during their brief occupation of Pelargir.

Where the deltoidal courtyard came to a point, the Tower of the Ship-kings rose skyward, pure white and smooth-sided. At the very height of the tower blazed a flame eternal – never extinguished, for long had it guided ships ere the fall of Númenor. Truva craned her neck to discern the light radiating from the tower's cupola: a brilliant beacon undimmed even by the enemy's approach.

When the company drew near, the tower's immense doors – carven with the images of bygone fleets and battles upon the seas – opened unprompted. An entrance hall lay beyond, with doors branching off to countless chambers and a grand staircase at the far end. This the guests ascended, eventually coming to double doors, through which lay the Minister's Hall. Thick rugs in the elegant sable of Gondor lined the floor from wall to wall, and busts of the Kings of old stood upon podiums in every corner. A long bank of arched windows overlooked the confluence, with the Anduin flowing past upon their left and the Sirith to their right, each river a swath of nothingness in the invading night.

The Minister strode to a stout table nearly half the expanse of the hall. Spread before the commanders was a map of far greater detail than Truva knew to be in existence; areas of Near Harad had been filled in with cities and roads, as had the havens of Umbar. She leaned in close, peering at this new information as the consultations began.

'What news have you of our position, and that of the Corsairs?' asked Aragorn at once.

'Every inch of our battlements have been reinforced a hundredfold; we are as secure as we might be in that regard. Residents of the western bank have all been evacuated northward beyond the bridge; others in the central city have elected to relocate outside the city gates. Some even make for the refuge of Tumladen.

'Accounting for my troops sent south on patrol, who have not yet returned, those that remain in Pelargir do not surpass five companies. As for the position of the Corsairs themselves,' the Minister paused, concern apparent upon his visage, 'I suspect they shall come upon us this very night. Reports put their numbers at ten dromunds' worth or more, with a flotilla of smaller vessels – nigh uncountable.'

Momentary silence greeted this statement. Gazes lingered upon the map, unseeing, each leader consumed by the storm within their own mind.

'Even so, it is great fortune our arrival preceded theirs,' Maeron commented at last.

'Come, let us not despair,' said Éomer. 'All the forces of Umbar could not so much as hope to stand in opposition to a mere handful of the finest warriors the lands of Gondor and the Riddermark have to offer.'

'Oh aye, we'll give 'em a fight they're not ready for!' enthused Gimli.

Yet eyes shifted uneasily from one to the other as they discussed plans that had been set upon the journey southward. There was little dissent from Minister Tinnedir, who agreed it would be best for his troops to oversee the defence of Pelargir's massive battlements, though he appeared somewhat less certain as to the Eorlingas' placement upon the western bank.

'It is a jumble of streets, you see,' he said. 'I cannot so much as give you a map – for the routes alter in a day, and no record of them is ever accurate longer than a week. Horses or no, it is a dangerous position, separated from the main city as it is.'

'We cannot afford to relinquish control of the agricultural district, and by extension access to the bridge,' Captain Bardlorn reasoned. 'It will expose our entire flank.'

The Minister pursed his lips and thought in silence for a time before giving a resigned sigh. 'Very well; it is not as though we have many options available to us,' he conceded.

'If that is settled, let us position ourselves before events are set into motion,' said Aragorn.

With final glances towards the map and muttered words of parting, the commanders streamed from the Minister's Hall and made for their individual bunks and berths. Returning to the military complex, Éomer King and Truva discovered Gamhelm in the first barracks, pacing about the hearth as he awaited their return. Some Riders had opted to take a brief rest in the bunks provided, while others still sat about, sharpening blades. Few had found the heart to eat, though they had been supplied a generous feast of vegetables and roasted meats, cheeses, and even seafood – a rare treat to the landlocked Marksmen. With horses running through their hearts, however, they found the idea of taking sup unappealing.

Once they had all been roused, a deputy appeared and led the Eorlingas to the stables – even more austere than those of Mundburg – where their horses waited impatiently; having been constrained in the bowels of Alcarindur for nearly two days, they were as restless as their riders.

With Éomer King at their helm and the deputy jogging ahead to guide them, the Eorlingas rode through the streets of Pelargir, making their way eastward towards the Sirith in a clatter of hooves upon cobblestones. They passed through a square and along a wide avenue beyond, where buildings rose up directly from the waterline of a canal running parallel to the thoroughfare. Armouries and captains' quarters transitioned into the offices of scribes and record keepers, each establishment flush and contiguous with its neighbour. It was a city unlike any other Truva had ever seen or imagined.

At last they came upon the single gateway of the river Sirith. One cluster of Pelargir residents swarmed through, burdened with all manner of household goods. The Eorlingas stood aside to allow them passage as they immediately turned and crossed a bridge into the northern sector of the city. At their tail strode a guard of the court, who greeted both deputy and Riders.

'That's the last of 'em – the final stragglers have been evacuated from the agricultural district,' he informed them.

'Very well,' replied the deputy. 'Go now to the shelter; I shall join you anon.'

The guard bowed one last time before departing after the residents. The Eorlingas then emerged from the gateway onto a narrow bridge, scarcely two carts in width, stretching out over the rushing waters of the Sirith to a wooden quay upon the opposite bank. A heavy array of Maeron Captain's soldiers now stood at regular intervals, staring out into the darkness, though they turned and bowed as the Eorlingas struck out across the bridge. When the foremost Riders drew near to the central post, the Captain himself stepped forward.

'My lord Éomer,' said he, the quaver in his voice only detectable to those who strained to hear it – those who knew the misfortune of surviving the Great War, only to fall in the next conflict, was all too possible. 'I find great reassurance in knowing I fight alongside so renowned a warrior.'

'Helm keep you,' said Éomer.

'And you,' said the Captain. Loath to say anything further should courage fail, he and Truva momentarily clasped hands – no more.

The Riders continued on towards the quay, noting the darkness before them; all illumination in the agricultural district had been extinguished, the western bank abandoned.

'We have done all within our power and limited time to erect defences,' said the deputy as the company gained the far bank. He turned southward and led them downriver, past sacks of sand and earth hastily stacked in two short berms along the makeshift quay. 'Unfortunately, the main battlements' reconstruction took precedence, and the agricultural district was never heavily fortified to begin with. Let us hope the central city endures the brunt of the attack, and the measures we have taken to secure this area will prove excessive.'

'Thank you for your assistance,' said Éomer King. 'And may your assessment prove correct. As I know you've duties yet to perform and your own safety to consider, you are dismissed – we shall manage well enough on our own from here.'

'Thank you, my lord,' said the deputy, bowing one last time before scurrying back across the bridge. When he was gone, the Eorlingas looked about at the empty, desolate streets, the shabbily constructed livestock pens and derelict barns, the paltry defences.

'Groups of four,' said the King. 'Spread out evenly along the quay and appoint a runner. Prepare incendiaries; if the Alcarindur is any indication, the Corsair ships' blackness is due to the timbers having been soaked heavily in pitch: excellent for repelling water, but also for going up in flame.'

The Eorlingas divided with a chorus of 'ayes', but Éomer halted Truva and Gamhelm, beckoning them close.

'Take a position nearest the bridge,' he said to Truva, 'and serve as the connection between Maeron Captain's forces and ours. I will defend the southernmost area, where the Sirith debouches into the Anduin. Gamhelm, you will be the line of communication between these two points.'

'Yes, my lord,' said Gamhelm.

'I will reinforce the Gondorian forces and ensure the bridge is not taken, should it come to that,' said Truva.

'Let us hope it does not,' said the King. 'For while I have the utmost faith in you, my Marshal, the Corsairs' taking of the bridge would mean that I myself was first to fail.'

With a series of stoic shoulder clasps, the three spun their mounts about and took up their individual posts, Truva leading her designated Riders back to the bridge and dismounting.

'Look for scraps of cloth,' she ordered as they hitched their horses in a storehouse directly behind the quay. 'And sulphur, oil, alcohol – anything that will flame.'

The other Riders nodded shortly, then strode off on their search. Truva began to construct a firepit just behind the first of the makeshift fortifications, flush with the quay wall. As she worked, she strove to empty her mind of all the worries that crowded in: uncertain enemy numbers, Bron's absence, the Pelargirian evacuees crowded just beyond the bridge. It was in such a distracted state that her hand fumbled beneath her armour for Aragorn's Star.

During the War, Truva's concern for her newfound Eorling brethren had been assuaged by the illusion of undying grandeur and fortitude, of invincible righteousness, and yet the unthinkable had nevertheless occurred. Their lifeless forms haunted her waking and nighttime hours, quickening her heart – and thus Aragorn's prowess in combat no longer afforded her any reassurance. If one so brave and noble as Théoden King, if one so dearly beloved as Théodred, if one so deeply respected as Éothafa could be struck down upon the battlefield, so could any.

Though Aragorn was no more than a bridge away, the distance between them felt insurmountable. Truva longed to be at his side, to wield her shield and sword in his defence; yet she was not oblivious to the fact she would be more hindrance than help. She would have to be content in her place, and in the knowledge that each position – no matter how seemingly insignificant – would be crucial for victory. That was how she could best protect Aragorn: by fulfilling the role tasked to her.

Truva briefly wondered whether he felt concern for her, too, as they stood upon the precipice of battle – then swiftly dashed the notion. The security of his entire kingdom, as well as that of the Mark, depended upon the successful defence of Pelargir; surely Aragorn could not spare a thought for his lowly Marshal.

Roused by an approaching Rider, Truva gave her nose a brusque wipe and set about arranging the straw he presented to her for tinder, for she had no intention of fanning the already high tensions of those under her command with her own display of unease.

Nor was the Rider the only one to return; all three came and went frequently, sometimes with wood for the fire, other times bearing materials with which they might conduct their warfare; one Eorling even managed to secure a vat of cooking oil.

Once the blaze was sufficiently large and a promising stockpile of fuel gathered, the Riders set upon their resources, first tearing an untreated sailcloth into small strips, then dipping it into the oil and tying it about many of their arrowheads. But all too soon, what few tasks they could conjure were complete, and their hands fell unoccupied to their side.

'Get some rest while you can,' Truva said. 'Beútan, take first watch. I will explore the area to gain a feel for its layout. Sound your horn should you spy anything amiss.'

With a silent nod, the stoutest Rider took a seat beside the bonfire as the others nestled themselves against the bags of sand. Truva set out into the agricultural district, and through her wanderings was able to begin constructing a rough map of the area in her mind. The structures here were far less developed than those in the heart of the city – little more than haphazardly constructed wooden warehouses, tiny homes, barns, shops. There was no order; buildings did not align, streets meandered with crooked pattern, and dead ends seemed to outnumber thoroughfares. At times, the streets were uneven cobblestones, other times no more than beaten earth.

Truva allowed her mind to wander alongside her feet, worrying pointlessly over things she could not control, dwelling on things she most dreaded. All the thoughts she sought to eradicate in her soldiers she indulged in herself, becoming lost along pathways more twisted than those of the agricultural district.

It was absorbed in such preoccupation that she turned a corner and nearly collided with Éomer King, whose drawn expression was surely a reflection of her own. Yet no sooner had the King opened his mouth to speak than the sound of Beútan's horn reverberated upon the air. With a momentary glance of resolution, the two commanders dashed towards the quay before diverting to their individual posts. When Truva returned to her Riders, she found all three roused, crouching just behind the first berm.

Utter silence bound them as they waited with bated breath, eyes trained upon the confluence. With all lights in the city doused, Truva strained to make out much in the darkness, save one or two Eorlingas shifting beneath the tension. Roheryn gave a snort in the warehouse behind, a messenger darted across the bridge and disappeared into the main city, but otherwise an oppressive stillness lay over the scene.

Then the first dromund bowsprit eased into view. Its dark prow glided ominously upon the waters of the Anduin, black sails emerging from behind the screen of buildings to reveal a vessel far larger than the captured Alcarindur, accompanied by several smaller sloops. Hands tightened about sword pommels and bow grips as the Eorlingas prepared for the onslaught.

Yet they watched in confusion as the dromund continued past the mouth of the Sirith and on towards the Tower of the Ship-kings, its double-banked oars straining against the river's current. The horsemasters' breath eased; perhaps the deputy had been correct – the Corsairs would not seek to establish a position on the west bank, after all.

When the dromund drew abreast of the eastern battlements, she slowed until she no longer made any progress upriver. There she bobbed, oars still dipping in and out of the water, giving no indication of aggression nor any attempt at parley, her presence alone a looming menace.

But far too long had Umbar preyed upon Gondor's weakened southern lands, and still the sting of having lost Pelargir to the Corsairs during the War ached in the hearts of the city's defenders; they would not be victim to suggestions of peace made in bad faith! And so a cry rang out from the northern battlements, followed by a hail of arrows.

The Corsair ship retaliated at once, loosing their own volley up into the battlements. A trio of additional dromunds then materialised from the south, racing to reinforce their brethren's position. Already the Corsair numbers reached the upper limits of the Gondorians' estimations.

In that same moment, the Alcarindur and her support emerged from the darkness as if ghosts, bearing down upon these assailants with surprising speed. Yet their position was less advantageous than they could have hoped for, and the Corsairs reacted quickly, angling their dromunds nearly parallel to the attack and avoiding the worst of the damage.

Even as the sound of hull scraping against hull reverberated across the water, more Corsair dromunds appeared. Far larger than their companions, these were positioned directly before the Tower of the Ship-Kings, shielded from the Alcarindur by the first flock of ships. It was no paltry smattering of arrows this second fleet cast upon the stone defences of Pelargir; a scarlet glow flared on each deck before several fiery bundles arced towards the high Tower windows. One hit its mark, shattering elegant stained glass and igniting all flammable materials within – yet the others, even in falling to the depths below, combusted upon the water itself. Tongues of flame flitted up the stony Tower face.

'Hold!' came Éomer's relayed order. 'Hold!'

Truva strained against the barricade, unaccustomed to standing by when others were in need. She stared in horror as a second rally of incendiaries sailed up into the battlements – the very ramparts where Aragorn stood.

It was then the third cluster of dromunds appeared. Slightly smaller than the others, these slipped towards the mouth of the Sirith, but Éomer's company leapt into action even as they did. The King, too, had made ready a blaze, and the first ship sailed so close to the western bank it made an easy target. Yet when the Eorling archers struck their fiery arrows into the dromund's hull, it did not so much as smoulder, let alone burst into flames.

'They've covered the hull in drenched hides!' Truva hissed, though a perverse grin crept across her face.

'Then let them come,' said Beútan.

But even as these words left his lips, skiffs innumerable were lowered over the dromunds' sides. Once upon the water, they disseminated like tiny hatchlings from a mother spider, making with all speed for the quay. The entire bank devolved into chaos as the Eorlingas sought to sink the crafts whilst dodging the Corsairs' own cover assault.

Truva knelt and ignited several arrows, handing each in succession to Beútan, their strongest archer. He succeeded in setting one of the skiffs alight and sent its occupants spilling into the waters of the Sirith, but still they came, striking out towards shore.

Drawing her own bow at last, Truva aimed for any foe that had not been pulled down into the river's currents by their armour, or that still advanced in unsundered vessels. Yet the Corsairs were so numerous and the light so low she could scarcely determine whether any bolt was effective; all she could see was they grew ever nearer – uncomfortably nearer – the quay.

'Draw back to the second berm!' she cried when the gleam of axe heads became visible in the moonlight. 'Fall back! Fall back!'

In an instant, the four Riders scrambled some twenty paces to the next line of defences, followed by other Eorling companies similarly compromised. From this new position, they observed as the first skiffs pulled along the riverbank, from the mouth of the Sirith to the very bridge itself. Corsairs poured forth, only to be met with the Eorlingas' arrows as they came over the top of the berm.

Even still they did not stop, merely crawling over the bodies of their fallen brethren – or using them as cover, for they were desperate along the featureless quay.

As their numbers increased, however, the Corsairs grew more brazen. Emboldened by the Eorlingas' limited defence, they swarmed across the quay. Not only axes, but also their armour became visible – individual features, eyes, their own barked orders audible. When even Beútan renounced his bow and drew his blade instead, the inevitable had come at last.

'Mount up!' Truva cried. 'Go to your horses; I will cover you!'

Beútan and the others did not even hesitate as Truva sprang up over the berm and dispatched two Corsairs with a single arrow. In the same fluid motion, she unsheathed Fréodhel, relishing in the feel of the sword's leather grip as she faced down the encroaching foes.

With a clatter of hooves, the three Riders emerged from the storehouse and fell upon the Corsairs, Roheryn just behind. Truva was in the saddle in an instant, immediately fighting off one snarling Corsair that snatched at her leg in an attempt to unhorse her. Clutching the pommel, Truva swung her other leg back over and delivered a sharp kick to his woeful helmet, stunning the Corsair before sending him sprawling with a second kick. Roheryn's own contribution ensured he would grasp at her leg no more.

To the south, Éomer King let loose a wild cry and urged Firefoot forward, his sword flashing in the light of several flaming skiffs: his own vessel upon a sea of enemies. The first wave of foes fell easily to his blade, and the blades of all the King's Riders, for the Corsairs bore few pikes; they had not anticipated the Eorlingas' presence.

But ever more arrived – until the dromunds' entire force had spilled onto the quay and the number of adversaries swelled nearly tenfold. Beset on all sides, Truva looked to the bridge, where Maeron Captain's men handily defended its entrance against a small detachment of Corsairs. When she turned towards the mouth of the river, however, Éomer's company had been overrun – forced to retreat into the byways of the agricultural district, yielding their position to the unrelenting press of enemies.

'Retreat!' cried Truva to any Eorling warrior still fighting upon the quay. 'Retreat into the city! Retreat!'

She regrouped her Riders and led them into the district's twists and turns, the map she had conjured in her head quickly becoming muddled. Though she tried to tack north towards the bridge and escape, their path was driven in unexpected directions as the Corsairs gained the Eorlingas' abandoned fires, lit their own brands, and began systematically applying them to the buildings. The meagre wooden structures were easily set alight, flames racing from rooftop to thatched rooftop as the Eorlingas struggled to stay ahead, a fiery crackle raging in their ears and acrid smoke choking their lungs.

Truva dove down a narrow lane, but a cluster of Corsairs leapt from an alley to their right, sending their horses skidding. As the frontrunner charged forward, Truva quickly dispatched him with a quick parry followed by a well-placed thrust through the eye-slit of his helmet, but too many came behind. The Riders were forced to retreat even further southward.

After a series of sharp turns, they found themselves alone, the flames some distance away. Judging by the circle of massive barns clustered about a single, immense corral, they had stumbled upon the livestock quarter.

A figure lurking at the edges of the closest barn caused Truva to ready her sword again, but as it emerged further from the shadows, the shape of Éomer King became distinct, silently beckoning her company forward. They slipped into the confines of the barn, where eleven other Riders huddled, the earthy scent of hay beneath their horses' hooves heavy upon the air. Truva glanced about for the remaining Eorlingas.

'Is this— is this all who have made it?' she whispered to Éomer.

'No,' replied the King. 'Gamhelm and the others are trapped in a granary some distance south of here.'

'What are we to do?' asked Beútan. 'There are simply too many Corsairs!'

'Our position is untenable,' said Éomer, the stony look upon his face scarcely visible in the gloom. 'The west bank cannot be held; we have failed in our mission. There are but two options: the first is to flee beyond the outer limits of the agricultural district and pick off the Corsairs as they pursue us, hoping that the majority turn to aid the main attack instead.'

This proposition was met with glowers and consternation.

'It is a very good thing there is a second option,' said Truva.

'Which is to push northward and hope Maeron Captain has kept the bridge,' Éomer continued. 'From there, we can reconvene with the main forces of Gondor and fight upon the battlements of the central city.'

'We mustn't abandon the others!' exclaimed Beútan.

'No, we certainly must not,' said Éomer. 'I will seek them out. Truva, lead these Riders back across the river and reinforce Aragorn King's position.'

'Your safety cannot be compromised, my lord,' said Truva, dismounting. 'It is the Second Marshal's duty to assume the greater risk of a tangential mission. But take Roheryn with you, for these confounded flagstone alleys give our horses' positions away far too easily.'

The King frowned. 'Very well,' he said after a time. But as the others made their way to the barn entrance, he turned once more to his Marshal. 'Truva—' he began, voice low.

'Go now and secure a path,' she reassured him gently. 'We shall not be far behind.'

Éomer said nothing in response, merely pursed his lips and took a place at the Riders' head. With no sign of the Corsairs about, they slipped out into the night – Roheryn in their midst – and disappeared amongst the northward streets.

Truva immediately set off in the opposite direction, keeping to the corral perimeter before slipping into the shadows of a tannery. Yet even as she did so, the clatter of a Corsair company drew frighteningly near. Shimmying up the tannery's front posts onto its roof, Truva pulled her toes out of sight just as the first Corsair came around the corner. A score of adversaries stormed through the corral, following the path Éomer and the others had taken.

With a murmured word of supplication to Helm for her King's safety, Truva continued on her way, sticking to the district's roofs as she did so. Flames continued to lick along buildings, growing ever closer from the south and east, filling the night air with a searing heat; yet the firelight proved useful, illuminating the district – and a granary silo jutting above the rooftops.

It was towards this Truva made, evading several additional Corsair parties as she did so. They moved through the convoluted byways with far less purpose than those that pursued Éomer, but even so, they encroached far too near Gamhelm's hideaway for her liking. It was with relief that she gained the low, squat granary and found no sign of the Corsairs.

Peering over the roof edge into a small open square below, Truva gave a soft whip-poor-will call, only for an answer to sound from within the granary. The door cracked open. She darted to the entrance and wasted no time in giving orders.

'You must go at once!' she whispered fiercely to Gamhelm and the half dozen Eorlingas gathered there in the dusty granary. 'Éomer King drives across the bridge even now!'

'We are surrounded, Marshal!' said Gamhelm ruefully. 'Would it not be best to make a last stand in a more… defensible position?' They looked about at the nearly empty space, the granary's ramshackle walls. Truva shook her head.

'Go west, then take the second alley on your right,' she urged. 'You will find the least resistance there, and it will set you on a northward path.'

'What of you, Marshal?' asked Gamhelm. 'You have no horse!'

'I will set a distraction. There is no time to waste in arguing – go now, go!'

Even as she spoke these words, the Corsairs drew in close about the Eorlingas' position, for they too had heard the call of the whip-poor-will and thought it odd in a wintry city. If the granary had not been surrounded before, it surely was now.