Recommended listening: Khachaturian, Symphony No. 2 in E Minor, 'The Bell'
CHAPTER VI: THE GATE'S DEFENCE
Gamhelm and the other Riders clustered at the door of the granary, casting last, uncertain gazes between each other and towards their Second Marshal.
'Go!' Truva urged, giving Gamhelm's horse a heavy pat on the hindquarters.
With one final gasp of courage, the company burst forth from the entrance, hoping to take advantage of the element of surprise. But a hail of arrows streamed down at once, and though the Eorlingas succeeded in driving westward, a party of Corsairs gave chase.
Truva peered from the doorway in an attempt to time her own movements. But even as the pursued and the pursuit disappeared into the haze of chaos, a second group of Corsairs caught a glimpse of her lurking in the shadows. They swarmed the granary, thrilled by the idea of assailing a singular, undefended Rider. Frantic, Truva barricaded the entrance and looked about for anything that might come to her aid.
In a moment of pure fortuity, her eyes fell upon a stockpile of flour sacks. She hurriedly took her dagger to one and swung it about, scattering its fine grain into the air, repeating this process until only empty burlap lay at her feet and flour choked her throat.
All the while, the faction of Corsairs pounded at the door, wielding axes and iron staves that made light work of its insubstantial construction. Truva threw herself into the granary loft above and began to strike at the thatch roof with Fréodhel, making only the smallest of holes. Sun-stiffened reeds caught at her shoulder and the chinks in her mail as she shoved her body through the narrow opening. But then, just as her adversaries tumbled into the granary, Truva's leg snagged on a branch.
With half her body lying on the roof, Truva came face to face with a tongue of flame as it leapt from the nearest rooftop to that of the granary. In one desperate motion, she jerked her leg free and crouched upon the rotting thatch. Her sword she returned to its sheath, instead drawing her bow. From her quiver she selected an arrow, still wound with the pitch-soaked sailcloth. She touched it to the fire, setting it alight, and aimed through the hole she had hewn. The Corsairs were visible, scrambling up into the loft below, covered in white powder.
When Truva let her arrow fly, the granary combusted into an inferno, fire leaping from one mote of flour to the next in less than an instant. Truva was thrown from the roof by the blast, landing in the alleyway below. She scrambled to her feet at the clatter of approaching Corsairs – curious as to what had caused the explosion – and slunk off into the darkness, circling around behind the granary and away from the flames before striking out northward.
She ducked into nooks and crannies as more adversaries flew by, amassing upon the granary to aid their compatriots. Slowly but surely she made her way back through narrow alleyways, coming at last to the river's edge. Taking cover behind an overturned wagon, she peered over it to find a route back to the main city's battlements.
All air left her lungs. Corsairs swarmed along the bridge; Maeron's guard had been beaten back. Even now, the last of the Eorlingas galloped towards the main city's defences, chased by a contingent of enemies.
But when Firefoot's tail slipped through the gateway and the doors slammed shut, the Corsairs did not fall upon the walls at once. Rather, they withdrew to the midway point of the bridge and milled about, neither retreating nor advancing; they merely waited as a single vast dromund slowly positioned itself at the crux between bridge and battlement.
Then a low chant broke out amidst the Corsairs – a word in their own tongue Truva could not distinguish over the sounds of battle and the roar of the burning agricultural district. They thumped axes upon shields and spears upon the ground. Once their clangour reached a fever pitch, a spout of flame erupted from the dromund's prow, arcing across the Sirith and splattering upon the gate like a waterfall of fire.
Truva smothered her cry of terror. The glowing stream ceased in a matter of seconds, yet she continued to stare in astoundment. Even in all the quiet trickery of Gandalf and the fearsome acts of Sauron, never had she witnessed such a magic, so terrifying a weapon!
A second spell of the fiery substance flared up, sure to make short work of the central city's gate if the Corsairs were not stopped.
Truva felt a strange warmth building within her – a sensation she had felt more than once before; yet now there was no compulsion, no need to part her lips and speak the words within her breast: Aiya Eärendil Elenion Encalima! Emerging from behind the wagon, she took her bow in hand. All chaos faded from around her as she selected an arrow and nocked it, felt the hum of the string as she drew it, the tension of the grip straining against her thumb.
Truva inhaled deeply, and – though she knew she oughtn't to – closed her eyes.
When she opened them once more, the arrow was already streaking along its path, halfway across the river. It lodged in the hull of the blackened dromund. She nocked another. Surely it would be of no use; if all the countless arrows of Éomer King and his Riders had not been effective, of what hope were her paltry bolts?
Yet even as she watched, a spark flickered. A tongue of flame followed, then a deafening explosion; the Corsairs' liquid fire poured forth from the dromund deck as a roiling column of smoke was sent skyward into the night. In mere minutes the entire vessel was alight, its occupants diving from the deck into the waters below. A neighbouring dromund – just a little too close – soon went up in flame, as well.
But Truva did not allow herself a moment of gratification. She ducked back behind the cart, beyond sight of Corsairs who marched back and forth along the quay, and assessed her options. She was of little use separated from the Eorlingas, but if she was to return to the city centre, it was not to be by the bridge now overrun with enemies. The defences of Pelargir were nearly impenetrable, yet surely there was some way in which she could reunite with Éomer King and the others.
Steeling herself, Truva dashed across the quay, keeping low as she vaulted over each berm in turn and plunged into the inky Sirith. Shock jolted through her as the river's frigid currents – pure Firienwít snowmelt from the exceptionally harsh winter – swallowed her. It was all she could do to prevent herself from inhaling a lungful of water.
A cutting chill seeped into her bones as she swam towards the opposite bank, dipping below the surface each time a Corsair drew near or a swath of their strange, magical fire flickered ahead.
But she had been spotted.
Even in the water the Corsair appeared massive, sinewy arms bulging as he made directly for Truva. Spurred into a panic, she swam frantically, kicking with all her might – but he was faster, gaining on her with each passing stroke. His head skimmed the water as he drew ever nearer, like an aquatic predator stalking its prey.
There was nowhere to hide. Truva drew her dagger and turned to strike just as the Corsair fell upon her, but her movements were slowed by the water. Before she could land a blow, he had wrapped his legs about her waist, trapping her dagger hand against her own body, and snuck an arm about her neck. Truva thrashed furiously, which only served to drag them both underwater before she could take a last breath.
The Corsair's assault did not slacken, however; indeed, he seemed entirely comfortable beneath the water's surface, tightening his grip as they sank even deeper, locked in combat. With her free hand, Truva sought to land any blow against her assailant, but her fists held no power. A fuzzy haze began to encroach at the edges of her consciousness. She desperately felt up and down the Corsair's side, her mind screaming for air.
His dagger! Truva drew the weapon from her enemy's sheath and, fumbling slightly, turned it about in her hand. Slowly, slowly, she slid the tip along his breastplate until she found a weak joint and drove the blade into his ribs. Once, twice, thrice she stabbed him, until his clench slackened and at last she was able to extricate herself from his hold.
As the Corsair's dark figure sank into the depths, Truva struck up towards the surface and emerged sputtering into the night. A barrel floated past; she gained it in a few strokes, and clung to it for a moment's respite as she surveyed the scene about her.
The flaming hulk of the two Corsair dromunds had begun to drift downstream from the bridge, blocking most of her view, but beyond lay the masts and rigging of those floating before the Tower of the Ship-kings, their assault still in full force. Several additional tiers of the Tower had gone up in flame, and sections of the eastern battlements gave off a fiery glow. Projectiles flared on arced paths, illuminating a series of chaotic vignettes in the darkness below.
Perhaps, Truva thought, she ought to wreak as much destruction as possible outside the battlements before rejoining her brethren.
Still buoyed by the cask, she allowed the current to propel her as she skirted the wrecked dromunds and crossed the remaining distance to the second flotilla. When she drew close to the nearest ship's hull, her luck held out: dangling from overhead was the trailing end of an improperly stored mooring line, cast overboard in the chaos.
Like a drowned rat, Truva pulled herself from the Sirith and hand over hand ascended the rope, slimy from accumulated algae. Wind whipped her soaked gambeson and hose beneath her armour, sending quivers through her body and making the climb all the more difficult.
At last her fingers curled over the bulwark. Keeping her head low, Truva peered over the railing at the pandemonium upon the main deck. Tall, bulky men clustered at the bow or darted here and there, putting out the fires of Gondor's own assault or ferrying supplies from fore to aft, port to starboard, above and belowdecks. Three mangonels were always in motion, either being loaded or fired or reset by at least a dozen men, whose shouts crowded out the din of battle upon the ramparts.
Under the veil of chaos, Truva slipped unnoticed over the bulwark and onto the deck. She nearly stumbled; it was crowded with barrel upon barrel, clay pots and projectiles crammed into every corner of free space. In ducking behind these to avoid detection by a Corsair – come to collect several nail and hemp projectiles – she detected a strange scent wafting up from the stockpile. When the coast was clear, she pried open the lid of one barrel and inspected its contents: a thick, viscous liquid smelling strongly of tar and peat – naphtha, or the like. Examining other barrels revealed them to be full of vinegar or sand, the clay pots with sulphur or unslaked lime.
Truva stared at this immense array of materials in terrified wonderment; if Saruman had a mind of metal and wheels, these Corsairs had minds of fire.
Wildly outnumbered as she was, Truva had few options for assault; merely foiling her foes' plans (whatever they may be) would have to suffice. Slipping out of sight each time the Corsairs came and went, she stealthily dumped the barrels' contents one by one before replacing them as they were. More than half the barrels had been emptied before one Corsair spied an oozing rivulet of naphtha Truva had failed to contain.
He gave a gruff shout to two nearby compatriots, but Truva was upon him before he could turn, darting from behind the barrels and driving her sword into his unarmoured back. Another of the three Corsairs approached, clay vessel clutched in hand – which Truva shattered against his chest with a kick, sending a yellow puff of powder billowing up into his face. As he clawed at the irritating powder, a second, more powerful front kick propelled him backwards, tumbling over the ship's bulwarks into the waters below.
The third Corsair was given the advantage of time, however, and he leapt forward to slash at Truva with his curved scimitar. She scarcely had time to parry before he circled and swung again – but far too wide. Truva ducked and drove into his legs until he fell to the deck. She slammed her forearm into his nose, stunning him, then used his own sword to sever the veins in his neck, all in short succession.
But even over the roar of battle, the fracas had not gone unnoticed. A clamour arose amongst the Corsairs. Those about the mangonels now raced towards the aft. Truva used all her might to upset the remaining stockpile, toppling barrels and sending clay pots hurtling in the advancing Corsairs' direction. When the foremost adversary drew within striking distance, she gave one final toss of powdery sulphur and dashed to the ship's railing, leaping overboard. Even as the Corsairs' fingers reached out, they grasped naught but air.
Frigid waters enveloped Truva once more, the impact driving the air from her lungs. Arrows blossomed around her as she struggled to the surface; and so, taking a single gasp against the press of waves, she dove under once more.
Yet even when she resurfaced against the shelter of the dromund's massive wooden body, shafts continued to rain down. Taking a deeper breath, Truva struck out towards the aft, hoping to escape the Corsairs' notice by gaining the port side. She followed the barnacle-encrusted hull, lungs searing and desperate for air, until she came to the stern. Here, she allowed her head to drift to the surface again and, in failing to spy the enemy above, rose further out of the water. She cast about for flotsam to cling to, yet the sight she beheld in doing so immediately revealed why the Corsairs had ceased to pay her any regard:
There, beside the dromund bow, a raft had been lowered into the water. Its platform was stacked high with wood and kindling, pots of smouldering embers nestled amongst the branches, and those of naphtha hung above, strung between four poles with twine. The barge was rowed by two sailors – one in a skiff – towards the Tower of the Ship-kings. This pattern repeated across all dromunds gathered there, some half-dozen rafts in total.
A long-distant conversation with Gimli surfaced in Truva's mind. During his stay in Edoras for Éomer King's coronation festivities, the Dwarf had spoken of his intention to use traditional methods when establishing his kingdom within the Glittering Caves; for in days of old, the Dwarves of Nogrod and Belegost were known to use fire when mining the mountain depths, setting flame to stone before dousing it with vinegar, causing even the most solid of rock to split.
The Corsairs intended to bring down the entire Tower with the same methods!
Truva propelled herself forward, gaining on the small flotilla with each stroke. Yet even as she watched, the Corsairs moored the fire ships at the Tower's very base and bent to scatter the embers over the kindling. No sooner had the barges' contents been set ablaze than the Corsairs absconded into their skiffs, passing back towards the dromunds without so much as detecting Truva.
She pulled harder, willing herself to cut faster through the water. Upon gaining the platform of the first wooden raft, she clambered out of the water – only to be struck by a projectile with such force she was sent tumbling back into the water, dazed.
She had not evaded the Corsairs' notice after all.
A rope had wrapped itself tightly about her neck, weighted by two stones now pulling her down, down into the depths of the Sirith. Her hands clawed at her neck; her head spun. The fires upon the barges faded from view and darkness swallowed the world.
Truva had long ago resigned herself to death upon the battlefield – perhaps even far from home – yet never had she imagined her fate would involve drowning in an unfamiliar waterway. Her mind was lost; it could think no further thoughts, not even of those she had once loved. As her body consumed every final wisp of air, her mouth opened to gasp its last.
Yet even as the water rushed in, fingers tore at the rope, releasing Truva from its weight. Hands grasped the back of her armour and she was drawn upwards, up towards the glimmering surface, towards fire and battle and chaos once more.
Sound assaulted her ears when she broke the surface. Her skin seared in the heat. A hand pounded her back, causing her to expel water. As she lay prone upon the very edge of the barge, its contents burning but a few feet from her, Truva's senses slowly returned. Legolas knelt at her side.
She waved a hand weakly. 'I am all right.'
'Good,' said Legolas. The back-thumping ceased. 'It would not do to die now.'
Truva brushed aside the Elf's nonchalant response to her near-death. 'Where did you come from?' she asked.
Legolas turned and pointed towards a rope dangling from one of the lofty Tower windows down to the very water itself.
'It was difficult to extinguish the fires with any accuracy from such a height, and so I descended to deal with them directly,' he explained. 'I have eliminated the fire-setting Corsairs as they returned to their ships – perhaps buying us some time before their compatriots notice their prolonged absence. Even so, it will not be long before we are discovered. Come, let us see to these fire ships!'
He slipped back into the water, seemingly unperturbed by its frigid temperatures, and swam for a second barge. After several steadying breaths, Truva applied herself to the first. Making sure to stay on the far side of the conflagration, out of the dromunds' line of sight, she leapt up high and came down upon the edge of the barge, causing it to rock unsteadily. Again and again she repeated this motion until waves of water washed up over the top, lapping at the tangle of firewood. Smoke and steam were sent skyward, but still the bonfire roared.
The Corsairs aboard the dromund had meanwhile observed the barges' rocking with some bemusement, and upon discovering the fire ship rowers' lifeless bodies in the skiffs, discerned the plot against them. They began to pepper both Truva and Legolas with arrows, sending the bolts up and over the inferno – for though they could not see the northerners, they had deduced the fire ships' only hiding place. Several arrows struck disconcertingly close to where Truva leapt on the raft edge.
'One last push shall do it!' Legolas cried as he made for another barge, the logs of both the first and second already drifting apart on the current. Their lashings had been severed by the Elf.
Taking a near extinguished brand in hand, Truva used it to disperse the still-raging fire, ducking this way and that to avoid the Corsairs' assault. When the flames had abated somewhat, she was at last able to reach the vessels of naphtha-like liquid that hung above. One she cut down and tossed into the Sirith, but even as she reached for a second, its rope was consumed by fire, sending the clay pot hurtling towards the raft deck. It burst on impact, igniting in a flash and sending a streak of flames across the river, just barely missing Legolas.
'Do not douse it with water!' he shouted. 'It will only burn all the more furiously!'
'You know of what magic this is?' Truva shouted in return, but the Elf merely shook his head. He had succeeded in unmooring the fourth raft, and sent it drifting back towards the dromunds.
''Tis a strange new evil,' he said, rejoining her. Together they worked swiftly to dispose of the remaining barges' naphtha jars, and to douse the wood fires to mere flickers. More than once their armour proved its worth as Corsair arrows continued to rain down, and soon Truva and Legolas' efforts reached the point of diminishing returns.
'Now up!' said the Elf, pointing towards the rope by which he had descended. Standing agilely upon a single, slippery log even as it rolled beneath him, he drew his bow and sent off a volley in the direction of the Corsair dromunds.
Truva swam for the rope. Her arms ached, the freezing water cut to the bone; and even as she pulled her body from the water, arrows clacked against the stone wall on all sides – though their pace had slowed somewhat, for the fire ship Legolas had sent in the dromunds' direction proved a successful distraction.
A league Truva could easily run in times of peace, and yet the distance above her seemed ten times that. At first she swung from side to side as she ascended, hoping the enemy bolts would swing wide, but it proved too strenuous; shoulders searing and desperate to reach the safety of the Tower, she abandoned all evasive manoeuvres and climbed straight up.
Several floors below where Legolas had secured the rope, a window remained unshattered and fire did not rage within. Drawing her dagger, Truva used its pommel to strike the glass, shielding her head as shards rained down. She slid through the opening, teeth of glass still embedded in the frame scraping against her armour, and fell upon the carpeted floor of the Tower. It was but a few moments later that Legolas leapt in deftly behind her, releasing one final volley before stooping to aid Truva to her feet.
'Gimli and Aragorn fight upon the battlements along the Anduin,' he said. 'They attack the Corsair ships there even now; let us lend them succour.'
Truva did not have time to answer before the Elf darted along the corridor, a door at the end of which led to the guard tower beyond. Soldiers occupied every embrasure and arrow loop, their shouts echoing from the tower's lowest levels to its highest turret as they assailed the Corsairs' remaining capital ships, or raced about to where their help was needed most. Following a small contingent, Legolas bounded to the stair and raced upwards, Truva not far behind.
They stepped out into utter chaos. Unquenchable fire flared all along the battlements and consumed several Pelargirian siege engines. Any undamaged trebuchets were arrayed facing northward – for having shrugged off the Alcariundur's attack and succeeded in docking along the wharf, the Corsairs on the first wave of dromunds had disembarked and now assailed the city's main gates far below. The bulk of Pelargir's forces gathered there to contend with this new threat, leaving only a smattering of archers to defend against the seemingly indestructible ships before the Tower.
Legolas was gone from Truva's side in an instant, leaving her to skirt fires and bumble through the smoke-obscured throngs in his wake. Where the fighting was thickest about a small bastion, they found Minister Tinnedir, who himself manned a ballista alongside several of his advisors. Truva swept into a bow, though Legolas merely inclined his head.
'Prince Legolas!' exclaimed the Minister. 'I assume your sortie was successful, then. And Marshal Truva — how fare the Rohirrim?'
'I had hoped you might be more knowledgeable than I on that matter, my lord,' she replied. 'I regret to inform you we were entirely overwhelmed, and I was separated from my brethren as they withdrew into the main city. I know not what became of them.'
'All returned safely across the Sirith,' called a voice.
The three turned to observe Aragorn emerging from the northern gatehouse tower, his brow bathed in sweat, blood streaked across his armour. The raging battle seemed to still around him as he strode from inner stairs to bastion, that same serenity writ across his features – though it was tempered by grim determination. Truva's heart leapt when he drew near enough to see the blood upon his armour was not his own, and his lowered voice spoke ease into her heart: 'Including Roheryn. King Éomer and the Rohirrim now defend the western battlements in conjunction with Captain Maeron's men.'
'That is a relief,' said the Minister. 'Though I doubt they face as pressing matters as we.'
At these words, the entire company glanced over the parapet to where the Corsairs applied their terrible fires to the gate below.
'Where would you have us serve, my lord?' asked Legolas.
'Perhaps your bow would best serve us upon the battlements—'
'I think it better they fight at the gate,' Aragorn interrupted, his tone pointed yet not insistent. The Minister's head inclined almost imperceptibly, though he did not question his King.
'I will yield to your determination,' he said at last.
Without a word further, Aragorn turned and made for the tower. Legolas and Truva raced after him, careening down the inner stair until they gained the military complex. They dashed past barracks and over a canal bridge, where even now the portcullis handily thwarted the Corsairs' attempts to breach what they had mistakenly believed to be a point of weakness.
Dodging small contingents here and there, the trio came at last to the main gate. The Pelargirian soldiers held their position against the oppressive force of Corsairs – but only just. Smoke billowed from each crevice of the wooden gates, a crimson glow illuminating the soldiers as they sought to smother flames that sprang up between base and flagstone. The tide of red grew larger with each passing moment, bathing the scene in sweltering heat and drawing cries of anguish from those it drowned.
Aragorn gave a sharp whistle, drawing Truva's attention to Gimli, who was passing barricade materials along a chain of soldiers. Upon hearing Aragorn's whistle, the Dwarf looked up and pushed through the toiling masses to the trio's position. He gave Truva a hearty slap on the arm, saying, 'Glad to see you well, Marshal – I heard the Eorlingas were annihilated upon the Sirith.'
'The Corsairs should be so lucky,' she quipped in return, yet Aragon would brook no distraction.
'Come, let us see what defences might yet be constructed against these seamen,' said he.
But in that very moment, a thunderous boom sounded at the gates. Not content to allow fire to do their fell work, the Corsairs had begun to ply a ram to the weakened wood. Another toll sounded, as a giant knocking to request entry.
And they would deny it.
'Let the gate burn!' Aragorn cried. The bustle about the entry ceased at once. 'Build the barricade ten paces back, so it does not catch fire. We shall trap the Corsairs in this passageway.'
'What of the inner defences, Aragorn?' asked Gimli. 'Where shall we fall back to should our line here fail?'
Aragorn glanced about as soldiers rushed to obey his orders. With voice low, his eyes flickered back to his companions. 'The citadel is the only remaining fortified position within the city itself; each of the other posts fell when the Corsairs took Pelargir during the War. We must hold.'
Gimli scratched his beard. 'It's not as though we're facing a force of Mordor more than ten times greater than our own, at the very gates of the Black Land itself,' he said gruffly. Aragorn gave his shoulder a pat, suppressing an amused grimace.
'It is true, my friend,' he said. 'We have faced far less favourable odds in the past.'
'Let victory be ours, as it was then,' said Legolas with a firm nod.
'Helm willing,' Truva added.
'Helm willing,' Aragorn echoed with the wisp of a smile upon his lips, though it was swift to disappear at the sound of yet another battering ram crash. The four leapt to aid the Pelargirian soldiers as they piled whatever was at hand into a tangle of wooden beams and wine barrels, stout tables and spears. The din of battle still clamoured on the battlements high above as the defenders there rained down their assault upon the Corsairs below.
With each blow of the ram, the gate doors gave a little more. Smoke curled thicker and flames began to climb towards the topmost hinges. As Truva lobbed a chair onto the barrier heights, acrid air choked her lungs, leaving her dizzy and gasping for breath.
Then, with a final shudder, bolts and bars – weakened by the flames – were rent from their anchors to whizz past the defenders' heads, joined by a cover salvo from the Corsairs. The Pelargirians' own arrows were swiftly sent in answer, cutting down the first wave of adversaries to charge through the smoke, wielding crossbows and swords and fire.
With a swift kick to an unsteady beam, Truva sent two surging Corsairs tumbling back down the barricade. One was dispatched by archers on the walls above, but he was swiftly replaced by a half-dozen other foes – who were in turn supported by a score more. Soon, the defences were overwhelmed. A spark rose upwards; in moments, the improvised barricade was aflame, igniting a scarlet screen before the Pelargirians. But still the Corsairs came, leaping through hidden pathways, unaffected by the scorching heat.
'Fall back, fall back!' cried a captain of the city guard.
'We cannot fall back!' shouted Aragorn in reply. 'Captain, gather your men and hold our position here. I will lead a charge against these foes, driving them back and providing you space and time to reconstruct the barricade and reset our defences.'
'You are mad!' exclaimed Legolas, never one to mince his words – not even with the King of the Reunited Realms.
'Mad?' said Aragorn. 'Verily! Yet should this gate fall, the entire city will fall with it. And the full brunt of the Corsairs' strength is sure to be directed here – now that their assault against the Sirith battlements has failed, and their attempts to undermine the Tower of Ship-kings proven to be a time-consuming endeavour. If we grant them the ability to regroup, even our defences here will be lost.'
'Their numbers are greater than ours, but not by much,' said Gimli. 'And I am certain the strength of their heart pales in comparison.'
And so the four gathered in formation, amassing several companies of exhausted yet determined Pelargirian soldiers about them. With a silent signal from Aragorn, they bounded over the barricade, cutting down advancing Corsairs as both factions sought pathways through the maze of fires. Just beyond the barricade lay a press of enemy bodies, but these were caught entirely unawares by the northerners' sudden apparition, shielded as their movements were by roiling smoke. The Corsairs fled before Aragorn's blade, and those that rallied behind him.
Loosing guttural cries, the Pelargirian companies streamed through the gate onto the wharf. Any semblance of order swiftly dissolved. Losing all awareness of her companions, Truva was immediately occupied by the nearest Corsair's first frantic strike. But no sooner had he swung than she dodged and drove in tight, sweeping his feet out from beneath him before sinking her blade deep into his helm.
When she turned to assess the conflict about her, a second adversary approached far too close. Truva warded him off with a swipe of Fréodhel, but he circled away and continued to press in. Picking up the dead Corsair's axe, she hefted it in her hand a moment, then slung it in her opponent's direction. He dodged but it caught his shoulder, driving him back a few steps. Still he was not dissuaded. He charged a third time, and so Truva wielded Fréodhel, catching his axe between beard and handle and deftly disarming him. He joined his compatriot on the planks of the wharf.
Yet even as Truva straightened, a shock of horror jolted through her – for she spied the young sailor Fofrin upon the very edge of the staith. His ungainly arms waved as he struggled to stave off the attacks of a short, lithe Corsair. The Corsair's strikes came fast and heavy, always from a new direction, always obscured by feinting movements. Fofrin was only just scarcely able to bring his own blade up in time to defend himself. Blood poured from a cut above his eye and his left leg moved as though wounded.
Truva shoved past foe and friend alike to come to the boy's aid, yet the Corsair succeeded in slashing him thrice more before she could get close. Then, in an instant, Truva leapt the last remaining distance and tackled the Corsair, sending all three careening over the wharf edge and into the Anduin. Unable to find Fofrin in the chaos underwater, Truva latched herself onto the Corsair's back and promptly drew her dagger across his throat.
When she surfaced, Fofrin was still nowhere to be found. Taking a deep lungful of air, Truva sank back underwater. Though the night rendered visibility nigh on nonexistent, she caught a glimpse of a dark figure drifting down into the depths, and so she surged forward, just barely snatching the boy by his arm.
Dragging Fofrin's limp form back onto the wharf, Truva immediately leapt to her feet to defend him. Yet surprised by the Pelargirians' sudden onslaught, the Corsairs' aggression had subsided; they scrambled in throngs back across the wharf towards their dromunds. But much to their dismay, the Alcarindur and her companions had regrouped as conflict raged before the main gates, and succeeded in unmooring the Corsair vessels. The ships now bobbed near the middle of the Anduin, unreachable. Cut off from their ships, many Corsairs simply leapt into the water and struck out, hoping for nothing more than to gain some distance between themselves and the warriors of Pelargir.
Once sure of her own safety, Truva paid little attention to such details. She bent low over Fofrin's face, searching for any sign of life – any wisp of breath, any flutter of his eyes, any movement of his limbs.
There was none.
Truva's chest grew as still as Fofrin's own, her mind blank. In a moment of blind fury at all the paths that had led to this fate, she pounded his chest, a cry ripping from her throat. It was wordless, raw – repeated all across the wharfs by others struck with similar grief.
Maeron Captain, binding half a dozen Corsairs who had surrendered nearby, heard Truva's shout. Rushing immediately to her succour, he knelt beside her and removed Fofrin's armour. Then he, too, leaned close.
'Well, don't stop!' he exclaimed, straightening. 'He's not gone!'
Stunned, Truva resumed the chest beating, mimicking the motions Maeron demonstrated to her. She watched in amazement as the breath that had been indistinguishable to her at first became stronger and stronger, and gradually Fofrin's breathing grew steady, albeit still faint.
Maeron sat back upon his haunches with a self-satisfied grin. 'It is a method of resuscitation our naval forces have been experimenting with lately,' he said by way of explanation, noting Truva's wide-eyed expression.
'It is like reviving one from the dead,' she said breathlessly, peering into Fofrin's pallid features and laying a hand upon his wet locks.
Her gaze then turned to Aragorn, who stood upon the wharf alongside Legolas and Gimli, observing a herd of adversaries swim across the Anduin and clamber aboard their ships. Even as they looked on, the first Corsair dromund drifted southward with the current, approaching those still lobbing volley after volley towards the Tower of the Ship-kings. All hope of breaking the Gondorian stronghold dashed, these too fell in behind their retreating companions, and at last the chaos came to a standstill.