Recommended listening: Glière — Heroic March for the Buryiat Mongolian ASSR

CHAPTER XXXI: FROM EMYN NINNIACH TO DAGORLAD

There were few to bid farewell to the armies of West Rhûn, for the Orcs were ruthless in their recruitment. Their notion of what constituted 'able-bodied' deviated vastly from that of Men; any Uzdígh resident capable of wielding a weapon and keeping pace – be they man, woman, or child – had been conscripted. When the ranks of warriors turned towards Gondor to a rousing chorus of cries, those who remained behind were no more than the youngest of the young, the infirm, and the smallest of guards to protect them.

The Òrlok Agbesh and a handful of warriors lingered also, albeit only briefly, for they were tasked with butchering the sacrificed Kine and preparing its meat for drying along the journey, then ultimately bringing up the caravan rear. All others set a swift but steady pace along a wide track, bearing a curving path southwestward along the shore of Zünuur and between a patchwork of fields and pastures. Gradually, the rustle of winds through drooping millet flowers and the Sea's susurrations replaced the deafening clangour of drums and horns.

But that is not to suggest the host made its way in silence. The squawking of greylag geese overhead was reflected in several outbursts between the soldiers below – for mere trodden toes or dropped equipment proved just cause for quarrels between the truculent Orc warriors. Pairs and trios (and even entire groups) would fall out of line to resolve their conflict with startlingly brutal fisticuffs, before racing back to resume their ranks. Yet neither Kîzge King nor the Pè, nor Pallando or any of Truva's other companions appeared disturbed by these events, and so she let them pass unremarked.

These altercations decreased in frequency as the day wore on and fatigue began to creep into the muscles and bones of those less accustomed to military life. Warriors broke for rest and meals in small units, only rejoining the rear once the rest of the column had passed; thus the host never fully ceased its forward progress towards the range of tall hills which from Uzdígh had seemed so distant.

When Truva squinted, great streaks of muted yellow, crimson, pink and emerald mingled with the more common white and brown hues of mountains she was accustomed to. Turning to Pallando, who walked beside her, she asked, 'Do my eyes deceive me, or are those hills painted as a child's drawing?'

'Painted, perhaps, but not by the hands of any child,' replied the Wizard. 'It is the earth itself that gives them such colour, though the tongues of Orcs and Men give them their names: Emyn Ninniach – the Rainbow Hills – to those of the West, yet in these lands they are known as Kôlong-uul.'

'I have heard tell of these hills!' exclaimed Truva. 'Yet I was led to believe it was tribes of Men, not Orcs, who occupied them, building homes into the very rock itself.'

'The southern foothills of Kôlong-uul lie at the border between our lands and those controlled by Alatar, yet neither he nor Kîzge wield any great influence in that area. The residents of Kôlong-uul forge their own path, subsisting on what little can be coaxed from the earth or drug from the sea, or grazed across the land. Its Men are the remnants of a more violent people who, after suffering a humiliating rout at the hands of Gondor's inferior forces, were convinced to abandon Sauron's ambitions and settle peaceably in Rhûn.'

'How long have they lived there?' Truva prompted, pleased to find Pallando in a rather garrulous mood. As they marched, she peppered him with additional questions about West Rhûn and its history, which he answered readily enough – though he was not wholly different from Gandalf in that his evasion of certain topics was subtle yet not infrequent.

Thus their conversation plodded along as the sun sagged towards the western plains, its light glimmering orange upon the waves of the Sea and washing the land with a warm, pleasant glow that contradicted the warriors' exhaustion. But still the host forged on, and the sky was fully dark by the time Kîzge King called a halt. Fires were struck, foragers were sent afield, and the Orcs organised themselves into tidy divisions, each marked by its own standard bearer.

As Truva established her own camp, settling back against a rucksack she had been provided by the King, she posed yet another question to the Wizard: 'What is the meaning of these many banners? They bear the same markings as the dwellings in Uzdígh, and in similar colours.'

'Each is specific to the tribe it represents,' Pallando explained. 'Uzdígh Orcs are of disparate backgrounds, being divided not only by blood, but language as well. Though they thrive together in the walls of the city and beyond, still there is a desire to preserve their distinctions – if for no other reason than to provide incitement for disputes and quarrels.'

'Do they not all speak the language devised by Sauron?'

'A few were raised with that tongue, for they were born into the Dark Lord's armies and served him for a time. Subsequently, each saw fit to abandon the Black Speech entirely.'

Truva shifted uncomfortably. 'You mean to say there are soldiers among your ranks that fought in the War?'

'Not many, but some,' said Pallando. Neither he nor Truva had seen fit to build a fire in the warm spring evening, but by the light of the neighbouring clan's blaze, built high to roast several head of waterfowl, he appeared lost in thought – or perhaps just weary.

'Orcs and Easterlings alike fled to Rhûn after the Battle of the Black Gates,' he continued. 'Most turned east to take refuge in the northern stretches of Ered Lithui, or in the ancient strongholds of shadow within the Orocarni – the Red Mountains, far beyond the Sea of Helcar. But they will find little there save ancient forces that resent danger being invited so near.'

Thunderous clouds darkened the Wizard's brow for a brief moment before he sighed deeply. 'Others came to us,' he concluded.

Despite her curiosity regarding the lands that lay further East, Pallando's expression and manner of speaking urged Truva to retreat to a safer topic. 'Is there no dialect common to all of West Rhûn?'

Pallando appeared greatly appeased by this line of questioning. 'Rhûnic Orcs are expected to learn every language of their brethren,' he explained. 'The patterns you saw upon the walls of Uzdígh dictate which dialect is spoken in that section of the city; to insist upon using an outside tongue is considered a tremendous affront, and will necessarily result in a fracas.

'But more so, such insistence is a disservice to oneself – for each tribe boasts its own particular skill, and you must delve into their territory if you wish to seek their services. In need of a tanner? You had best seek out the Lúzi clan. Xiwertaï Orcs will provide you with the best seed for your crop. Do not obtain rice wine from any other save the Bitû tribe, lest you are prepared to physically defend yourself.

'You will, of course, be expected to speak Lúzi, Xiwertaï, and Bitû dialects during each of these respective encounters.' Pallando fondled his beard, which was not quite busy enough to hide the flit of a smile – perhaps in memory of some amusing linguistic encounter.

'If they speak so many dialects, why does that not extend to Westron?' Truva pressed.

'There is little need to speak the Common Tongue in Rhûn; indeed, a great deal of effort is spent in its avoidance. Most consider it an "outsider" language – least, that is the most polite interpretation of the term.'

'Alatar's upper ranks spoke it – albeit not extensively.'

Pallando fell quiet then, musing to himself for a while. 'I suppose, considering Alatar's motives with regard to the West, the decision to teach his commanders Westron serves a practical purpose. It is no easy task to conquer a people whose language you cannot speak. Not impossible, but not easy.'

Struck by a sudden idea, Truva digressed once more. 'If Uzdígh Orcs do not speak the Common Tongue, then I ought to learn one of theirs. Will you not teach me?'

'Your enthusiasm might wane once you understand the complexities of even the easiest of Orcish dialects,' he warned half in jest, but relented when Truva's eager expression did not change. 'Ah well – as there isn't much else to amuse us on the long march to Gondor, I shall indulge your request. But first, if you'll allow, there is something I myself feel some curiosity over: your bow.'

Truva's hand reached instinctively for Lady Arwen's gift, which lay beside her rucksack, but merely laid her hand atop the grip. 'What of my bow?'

'I merely wish to examine it,' the Wizard reassured her, holding out his hand. 'Perhaps I might be able to determine the source of its power, or discern a way to control it.'

Still cautious, Truva passed the bow to Pallando, who spent a great deal of time peering at each tiny detail, running his hands along its carvings, whispering breathless words at its notches and listening to the string hum as he gave it several gentle twangs.

'And it simply… works?' he asked after a time. 'The magic?'

'Only sometimes,' Truva answered. 'The strange Elven words spring unbidden into my mind, but they too are no guarantee of success or failure.'

'And how do you feel when it does work?'

'There is a kind of tingling…' Truva began, struggling to put the sensation into words, only for Pallando to immediately chase the inquiry with another before she had even finished explaining.

On and on such question and answer persisted, punctuated by Pallando requesting several times for Truva to attempt to recreate the effect, though each time she could not. One watch came and went, then another, and though the duo ruminated extensively upon the weapon's mysteries, they went to bed that night having arrived at no conclusions or certainties.

A new company of Orcs mustered from outlying farmlands must have arrived in the night, because Truva was awoken by a squabble playing out beneath an unfamiliar teal standard thrust into the earth. Half a dozen Orcs tumbled about in the half-light, crashing into surrounding tribes and drawing new parties into the conflict. Ultimately, the entire camp was roused, and amidst grumbling and cursing (the nature of which was comprehensible even to Truva) the army set out far earlier than otherwise intended.

Before them, stretching clear to the horizon's edge, were spread the nearly featureless steppes that lay between West Rhûn and Gondor. The land was dominated by short, hardy grasses and windswept shrubs, with scarcely a birch or scraggly pine to be seen. As the host deviated further westward, away from the Sea, only the Rainbow Hills' proximity marked their progress. All the while, no sign of Alatar's army was ever spied – not even by the scouts. They must have set a truly terrifying pace.

For Kîzge King's forces, the road ahead was a seemingly endless trudge, broken only by the briefest of rests and the occasional cry of 'Zîr, zîr!' as a party of Orcs dashed off in pursuit of small, wavy-horned and deer-like animals. Pallando's ramblings and linguistic teachings were all that occupied Truva's mind; Kîzge still did not trust her fully, and so she was not tasked with patrols or watch, but marched under the King's strict observance at all times.

By afternoon of the third day, the host came at last to the foothills of the Emyn Ninniach, and had nestled within a system of rocky crevices by sundown. Even when viewed up close, the hills' namesake feature was equally as enchanting as when seen from afar; discrete layer formations and rivers of sand alike boasted rich colours visible even in the twilight. Ahead in the distance, lights from a multitude of settlements twinkled: the Men of the Rainbow Hills.

As Truva skinned a hare she had snared on the outskirts of camp (for though the pair of Oworja clan Orcs at the campfire beside hers had brought down a zîr thanks to her sharp eyes, she knew there would be no sharing), Pallando appeared with an air of excitement about him. He bustled through the maze of Orc clusters and took a seat at her fire with aplomb.

'What is it you fear most in this world, Marshal?' he asked without a word of introduction.

'Fear?' Truva questioned, taken entirely aback. She contemplated the Wizard's question for some time as she set her hare to roast, for it had been put to her quite abruptly, and was a topic she had never previously considered.

'Perhaps a bit trite, but what I fear most is failing those I love,' she answered at last, clearing her throat even as she felt it constrict. 'So many placed their faith in me, and gave to me their hearts; and I returned those sentiments with equal measure. Yet more than once was I unable to protect those who trusted me. The horror of such failings makes my nights long for lack of sleep.'

'Ah,' said the Wizard, himself taken aback. 'Yes, yes, such fears are not as uncommon as we might wish them to be. If your answer is trite, it is only because too, too many others have shared in your experiences. Unfortunately, it is my thinking that – in having no understanding of the nature of such things when you first attempted to use the Elven bow – it came to be fear, rather than a more positive focus, that guided your response to magic. Though I must say, I truly despise such a dull word for so dynamic a concept.'

'What concept is that?' asked Truva. 'Fear or magic?'

'Both, I suppose.'

Truva's brows furrowed together. 'What are you proposing?'

'It is my hope that you can, given sufficient time, learn to control your bow – and a great many other things, as well – in the manner of a Wizard. Yet for now, perhaps it would be more productive to explore the ways in which you have already succeeded.'

Truva rotated the hare on its spit. She did not feel as though she had succeeded in anything related to that infernal bow, but curiosity held a tighter grip. 'How might we accomplish that?'

Pallando motioned to her pack, where the bow was stowed yet again. Truva picked the weapon up but did not draw it. Utter failure still weighed heavily in her mind; nothing but disappointment had come of the previous evening's experiments.

'Rather than focusing upon the bow itself, apply that same energy to your fears,' Pallando insisted, 'whether events you endured in the past, or those which you dread shall come to pass.'

Unconvinced, Truva closed her eyes and pondered the nebulous unease that had loomed over her ever since the War – indeed, since her departure from the Hidlands, and long before. She lay the bow across her lap and allowed her hands to rest upon it, yet felt no change – not even the slightest shift of energy.

'Is there any specific occurrence that inspires your distress most?' Pallando asked.

Truva frowned. She did not wish to dwell on it, to navigate memories she had spent the past twelvemonth attempting to banish into the furthest recesses of her mind.

'Théodred,' she whispered, hands constricting around the bow. Her breath caught in her throat as she attempted to continue. 'Though he was but the first; many were soon to come, not least of which was Eilif. Poor Eilif! The most innocent of all, and the most trusting. And Théoden King, and Éothafa, Bron—'

Truva's voice cut off sharply. Though Pallando said nothing, she could feel the intensity of his gaze upon her, could hear the rustle of his beard as he ran his fingers through it thoughtfully. She squeezed her eyelids tightly together.

Perhaps she imagined it. Perhaps what she felt was a hunger pang, brought on by the delectable smell of roasting hare – surely that was it. The clenching of her jaw was due to her desperate desire for a good meal, the tingling that spread through her chest to her fingers was simply an itch to remove the hare from the fire and dig in.

The thrumming of the bow in her hands was merely tremors brought on by a hard day's march, no more.

She heard Pallando inhale deeply, yet still he did not speak. It was not until she opened her eyes that he gave her a look which spoke far more than words ever could.

Truva released her breath, and in an instant the sensation was gone.

'I see,' she said.

'Yes, but do you feel?'

Truva's fingertips fluttered along the full length of the bow, tugged at its string. It appeared now like any other well-crafted bow, unremarkable and ordinary, but still she could hear its hum. 'I feel it.'

'Solidify that sensation in your mind,' said Pallando, rising. 'Think upon it, and we shall try again tomorrow, after you have rested – for it is wearying to draw upon magic with intent, far more so than by accident.'

But even as he walked away, Truva's voice, scarcely a whisper, stopped him.

'Has everything I've ever done been an accident?' she asked, eyes cast downwards. Emotions stirred by her efforts proved overwhelming at last, and – amplified as they were by enervation – caused tears to well and roll down her cheeks.

Pallando returned to the fireside and sat directly beside her. 'Come now,' he said soothingly. 'What upsets you so?'

Producing a handkerchief of purest silk, he offered it to Truva, who merely feigned to dab at her tears; it was far too fine a cloth to ply to her face, filthy from days of hard travel.

'All that I have accomplished – insignificant though such feats may be – was it all simply… accidental? The luck of magic inherent in my blood, with no bearing upon my skills? For tonight's events have shown to me that magic does not flow through weapons alone.'

Truva's voice seemed even quieter in contrast to those of the Ushnal Orcs as they cut into their zîr, now fully cooked. The hare hung suspended above her fire, scorched to charcoal and leather long ago. She stared at its blackened carcass in an attempt to evade the Wizard's sympathetic eyes.

'No,' he murmured. 'I do not think that is the case.'

He reached into the depths of his robes and extricated a wafer of waybread – that of Men, not Orcish cram – and passed it to Truva. 'Of course, I cannot claim to possess all extant knowledge regarding magic; yet I have reason to believe intent plays a far larger role than fortuity. Magic does not merely happen.

'This Elven bow of yours seems to have served as a sort of focal point, the crack through which the waters of the dam began to pour – nothing more. It shepherded you, and perceived your intent when you could not. Yet without its guidance, I very much doubt you would have achieved any feat of magic; your exploits in the Hidden Lands, and all other ventures you have spoken of to me in recent days – these have been gained by your hand, and your hand alone.

'Most of all, magic is – in and of itself – a skill that does not negate your accomplishments. To harness its power is laudable in its own way, and any achievements made through it are equally as commendable as those made without. Do not shy away from feeling pride in yourself; give yourself consideration as you do all others whom you love.'

Truva's eyes fell to her lap and folded the kerchief for wont of something to do with her hands. When she offered him the cloth back, he tucked it neatly within the breast of his robes and rose to his feet once more. As the Wizard ambled off into the night, he cast one final comment back over his shoulder:

'If you've no intention of eating that hare, I'm certain your friends would be more than willing to accommodate you.'

He pointed to the Oworja Orcs, who had devoured their zîr in its entirety – bones, skin and all – and now sat staring wide-eyed and slobber-lipped at the charred hare. When Truva held out the spit in offering, they leapt forward with eager, snatching claws, leaving Truva to frown at the waybread she could not bring herself to eat.

The Host of West Rhûn gave the Rainbow Hills' southern stretches a wide berth the following day, striking out across the open steppe and leaving all landmarks behind. There seemed to be some urgency in Kîzge King's movements that morning, for she set a blistering pace and allowed fewer breaks, though not even the least hardy Orc amongst their ranks flagged; none wished to be shamed for appearing weak, or worse: left behind.

For days the host was locked in a monotonous routine, rising at the first hint of dawn and trampling feathergrass underfoot as they pursued Alatar's forces, not pitching camp until well past full darkness. Each night, Pallando would seek Truva out and guide her towards better mastery of her magic – though she, too, was unsettled by the word and went to great lengths to avoid it. Yet in spite of their efforts, each night concluded with little development, their progress hampered in part by Pallando's hesitancy to overtax his pupil, and in part by Truva's struggle to overcome the fear which constricted her thoughts. But Marshal and Wizard were equally stubborn and unwilling to admit defeat, and so each night they persisted in their task with full devotion.

It was deep in the ninth afternoon when the black teeth of the Ered Lithui became visible upon the southern horizon, dark and threatening, though no shadow now hung over their jagged peaks as during the days of Sauron. Still, Truva couldn't help but cast her eyes in the mountains' direction as she and Pallando sat mulling over their individual worries that evening, their training concluded to no result once again. A marmot she had snared earlier sat roasting on a spit, and just as Truva deemed it cooked to perfection, Kîzge King herself stomped through camp and came to sit at their fire.

'Taarbagan,' she said, pleased with what she clearly considered an offering – for she helped herself at once.

Without acknowledging Truva further, the King then turned to Pallando and held a brief conversation with him in hushed tones. On occasion, Truva was able to discern a handful of words the Wizard had taught her during their long trek, though these were mere conjunctions and interjections, or simple terms such as 'far' and 'walk'; she had no deeper understanding of their whispered consultations.

It occurred to her how very similar her current situation was to when she was whisked away from the Hidlands by Éomer and Éothafa – yet her burgeoning smile swiftly vanished, replaced by a spasm of grief as Éothafa's visage swam before her eyes, pale from the shroud of death, followed by that of Théoden and so, so many others – too many.

Truva's breathing grew laboured as the images overtook her sight, consuming her every thought. When she next became aware of her surroundings, Pallando squatted before her, gently calling her name. Kîzge was nowhere to be seen.

'What business brought the King?' Truva asked in an attempt to dispel the worry that was so plainly written upon the Wizard's features.

'Scouts have returned with rousing news: a sighting of Alatar's army,' he said, feigning ease as he sat back and pulled his pipe from within his robes, then set about packing and lighting it. 'Our headlong dash has paid off, or so it would seem. I very much doubt we shall come upon Alatar before he gains the Anduin, yet your people of the West will not be long without succour.'

'That is well news, indeed!' Truva exclaimed.

'Is it?' asked the Wizard, the pipeweed embers glowing red-hot as he inhaled deeply. 'What must be done must be done, but I do not revel in violence, and regret most vehemently that it is perhaps only through violence a solution to this conflict might be found. I would far rather we had no need of such news at all.'

Pallando's blue eyes glazed over then, the mouthpiece of his pipe hovering untouched between his lips. After a time, he sighed deeply. 'I cannot help but wonder whether I have failed, after all; that in attempting to stifle Sauron's ruinous ambitions, I have not engendered more violence in this world.'

'What would you have done instead?' asked Truva. 'Allowed Sauron to run amok so that Alatar would cower in his shadow, thus choosing the greater evil to constrain the lesser? You wield no power over either, and bear no responsibility for their actions, only those you take – or fail to take – in response. Had you done nothing to thwart Sauron's influence, I fear we would be facing an evil far more terrible than Alatar's invasion of the Stonemark.'

Truva cut away a portion of the marmot before passing the remainder to the neighbouring trio of Xiwertaï Orcs, who promptly suspended it above their own fire to char. 'But face Alatar we must,' she continued softly, 'for that is what lies within our power, whether we prevail or no. As it is with magic, is it not so with deeds? Most significant is our intentions – which now, as ever, must be the sowing of peace and the taming of those who would uproot it.'

Pallando peered at Truva then, the haze clearing from his eyes and a smile creeping across his lips. 'You are your mother's daughter, after all,' he remarked.

Then, with a decided harrumph but not a word further, he devoted all his attentions to his smouldering pipe.

The West Rhûn army did not resume their accustomed pace the following day – for while they continued to pursue Alatar's forces, Kîzge King had no intention of engaging in battle upon the steppe, exposed and exhausted as her soldiers were. Their progress was slowed even further when the ground beneath their feet began to soften, thick clumps of sedge and thistle sprouting up in their path. To the southwest, one shoulder of the Ered Lithui met with the peaks of Emyn Muil, and though Truva could not yet smell the foul stench, she knew they must be nearing Nindalf and the Dead Marshes.

From daybreak until nightfall the host pressed on, resting even more infrequently than before. Scouts set out and returned swiftly with unchanging reports, as the enemy's location was now well-established and close at hand, their movements predictable. No fires were allowed that night, for fear of revealing their own presence; though Pallando assured Truva that Alatar – knowing only of Orcs' selfish nature – would surely presume West Rhûn to have no interest in defending Gondor, and therefore was unlikely to expect them on his tail at all.

In the very earliest hours of their march the following morning, the Harad Road could be spied where it struck out eastward and followed the foothills of Ered Lithui – the path along which many Easterlings and Orcs had fled following their downfall at the Black Gates. Now, as that very same Road bore this strange new host towards Gondor, Truva could not subdue the rising swell of torment that tightened vise-like about her heart, could not swallow the sting of bile at the back of her throat, could not take her eyes from mountainsides cloaked in the shadows of dawn.

Stride by agonising stride, the battlefield was revealed to her, still littered with the refuse of War: weather-worn pennants fluttering feebly upon broken standards, a pattern of crosses dotting the foothills where she and Chaya and all the others had cleared the nest of Orc-holds, row upon row of burial mounds marking where friend and foe alike lay in their final repose.

But these vestiges of destruction were not what drew Truva's steps, not what caused her knees to tremble and buckle beneath her, what divorced her mind from her body. Listlessly, Truva stared at the palm of her hand – scraped upon the shale rock when she caught herself – and wiped it on the skirt of her tunic. Scarlet blood turned black as it soaked into the dark fabric.

The West Rhûn Orcs paid Truva little mind as she diverted from their ranks and staggered across the barren plain, weaving amongst shattered bows and abandoned carts, wheels sundered in the heat of battle now long cooled. She stumbled upon a helmet; the sharp pain shooting from toe to thigh did not reach her consciousness, for Truva saw but one thing:

The grave of Bron.

There, upon a slight rise, rested the boulder engraved in her mind by grief. There, of all places in that desolate land, a sward of grass had sprouted, green and lush like that of the Mark's rolling hills.

Tears coursed down Truva's face unchecked, silent cries of anguish wracking her body as she fell upon the stone, weak and weary. She knew not how long she lay there; all thought of time passed from the world as grief consumed her.

Yet then she felt a gentle touch upon her shoulder. When she turned, the Wizard's furrowed brow hovered within her hazy vision.

Pallando did not say a word; he merely took Truva's hands in his own and lowered them to the grass. Fresh blades tickled her palms as he guided them from side to side. A quiet hum drifted from the Wizard's lips then, interspersed with words indiscernible to Truva. All at once, his movements stilled. The heat drained from Truva's fingers, replaced by the tell-tale tingling.

Pallando slowly withdrew his hands. When Truva's followed, her rough fingers revealed a single blossom of simbelmynë, unfurling its pristine petals.

Truva gave a quiet gasp of surprise, causing one final teardrop to roll down her cheek. It fell upon the flower, trailing down its stem to dampen its roots; thus were the fields of all memories watered.

But memories were memories – mere wisps of things gone and past, superseded by pressing matters of the present. Pallando rose and offered Truva his hand, which she accepted gratefully
before they hastened their steps to rejoin the host. The soldiers had not gone far, however; scarcely had the last stragglers bent southwards along Harad Road than Wizard and Marshal fell into step beside them.

But even in that very moment, shouts came from up ahead. Alatar's forces had been spied – not by scouts, but by the main column's foremost ranks. Surely that meant the Orcs, too, had been discovered!

Thus the final pursuit commenced.

Alatar's pace redoubled. It seemed he wished to gain the defences of Cair Andros before confronting West Rhûn; for their odds of victory were substantially higher upon the garrison's surrounding fields than within North Ithilien, where their superior numbers would be negated by the heavily-wooded terrain. Kîzge King, on the contrary, continued to hold her forces back, acutely aware it would be unwise to leap into conflict without the succour of Gondor.

Beneath the grey cast of afternoon, both Rhûnic hosts passed from the wastelands of Dagorlad into the northernmost reaches of Ithilien. Despite the cheerless circumstances, Truva's sunken spirits lifted to find herself surrounded by greener nature once again. She yearned for the weeks the Armies of the West spent in the Field of Cormallen after the War, when the world had felt safe, and Aragorn's presence lent her comfort, and there was joy in being alive.

But Aragorn was far, far away, far off in the south, facing his own unpropitious situation. Truva fought to turn her thoughts back to the laborious march ahead; she could not bear to think of what fate he might be forced to endure. Desperate for reassurance, her hands sought out the Star tucked away beneath her tunic.

It was deep into the night before the Host of West Rhûn pitched a light camp, cold Orcish cram their only meal. Before Truva could even contemplate choking down the awful waybread, Pallando appeared in the dark, beckoning for her to follow. At the very outskirts of camp, shielded by a makeshift lean-to, Kîzge King and her advisors sat about a small fire, consulting.

'The scouts have just returned,' Pallando whispered as he and Truva drew near and joined the others in the weak ring of light. 'They have seen what they can from a distance, but you know best of all the isle's layout.'

Truva understood his meaning at once. She swiftly smoothed a patch of earth and drew a map of Cair Andros – Elminas and all – in the sandy soil. One scout immediately bent to sketch a trio of large ovals, indicating where Alatar's forces had settled upon the eastern riverbank, then jabbed his finger several times at the fortress.

'Do you know the extent of Gondor's forces on the isle?' Pallando asked Truva.

Her mouth opened slightly to answer, to provide every last crucial detail to commanders she had spent but a scant few days with, who led a force that could – for all she knew – be working in tandem with that of Alatar.

And yet, West Rhûn could also be Gondor's only hope of aid at a time when it was needed most.

'I can only estimate,' she replied at last, feeling all eyes upon her. 'There was a full company of at least five hundreds at the time of my last passing, but that was several moons ago. It could be they continue to maintain the same manpower, or perhaps they pulled some of their number back to reinforce Osgiliath upon hearing of troubles in the south.'

As the others continued their debate, Pallando whispered translations aside: 'That uncertainty in the strength of their opposition seems to be all that prevents Alatar's movements. The isle has clearly come under attack even before our arrival; burning wreckages lie in its harbour, and its slopes are pockmarked and fire-blackened. But all is quiet now; our scouts can make neither heads nor tails of what occurred.'

Truva's head reeled; the air felt suddenly thin. 'So Gondor has fallen,' she choked out.

'Not entirely, I do not think,' said Pallando. 'Had the Sutherlands taken Cair Andros, they would have certainly welcomed Alatar and his ranks into its defences. Alatar would not risk spending an additional night out in the open unless necessary; something stays his actions. I cannot guess how it is elsewhere, but it seems Elminas, at least, stands yet.'

'Then what is your plan?' Truva whispered, breathless; she still found it difficult to speak in her shock.

'Kîzge King and Ghazubor Pè debate now whether to attack the Easterlings here, or turn south and hope Minas Tirith has not come under Southron control. Scouts reported only a few vessels sundered in the harbour of Cair Andros; I would hazard the conflict still rages elsewhere, drawing the majority of both armies' strength away from Elminas. Our best hope of mounting an effective defence against these attacks is uniting with the main forces of Gondor in her most well-protected stronghold – thus making for Minas Tirith.'

'Relinquishing Cair Andros to East Rhûn in the process.'

Pallando shrugged, not unsympathetically. 'If there are insufficient numbers between our ranks and those in Elminas to stave off Alatar's assault, it might be so, regardless.'

'If we do not defend the north, what is left of the south is sure to fall, as well!' Truva hissed emphatically, surprised at her own forthrightness. 'If Alatar becomes entrenched at Cair Andros, he will be able to send wave upon wave of his own forces into the Stonemark, wherever the Southrons require his support the most. Meanwhile, we will abandon any such advantage for ourselves, and instead walk blind into whatever conflict the Corsairs have created.'

Pallando pursed his lips a moment before conveying her words to the others, whose typically gruff manner of speaking turned downright frightening as they argued bitterly for several minutes.

When the Wizard finally turned back to Truva, his expression was impassive. 'It seems the Pè agrees with you, and he – above even the King – has final say in all matters militaristic. We shall march at first light, with intent to attack just as Alatar himself falls upon Cair Andros. I hope it is as you say, and a vast host shall greet us on the morrow.'

And so the company retired for the night – or what little remained of it, for the call to arms came in the full darkness before dawn, far sooner than any would have liked. Though the Uzdígh Orcs were accustomed to minor clashes with their neighbour, sitting upon the brink of fully-fledged war was something far greater; it engendered a sharp tension in the air. Snaps and snarls were more frequent than on previous mornings, and even the most lax amongst them checked his gear thrice.

The host set out in eerie silence. They turned immediately from the Road to trudge through the woodland of North Ithilien, abandoning all pretence of well-organised rank as they sifted through a maze of holm-oak and ash-tree boles. Little by little, the sun broke the horizon and the world grew light about them; mistle thrushes sent forth their morning song, all the more cheerful for the gloom of the army below.

Truva felt, above all else, an incomparable exhaustion of both body and mind. The monotonous march of her feet allowed her mind to wander; her thoughts naturally turned to the encroaching battle, and to the unyielding bonds of duty that circumstance had placed upon her, leaving a chasm in her breast that only grew deeper and wider as she endured horror after horror. Each battle blurred together, death became indistinguishable from life, suffering persisted even in times of peace – and yet it was this indifference Truva feared the most; that the gravity of her actions would become lost to her, washed away on the endless, featureless expanse of an uncaring sea.

But in looking about at the grim, determined faces surrounding her, Truva knew she was mistaken. Apathy had no place in her heart, for it was overrun with horses, bucking and stamping. She had not been called upon to defend Gondor alone, or even the Mark by extension – but the very stability of all the lands of Middle Earth, which struggled to find balance in the War's wake.

Then, as the host of West Rhûn marched through the early hours of day, their ears pricked up to hear birdsong slowly joined by the sounding of horns and the unmistakable clash of battle. So Gondor did indeed defend the garrison of Elminas still; Cair Andros had not yet fallen!

All at once, Kîzge King's forces broke from the forest cover. They ascended a slight rise, where the stark morning light streamed down upon the vast lands spread before them. Not far in the distance, the realm of Anórien was visible through a slight haze, the Eámicel tracing along its eastern border. Just where Cair Andros disturbed the river's flow lay the shadow of Alatar's army; already they had begun to assail the main gates of Elminas and manoeuvre makeshift bridges into place along the riverbank. In the rear ranks, several Easterling units plied themselves to the digging of fortifications. They anticipated Kîzge's assault.

The host of West Rhûn breathed in as one beast, pausing momentarily upon the hillcrest.

'Sound your horn,' said Pallando to Truva, 'so that your brethren may know it is we who have come, and that help is close at hand.'

Even as Truva did so, Kîzge King removed her breastplate and unsheathed her dagger, drawing the blade diagonally across the flesh of her chest. Crimson blood swelled up, black against her dark skin, yet she made not a sound. Each Orc followed in kind, some slashing their breast as well, others arms or thighs or calves. Many bore marks indicating it was a custom not unfamiliar to them.

'The enemy will never be the first to draw our blood,' Pallando explained as Truva stared. 'It makes one rather… wild. But it is a tradition of the Rhûnic Orcs; you needn't join if it makes you uneas—'

He stopped mid-sentence, for already Truva had unbuckled one Easterling vambrace and pulled the blade of Fréodhel across the back of her forearm. The cut was not deep, and she felt little pain – yet suddenly the horses stampeding through her heart slowed, their powerful limbs prancing in anticipation rather than fear. Truva was overcome almost with giddiness to behold the scarlet splotch seeping through the sleeve of her tunic as she rebuckled the vambrace and inhaled deeply. Electricity thrummed throughout her body; all enervation dissipated into the morning air – windless and still.

Truva shared a swift glance with Kîzge King, and knew the snarl upon her face must match that of the Orc, and of the Pè beyond. At a short word from their King, a small contingent of crossbowmen and archers took up position on the hill. But even as a quarrel broke out between three members, the remainder of the host set out down the hillslope, their pace a mere lope at first but increasing with every step.

For a brief moment, Truva surged ahead of the others. Some spirit compelled her, some impulse beyond her reckoning, to raise the horn of the House of Éofor to her lips once more and sound it. Again and again its melodic tones rang out, joined by the Orcs' brash trumpeting. Truva longed for nothing more than the thunder of hooves beneath her, the shouts of her brethren upon the wind; but she had no mount, and her companions could scarcely be considered brethren – and so she allowed her feet to carry her at their will, streaking across the land, her own wordless cries springing unbidden from her throat.

As the West Rhûn Orcs came upon the lowlands, their pace easily outstripping Truva's, they drove towards Alatar's southern formations, where the river was widest and retreat would guide them away from Osgiliath. Kîzge and her warriors moved as a single body, too small in number and too slow-moving on foot to pose a threat any other way. But this eased the Easterlings' defence; they pulled in tighter against the advancing wave, forming a veritable wall of hulking shields and soldiers.

Yet this did not intimidate the Orcs; they were driven by bloodlust and the promise of its sating. In one fell motion, they lowered planks across the Easterlings' incomplete ditch and leapt headlong into these anticipant foes with a ferocity Truva had never witnessed in the Orcs of Mordor, or even Saurman's Uruk-hai. Animosity engendered by centuries of conflict seethed between the two factions as battle commenced in earnest, and organised chaos reigned.

The Easterling cavalry was swift to ride out in confrontation of this new threat, and soon spied their first target: Agbesh Òrlok's company, which sought to circumvent the southernmost end of their makeshift defences. But having sallied forth to assail West Rhûn's flank, these Easterling riders now approached from the rear. Agbesh and his warriors were oblivious to the threat.

'Riders!' Truva cried from her position further back, though she knew they would not understand her words. Yet the Òrlok turned at the mere sound of her call and spied the mounted enemy just in time. He rallied his warriors in an instant, their spears prickling.

'Drive them to the river! To the river!' Truva shouted again, pointing towards the Eámicel. Even as she did so, Kîzge King also spied the danger and made the exact same gesture, sending a division of her own Orcs with long halberds advancing southward in aid of the Òrlok.

But Truva did not see what became of the situation, for she had finally succeeded in passing over one of the precarious boards spanning the ditch – only to immediately find herself face to face with an Easterling captain. As the snarling man dashed forward, Truva sent the curved shield of a fallen soldier up into one hand with a stomp of her foot and thrust its edge towards her opponent's neckline. His gorget absorbed the blow, but it still left him gasping for a split second – just long enough for Truva to send him tumbling heels over head into the ditch with a sweeping kick to his back. The spare shield she sent spinning towards a mounted Easterling, knocking him off his horse and providing easy fodder for the nearest Orc.

In that very moment, a sharp crack emanated from the fortress of Elminas, giving each fighter upon the battlefield pause. The gates opened ever so slightly; a company of Gondorians perhaps two hundreds strong – some mounted, but many not – slipped through, driving the Easterling besiegers back or into the waters of Eámicel as they charged across the bridge.

Even over the din of battle, Kîzge's growl of frustration could be heard. Truva was wracked with guilt; to have suggested the already meagre support of five hundred warriors, only to be granted no more than two! Yet if this was all Gondor could offer, surely their forces were even more hard-pressed on other fronts, and the need to maintain control of Cair Andros all the stronger.

The roiling mêlée resumed at once, all the fiercer along the riverbank as the new Gondorian forces sought to lay waste to the Easterlings' improvised bridges. Breathless and disoriented, Truva fell back in an attempt to regain her strength. But even as she strove to assess the battle, the mass of fighters proved impenetrable; the river basin was almost entirely level, making it near impossible to see clearly or to any great distance.

But then she spied a most puzzling sight: slipping through the chaos and delivering tremendous kicks whenever necessary (and sometimes even when not), galloped Roheryn. Truva stared at the shaggy grey beast in disbelief as he approached; not until his whiskery nose nuzzled her face did she comprehend what her eyes saw to be real.

'I instructed Blackbramble to keep an eye on you!' she lectured. 'Then how is it that you have come to be here?' Despite her chiding words, however, Truva felt only gratitude as she ran her hands along Roheryn's withers and flank, confirming his condition. His tack was all perfectly in order.

Sudden ease overtook Truva when she leapt into the saddle. The battle was then spread out before her, eddies and whirls of conflict all the more apparent from her higher vantage point. West Rhûn footsoldiers advanced in tight formation towards the Eámicel as their Gondorian counterparts cut in the opposite direction, driving the ranks of enemy fighters northward – yet they could not clear so far as the main bridge, where the Easterlings had gained full control and assailed the gate of Elminas nearly unchallenged. Siege engines aided in this endeavour, for though Kîzge King had single-handedly brought about the destruction of several, each was replaced by another two.

The Easterling riders – having evaded Agbesh Òrlok's assault – were now engaged by the Gondorians, whose own cavalry darted about the riverbank like starlings. But it was one rider in particular that caught Truva's eye as he made directly for her, blue tunic fluttering beneath golden lamellar armour, sturgeon upon his helm.

'Traitor!' cried Söldan, the Easterling Noyon, when he drew within range. 'You dare ride into battle bearing our coat of arms?'

Truva made no response; the battle was too clamorous, each breath too precious. She adjusted her spear as the Noyon continued to bear down upon her, his own lance at the ready.

At a nudge from Truva, Roheryn darted forward as well. The two riders barreled towards each other without any hint of yielding or slowing. In a rote pattern of movements, Truva prepared herself in the way Éomer had taught her all those years ago: spear tip ever so slightly too low, eyes locked on her target. Yet even as she braced for impact, she found herself on the ground, unhorsed and chest searing – though whether it was because the Noyon had struck her, or the force of her own strike had sent her sprawling, she could not say.

But it was the horses that proved most dangerous in that moment. Truva rolled this way and that to avoid their trampling hooves, catching sight of the Noyon as she did so; he, too, was spitting silty floodplain earth. Throwing herself forward, she swung Fréodhel in a desperate strike, but the Noyon was faster. He was standing before her sword even came near, driving a dagger down towards her head. It was a near miss; Truva pulled herself in close and launched herself upwards – right into his chest, sending him stumbling backwards.

After a brief scramble, they were both on their feet, neither having gained control.

The Noyon's blade flicked in irritation.

Truva did not allow his movements to distract her. She breathed in deeply, loosening each tense muscle, feet shifting ever so slightly, blade passive. Yet the Noyon was as cautious as she, and equally disinclined to open himself to counterattack. Swords extended, each edge tested the other – barely touching, searching for an advantage that was not to be found. The commanders' styles were frustratingly similar.

Truva struck first, feigning before swiftly darting forward with a thrust to the Noyon's loosely-held hilt. But he parried and circled away even as Truva attempted a second attack. Rebuffed, she withdrew, which only encouraged the Noyon to press his fortunes and deny her space. He drove her further back with a series of strikes, their blades weaving flashing patterns in the sunlight.

Then, just when Truva became ever so slightly overextended in a counter, the Noyon stepped askance and slashed her upper leg, where the armour did not perfectly protect her thigh. His blade left a score of blood behind.

Though his face was obscured by his helm, Truva could feel a sneer creep across the Noyon's lips. He, of all people, would of course know best the shortcomings of Easterling armour. But Truva simply turned to him with a perverse grin of her own; it was she who had drawn first blood, not he!

Suddenly overcome by inexplicable fervour, Truva redoubled her attack. The duel, already tense, became a swirl of frenzied action.

Following a lucky glance of Fréodhel, Truva closed in and clamped down on the Noyon's blade arm. She sent him sprawling with a sweep of her leg – but in the very same instant she dove for the final attack, he caught her with a kick to the chin. Red spots floated before Truva's eyes; she could not see as the Noyon snatched a handful of river sand and cast it into her face, further obscuring her vision.

Half-blinded, Truva was forced to rely upon sound and feel alone, even as the clangour of battle distorted her senses. She defended against one attack from the Noyon, and then a second – but only just. She failed to establish any kind of contact that would allow her to read the Noyon's movements through the pressure of his blade; he was far too smart to grant her that advantage. He lingered at a distance, measuring her movements and calculating his opportunities.

A wave of terror flooded through Truva, born of an intense awareness that the Noyon's skills far outpaced hers. She was wholly at his mercy. Then a sudden thought struck her – a recollection of Pallando's teachings, of her attempts to control the Elven bow. Rather than attempting to stifle her fear, she gave it entrance into her mind, allowed it to call upon the memories of those she had lost, and the dread that – by her failures – more would follow.

She drew all her strength into her aching jaw as Pallando had guided her to do.

No peculiar sensation, no tingle – nothing did she perceive, save the lurking form of her opponent – and the forewarning of a split instant.

As the Noyon brought his blade down from overhead, Truva sidestepped and deflected the strike, driving the tip of her own sword deep into the eyes of his helm.

Even in her blindness, she saw the Noyon collapse to his knees, then fall fully prone. She bent to his side and confirmed his pulse beat no more, then reached out for Roheryn's reassuring bulk, feeding off his movements to sense whether any new threat drew near. When she rubbed her eyes, the gritty sand merely dug in deeper.

Just then, terrific shouts across the battlefield grew all the more fervent. Truva wondered whether her hearing had not also been damaged; was she perhaps mistaken in thinking the sounds of combat ebbed? She mounted Roheryn by feel and blinked against the curtain of grime that swum before her vision. Where was the rapid movement of riders? The golden glint of Easterling armour swirling in contrast with the black plates of West Rhûn?

She heard Pallando's voice rise above all others. He spoke in a dialect of Easterling, addressing Alatar's forces, then repeated his proclamation in the King's Orcish. The chaos that reigned then was of an entirely different mood than that which had dominated mere moments before; single-minded aggression was replaced by utter confusion.

'Alatar has fled, the Noyon is slain,' cried the Wizard, calling forth at last in Westron. 'Set aside your weapons, let no more blood be shed!'