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CHAPTER XXXIII: THE CITADEL OF STARS

'Terribly sorry to disturb you, Marshal,' murmured Lord Faramir, his voice quiet even in the stillness of camp. 'It is time to go.'

Instantly alert, Truva rose and followed the Prince back down the hill. Darkness was still thick about the camp as Gondorian and West Rhûn forces roused themselves – though the bustle that typically accompanied such activities was absent, for fear of alerting the Southrons. Fires were left to burn, scattered amongst the tents; soldiers injured in previous assaults lingered beside them, to give the illusion of activities undisturbed. The remaining warriors amassed on the western edge of camp and slipped through the barriers into the fields beyond.

The bulk of the host, led by Faramir and Pallando, inched forward to take a position directly in front of the city gates, pushing several covered rams ahead. A company under Maeron's command diverted southward in the meanwhile, just as those under Aragorn and Kîzge banked towards the north. The warriors of these contingents crawled silently through the underbrush with ladders borne on their backs, dividing into small groups that took cover at intervals all along the moat, just a short distance from the very walls of Osgiliath itself. There they sat, staring up at the immense, seemingly impenetrable battlements.

Freshly-hewn granite, so recently a symbol of security and shelter, now proved a daunting menace.

When Truva peered into the darkness, the flicker of Southron movement was evident all across the ramparts. Discouraged, she crept to where Aragorn crouched beneath a shrub of spindle.

'Their watch does not appear nearly as thin as we might have hoped,' she whispered. 'Perhaps they suspect an imminent attack, after all. Perhaps they intercepted Fofrin as he made his way to the Eorlingas.'

'Many guardsmen does not guarantee many attentive guardsmen,' Aragorn muttered in response, though the clench of his jaw suggested he was equally as tense as she. 'Let us not despair just yet.'

Before Truva could gainsay his assertion, Kîzge interrupted. There was no Wizard to translate, but the Uzdígh King's meaning was clear: it was time to make their assault.

Indeed, from far across the Eámicel drifted sounds – faint at first, then increasingly distinguishable: the indications of a charge, of metal upon metal and wood upon wood, and of Eorling horns quavering in the air.

So Fofrin had succeeded in his task, after all!

Horses stampeded through Truva's heart. Fraught energy mingled with crushing lassitude to form a sensation that hung heavy on her arms and eyelids; she knew not whether she wished to take on a Gorgoroth Troll or simply sleep a moon away. Chest palpitating, she returned to her small brigade of warriors, all of whom looked to Kings Aragorn and Kîzge, eyes squinting against the dark.

The breathless suspense was short-lived. In a matter of moments, a storm of Southron lanterns swept towards the gatehouse and disappeared.

Aragorn gave a sharp wave of his hand. The northern contingent made for the walls of Osgiliath in response, moving stealthily across coverless ground to drop into the defensive moat. Its stream of water – augmented by recent days' rainfall – rose up near to Truva's chest and threatened to sweep her off her feet. Another, far lighter soldier drifted by, and would have been carried all the way off to the main river had Truva not snagged his quiver strap with the tips of her fingers. It was only by passing one another from hand to hand that each member of the brigade was able to gain the moat's far bank.

But still no assault came from above. No shouts were to be heard, no arrows rained down. Even as the northerners' ladders were raised against the battlements of Osgiliath like a series of trellises in preparation for summer vines, there was no sign of tumbling rocks or sand or boiling water. Aragorn had been right, after all; the Southrons' attention and strength was focused wholly upon the Eorlingas' attack.

But there was no need to tempt fate, nor any time to be wasted. Mounting the ladder first, Truva scaled its crude, splintery rungs with all the alacrity she could muster, shield clutched tightly overhead. A stream of warriors came up behind her, and up the ladders to each side.

Distracted as the Southrons were, however, their posts had not been entirely abandoned. No sooner had Truva reached the ladder's top and peered over the parapet than she came face to face with one very startled Corsair. Quickly recovering himself, the sailor leapt at her, slashing with his scimitar. But Truva met blade with shield; her hand struck out in a flash, catching the unbalanced Corsair by his gorget and sending him tumbling down to the earth far below.

She didn't even have time to scramble up any further before a second threat rose up to replace the first. Hands and feet slipping on the ladder's rain-slick rungs, Truva clung with desperate grip as she deflected this new Corsair's strikes and thrusts from above. One blow sent her lower half dangling over black nothingness for several precarious, heart-racing moments before the Gondorian soldier below caught one ankle and helped her regain footing. Then, with a final, well-placed thrust of her shield to his shoulder joint, Truva knocked her assailant back and created just enough space to gain the wall herself.

But this Corsair was especially stout-hearted; not even when his back was pressed against the opposite parapet did he relent. And so Truva met his determination with her own. Taking advantage of the distraction another pair locked in combat offered as they tumbled by, she charged the Corsair's legs and sent him flailing over the inner wall.

Risking a quick glance after him, Truva peered down into the streets of Osgiliath below. Already the Southron forces flocked back towards Annondû, having discovered the ruse. They flowed like the Eámicel itself, a multitude of streams converging upon the lower gatehouse entryways and inner-wall stairs.

'The gatehouse!' Truva cried, rallying the soldiers who poured onto the wall-walk behind her. 'Prevent the entry of reinforcements! Archers, look below!'

A contingent of Gondorians took up their bows against the returning Southron warriors while others established formations to defend these archers in turn. At that very same moment, Aragorn brushed past Truva, making with all haste in the direction she had indicated.

'The Orc King holds steady against the Southrons posted at the northern river gate,' he said. 'Come, let us take the eastern one.'

Truva dashed after him, yet their progress was excruciatingly slow. For each merlon gained, another Corsair or Haradrim soldier sprang up; and though Gondorians continued to clamber up over the battlements and engage this enemy, still Truva found herself assailed by adversary after adversary, the Southrons' ferocity born of desperation.

At long last, the gatehouse drew near. When its defenders realised they had been well and truly overwhelmed, they sped along the wall, fleeing before the wave of advancing Gondorians – yet the tower doorway had been barricaded from within by their brethren. Finding themselves shut out, the Southrons chose to fling themselves over the parapet rather than mount a final assault.

A battering ram was brought forth. Its size was not great, but Truva seized it alongside several others, heaving it against the gatehouse's great oaken door. Again and again they threw their weight into the attack, gauntlets scarcely able to fit into hastily-hewn handholds or keep a grip on the ram's drenched hides. Grunts of exertion and shouts of encouragement sounded in their ears; rain poured down through the gaps in their armour and sapped them of energy. But still the door would not yield.

Each time a soldier grew tired, he was immediately replaced by another, who was in turn replaced by another himself. Through several cycles of warriors, the might of the Gondorians proved insufficient, until at last – with a terrible jolt – the mighty iron hinges were sundered from their frame.

Truva and the other Gondorians leapt back to evade a sudden shower of arrows that sped through this new opening. Turning the gatehouse door upon its side, they used it as a shield and advanced into the guardroom. A group of Corsairs had taken cover behind an upturned dining table shoved against the opposite wall, cutting off access to the stairway beyond. Yet even as the Gondorians readied their own bows to attack, Aragorn stayed them with a hand.

'Warriors of the Sutherlands!' he cried out from a position half-hidden by the door. 'You are but mere soldiers, errand-boys to your Captain's beck and call; but you needn't die for such base purpose. We will show you mercy, should you—'

The King's appeal was cut short by a crossbow bolt sent unnervingly close past his ear.

The Gondorians did not hesitate to press forward at this answer, loosing their own volley of arrows in return and covering those who raced across the guardroom floor in pursuit of the Corsairs. A clatter of feet could be heard retreating down the spiral staircase beyond, but no sooner had Truva and the others reached the inner doorway than they were beset upon once more by arrows from the enemy, who were tucked just around the bend.

'The ram! The ram!' called Aragorn. 'Bring the ram!'

When it was brought forth from behind, he sent it tumbling down the stairwell with a sharp kick, giving rise to a cacophony of shouts from below and a momentary cessation in the hail of arrows. Seizing this fleeting opportunity, Aragorn dashed down the stair, blade flashing as the tailing Corsairs disappeared around the next spiral. Truva followed in the flood of Gondorians who descended after him, but stopped abruptly on the next landing as the others continued to rush past her.

'The windlass, I've found the windlass!' she cried, peering into an unoccupied room that housed a portcullis winch. The Southrons had not so much as bothered to barricade the space, let alone defend it!

But Truva was not three steps past the threshold before half a dozen Corsairs leapt out from behind the door. Hoping to evade detection, these adversaries had slipped into the first available room, leaving the door open rather than taking the risk of shutting it and drawing the attention of an entire company of northerners. But to their misfortune – and Truva's – their only route of escape had been a tactically significant one.

They now fell upon Truva with all the fervour of a last stand. Terribly outnumbered, it was all she could do to put them in each others' way and keep as many as possible at bay for as long as possible. Truva barreled shield-first into the nearest, sending him crashing into the Corsair behind him. But even as she ducked below the wild swings of the next assailant, she was knocked to the ground by a sweep of the third's staff. Unable to regain her feet under their onslaught, Truva attempted to crawl back to the stairway, only to find her way blocked by yet another Corsair—

—who suddenly sprouted a spear through his neck. A swarm of Gondorians had heard her cry and come rushing back up the steps, just as more Southrons clattered down from the guardhouse's upper floors. The two forces converged in the winch room, swirling eddies of weapons and strikes and footwork.

Truva leapt up and darted through the tumult to throw her weight against the windlass spokes. Several Gondorian soldiers gathered about in defence as, little by little, the chain wound round the beam until there was no more chain left to be wound. Ensuring the winch was secure, Truva lunged towards the outer wall and peered through one arrow loop. Even through the heavy rain, she could see the drawbridge also being lowered across the moat.

'The bridge is down, the first portcullis is up!' she shouted over the clangour. 'Reinforcements are coming!'

But it was not the Gondorians alone who heeded Truva's words. Hearing her cry, each and every Southron throughout the gatehouse reconciled themselves with defeat and abandoned their attack at once. The northerners in the winch room found themselves suddenly unopposed as all Corsairs and Haradrim beat a hasty retreat down to the gatehouse entrance – where they encountered Aragorn's forces. Any Southron who did not disappear beneath the roiling masses fled westward.

But Truva continued to stare out into the fields beyond, where the shapes of Faramir's soldiers and the Orcs led by Pallando emerged from the darkness. They held their shields aloft against the barrage of arrows storming down from the southern battlements, where Maeron's forces had not yet succeeded in securing those stretches of the wall, but otherwise faced little opposition to their advancement; the Southrons were in full flight.

'You five,' said Truva, turning to the Gondorians who stood about the windlass. 'Stay here and defend the portcullis. The remainder of you – half will go up to the topmost floors and start their sweep from there. The other half will come with me to search the lower rooms.'

With a chorus of 'ayes', the soldiers went about their assigned tasks. But scarcely had Truva and the others cleared the neighbouring armoury (which was a swift process, as it was now empty) than they stumbled upon Aragorn and several of his company in the room that housed the second portcullis.

'The south wing is clear,' he informed Truva without a beat to spare.

'I have soldiers sweeping the north wing even as we speak.'

A wry smile flashed across Aragorn's face. 'The first of Faramir's forces have already arrived in the courtyard. Let us go to him and see what can be done about these Southrons who took off after their brethren. More than I would care to admit managed to slip through our fingers.'

'Divide yourselves further,' said Truva to her accompanying soldiers. 'Finish your sweep, then post here.'

At these words, Aragorn's company made for the winch room door, Truva following close behind. But even as they descended the final staircase to the gatehouse passage, Aragorn slowed his steps ever so slightly and drew close to her.

'Good work,' he murmured, so quiet no other could hear.

Truva looked to him with brows raised. 'The woods' eaves are yet a good ways away, milord,' she said.

The grim cast of Aragorn's expression suggested he needed no reminding. Together, they raced after the other soldiers and spilled out into the courtyard to greet the incoming troops, who continued to march over the drawbridge with fresh, eager faces. Lord Faramir soon appeared from between the regimented ranks.

'Who could have anticipated overtaking the battlements with such ease!' he exclaimed. 'See how quickly the Southrons draw back!'

'They make for Annonaur,' said Aragorn through gritted teeth.

'Then let us ensure they do not gain it,' Faramir replied. 'I do not fancy the effort it would take to extricate the Southrons from West Osgiliath, should King Éomer's own assault be met with less success than ours.'

A contingent of warriors was sent at once to reinforce Maeron's company on the southern battlements, but the remainder marched through the streets of Osgiliath, bearing down upon the Eámicel with all haste. As they passed each major byway, small parties broke off to sweep the streets for stragglers, but the main host encountered minimal opposition – that is, until they came to the Lonnas Ram: a defensive wall dividing the main city and its harbour, though indeed it was more arch than wall.

Here the Southrons mounted their final, halfhearted defence. They trapped the northerners under a barrage of arrows and spears, forcing them to take cover around ornate corners and behind marble columns of the grand capitol complex. Yet no sooner had Truva and the others sent their own volley in return than the Southrons' assault began to wane.

During a brief lull, Truva peered cautiously over a low garden wall. Through the archways of Lonnas Ram she spied a handful of Corsairs fleeing towards Annonaur. They sped over bridges or leapt onto black dromunds now making for the opposite bank, or simply dove into the Eámicel itself and swam across. Another wave soon followed their compatriots, and then another and another. The tide of Southron arrows thinned further.

Truva glanced across the street to Aragorn – too far. She darted instead to where Faramir had positioned himself behind a column just ahead.

'Milord, if we delay any longer, there will be no Southrons left whose retreat we might prevent,' she insisted quietly.

Faramir did not hesitate one moment before giving a sharp nod. 'Go,' he said. 'I will cover you.'

Even as he spoke, the lordly Prince of Ithilien leaned out from behind the column and loosed an arrow. One Haradrim warrior tumbled from the Lonnas Ram as a result.

Motioning silently for a company of Gondorian soldiers to accompany her, Truva snuck along the capitol perimeter and across the flagstone street to the nearest wall stair. Step by step, they crept up until they were positioned just out of sight below the wall-walk. Truva slowly extended her neck to take stock of the Southrons' position – only to discover the Lonnas Ram totally abandoned, littered with the burning wreckage of catapults and other siege engines.

She was joined by Aragorn and Faramir but moments later. Picking their way through the refuse, all three stood behind the parapet and looked out across the city and its surrounding lowlands. The first glow of dawn had begun to crawl down the sides of Hǽwenheáf, peeking through rain clouds clustered about the Ephel Dúath and revealing to the northerners the tremendous task that lay ahead:

The Eorlingas had not breached the gates of Annonaur.

Firmly entrenched upon the western side of the city were all the Southron forces. The last remaining stragglers were gaining the safety of the opposite bank in droves, and their ships darted to and fro, unopposed all along the waters of Eámicel – for though the northern span had been opened by Kîzge and her warriors, Maeron continued to struggle in the south. The defensive chains there were still raised; even if the Swan Fleet had arrived from Harlond, their effect would have been limited in scope.

Then, even as Truva and the others looked on, a tremendous boulder arced from the battlements of Annonaur, cutting a swathe through the periwinkle sky. It fell into the river with a tremendous splash, yet the Southrons' intent was clear: it would not be by bridge that the Gondorians and their allies crossed into the city's western sector.

When a second boulder hurtled through the air – this time landing far closer to the centremost bridge connecting the two halves of Osgiliath – Aragorn turned to Faramir and Truva. 'Let us see what delays Captain Maeron, and prevents our control of the southern archway of Menelrond,' he said. 'Lord Faramir, I entrust to you the defence of Lonnas Ram, and the keeping of peace between Gondorians and Orcs.'

'When you return, you shall find us quieter than a sleeping babe's crib, my lord,' answered Faramir.

And so, joined by a substantial battalion of warriors, Aragorn and Truva made for the Southrons' last holdout in the east. Yet even as they rushed along the quay, another catapult launched a third projectile, which fell upon the central bridge with a terrible crack of stone upon stone. A pile of rubble collapsed into the river; the pathway was hewn in two.

The company hurried on. The instant they drew near the southeastern reaches of Osgiliath, pandemonium overwhelmed their senses. In an attempt to access the bridge of Menelrond, where the harbour chain windlasses were located, Maeron's forces had thrown themselves upon the gatehouse – both at the upper rampart entrance as well as the gate at ground level – to no avail. This was the first position the Southrons had gained upon their initial attack; and as it was the position by which they could control the movement of their own ships, as well as that of the northerners, they rightly considered it the most crucial; thus it was also the position they devoted the greatest effort in retaining.

'I will guide our efforts on the ground,' Aragorn said to Truva. 'Climb to the walls' heights and see what result you might effect there.'

With a bow, she and a small troop of Gondorians spun about and ascended the inner stair, keeping tight against the wall. At the top, they were greeted by further chaos. A battering ram, pushed to its limits, splintered in the soldiers' hands even as they charged forwards in another attack. Ladders had been drawn up from below and used to scale the gatehouse face, where several Orcs had rent a breach between the eaves and stone exterior and now hurled roof tiles with abandon down upon the embattled Southron defenders in the guardroom below.

'Relieve the ramsmen!' Truva ordered at once, but those under her command had no need to be told; the words hadn't even left her lips before they leapt to seize the damaged bole from the flagging warriors who wielded it. In the same moment, Maeron emerged through the mêlée.

'Marshal!' he cried. 'What news?'

'All other Southrons have fled Annondû,' Truva shouted over the din. 'They are now entrenched upon the western bank.'

'If only these would follow their brethren,' Maeron bemoaned.

'Have you no other siege engines?'

'I fear not!'

'How many Southrons defend the gatehouse?'

'I know not!'

'What of the opposite entrance?'

'It is accessible only via the gatehouse or Menelrond – both of which are controlled by the Southrons.'

Truva surveyed the tower in the dim light of early morning. Its sides rose up from the waters of Eámicel itself to soar several stories overhead, arrow loops the only break in its even facade. Yet its sides were not so sheer as a cursory glance might indicate; dips and crevices pockmarked the wall, a holdover from the still-incomplete period of reconstruction.

Safely securing all her weapons upon her person and refilling her quiver with arrows from a supply barrel that had spilled across the wall-walk, Truva leapt up onto the parapet, balancing along its crenels to evade the thrashing ramsmen. When she came within reach of the tower, she ran her hands over its smooth, wet stone. Even in the finest weather, her task would be no easy feat.

She eased her fingers over the near-featureless surface of the tower façade, searching for a purchase. After several moments of frantic groping, she found one – little more than a vertical crack between two bricks. Truva thrust her fingers into it anyway, bracing with her thumb.

Then came her toe, creeping, creeping steadily across the slick surface.

'Are you mad?' cried Maeron when he turned his gaze from the battering ram to discover her intentions.

His shout startled Truva, nearly causing her to slip, but she clung to the stone like a weed battered by the elements. 'Verily,' she shouted in return, although the wind whipped her voice away; she was not sure whether the Captain heard her or made any reply.

As she felt for her next hold, the faint hint of dawn light faded, shadowed by the sun rising behind a layer of dark storm clouds that gathered upon the horizon. With her head tucked tight against the tower, Truva could not see the approaching front of heavier rain – but she could most certainly hear it.

With renewed urgency, she braced her first leg against its tenuous hold and steeled herself. Now came the most treacherous step: removing her final anchor from the ramparts' assured safety. Heart fluttering, Truva's second foot scraped along the wall until it came to a precarious rest upon a slight lip of stone, leaving her to cling unprotected above a dizzying drop.

Little by little, grip by scant grip, Truva made her way about the tower, drifting downwards along its face all the while to hide her approach behind Menelrond's ramparts and hopefully evade the Southrons' notice. The tower's curved shape gave her slightly more leverage than she might ordinarily expect from a flat wall, but still the process was excruciatingly slow and strenuous. It felt an eternity before she finally drew near the opposite side, where she spied a dozen or so adversaries milling about the bridge deck in front of the guardhouse entrance: those less eager to engage the mass of northerners who pounded upon the door opposite.

Yet even as Truva curled her fingertips about the bottom edge of an embrasure, hanging out of sight just beside the gatehouse's outer wall, a flicker of movement caught her eye. There, crawling Gollum-like up a stone pile halfway across the river, was Fofrin.

Truva nearly lost her grip in surprise. She could only watch in equal parts relief (to find the scamp still alive) and horror (to guess his plan) as Fofrin crept over the parapet and slunk into Menelrond's central rotunda, which housed one of several windlasses controlling the harbour chains. Its guard of Southrons had their backs turned and were clustered about in apparent argument, and so did not see the young Gondorian's deceit.

Different strategies battled in Truva's mind. Ought she to remain hidden and allow Fofrin to work surreptitiously, or was it better to launch her own assault, drawing the Southrons' attention away from him – yet risking his exposure at the same time? A momentary glance might reveal his presence in either circumstance.

But then Truva thought of Maeron Captain and his soldiers, and of Aragorn below – those who threw themselves upon the gatehouse entrances in an attempt to secure every last possible advantage against an enemy who sought to usurp their very home. The significance of the battle for Osgiliath superseded any one individual.

Truva vaulted over the parapet and struck down the first guard before he had so much as learned of her presence. Seizing the fallen Southron's battle-axe, she used the hook of its crescent blade to drag a second guard sharply forward, tripping him over his prone companion before driving the axe into his exposed features.

An additional pair of guards fell upon her then – for a handful of others simply hung back in fear, and the remainder dashed towards the safety of the gatehouse, where they observed through a crack in the door. The braver of the two Corsairs charged with a sequence of flashy bladework just as the second, taking advantage of Truva's momentary occupation, circled behind and leapt upon her back. The force of the impact drove Truva to her knees, giving the first Corsair an opportunity to aim a savage kick at her face, though she caught his leg and sent him crashing into the flagstone deck with a twist of his knee and a well-placed axe swing.

But the adversary on Truva's back continued to cling more fiercely than any limpet, thrusting at her helm with his dagger. Truva rose shakily to her feet and caught his arm, clutching it close to her chest. Then she suddenly bent low and swept his feet off her midsection with her free hand, tossing the Corsair clear over her shoulders and into the parapet. With a final kick, Truva sent him hurtling down towards the river far below.

When she turned to face the remaining Southrons – who, in witnessing their companions' failures, had become even less eager to engage – Truva glanced further along the wall in an attempt to find Fofrin. He had somehow succeeded in lowering the first harbour chain, only to move on to a second windlass and repeat his actions; for the rotunda guards there were wholly engrossed in watching the fight at the gatehouse unfold, and had concern for little else.

It was this very glance, however, that alerted the Southrons to Fofrin's presence. The Corsair nearest Truva gave a shrill whistle and gestured towards the windlass. Truva tackled him in an attempt to obfuscate his movement, but the Haradrim within the rotunda were not so easily fooled; they spun about to discover Fofrin unwinching the chain link by link.

Even as they leapt upon the hapless sailor, Truva moved without conscious thought, extricating her bow and loosing an arrow in the direction of the first Haradrim warrior to reach out. But Pallando's lessons were still in their earliest stages, and there was much yet for Truva to learn; she had no real control over her power. There was no tightening of her jaw, no tingle of energy, no additional force behind her shot – the arrow merely glanced off the sturdy Haradrim armour and clattered harmlessly to the flagstone deck.

That very guard did not spare Truva a moment's attention before spearing Fofrin with the point of his tabar once, then twice. Fofrin's hands came up in a futile attempt to defend himself, clutching at the wooden shaft as the Southron twisted the weapon's short blade in his exposed chest – for the foolish lad had abandoned his armour, so that he might swim more freely.

Upon the Southron's third thrust, Fofrin's arms fell limply to his sides.

Truva could only watch helplessly as the guard withdrew his tabar and spun it expertly around, using the butt end to thrust Fofrin's body over the parapet edge. The boy's slight frame seemed to hang for an eternity as he plummeted from the heights of Menelrond, dark hair streaming in the wind, tumbling head over heels until he crashed into the dark Eámicel waters with a soundless splash.

Wind ripped painfully in Truva's throat – yet there was no space to grieve, no time to berate herself for having failed yet again, for choosing the course of action which resulted in the very outcome she had most desperately wished to prevent – for simply watching Fofrin's death unfold from afar, just as she had when Théoden King was slayed by the Witch King.

No, these thoughts existed as nebulous emotions, crammed into the back of Truva's mind to confront later – if she were fortunate enough to see such an end; for already the Southrons swung at her with scimitar or tabar or even fists, emboldened as they were now that her companion had been struck down.

But their newfound mettle mattered not. Seeing Fofrin's lifeless body fluttering through the air had provoked in Truva a vehement rage, the likes of which she had not felt since the War, standing before the Black Gates with Bron's twitching form at her feet. Even so, she did not allow wrath to control her, and instead allowed its force to wash the last traces of weariness from her limbs. She fell upon the Southrons in a whirl of desperate fury, dispatching them all in short order – for not even an entire company of adversaries could suppress the fire that now blazed in her breast.

When a sea of Southron bodies lay littered about her, Truva looked to where the gatehouse guards rushed to shut the last defence against her. She selected a spear and hurled it at the door, preventing it from fully closing, and rushed to capitalise upon this advantage. It took no more than a few swift hacks to pull the door outwards, for upon seeing the incensed Marshal, many of the enemy guards had retreated further into the gatehouse. Those that stood against her did not do so long, for in a storm of blade and body they either fled or fell.

And so it was that Truva came upon the inner staircase, down which many of the Southrons had disappeared. Far below, the sounds of a tremendous conflict roiling at the front gate could be heard; perhaps Aragorn's forces had broken through at long last!

But Truva focused instead upon the second guardroom door, barricaded by a tangle of furniture and barrels and lumber. Shoving these materials aside, she cleared the entrance to admit the masses of Gondorians who still led a barrage against the opposite side. They poured into the guardroom just as a stream of Orcs descended from above, having come through the hole they had hewn in the roof. These northern forces drove the Southrons before them – including those that raced upwards, away from the fallen lower entrance – until they formed one terrified swarm retreating across Menelrond to Annonaur.

In that very moment, the white sails of the Swan Ships appeared upon the river.