Tolkien Fan Fiction
| 13 |
| The Defense of Minas Tirith |
| Idril led a long train of healers, Citadel serving women, her own four maids in waiting, ladies and burgess' wives from the upper circles and their maids, down the long spiral avenue that united the city. The lower levels were in chaos, just as she had feared; the streets littered with masonry, the people either rushing about in panic or huddling together in tearful despair. She seized the arm of an older Man whose velvet gown proclaimed him to be a person of importance as he tried to push past her, stopping him in his tracks. "You, collect Men and clear this rubble from the streets - our soldiers must be able to move." He stared at her for a moment, then the glassiness left his eyes and he turned away shouting to the Men nearby with the easy authority of one used to being obeyed. "Come, boys, you heard the Lady, let's get to work." Idril stepped over blocks of stone to a Woman of about her own years, huddled weeping over a frightened toddler. Took the child from her arms and handed it to Faelivrin. "Get the children and old folk to the upper levels." she ordered. "I have had the empty mansions of the fifth and sixth levels opened to recieve them." She turned back to the Woman, pulling her to her feet. "Your child is being taken to safety." she said firmly into the uncomprehending face. "You come with me, we need Women at the wall to carry water and tend the wounded." A light came back into the reddened eyes. Obediently the Woman kissed her child good-bye and fell in with others behind Idril. She continued down the street, collecting Women and setting the Men and boys to clearing rubble. Finally they came to the great square behind the gate and found it already full of injured defenders being tended by their fellow soldiers. "Go back to your duties." she said to the young officer in charge. "We will see to these Men." He looked at the Women, moving among the wounded with their supplies of linens and salves, displacing his soldiers. "Yes, my Lady." then, uncertainly: "My Lady, Mithrandir has taken command of the defense -" "By the Steward's will." Idril answered at once and firmly. "Obey him as you would the Lord Denethor himself." Doubts answered the Man saluted her, collected his Men and left. The great square, being the largest open space inside the walls, became their main field hospital. Idril established other aid stations, each with a healer or experienced housewife in charge, and stationed the steadiest of the Women on the wall itself, to carry water and fresh arrows, and bear away the wounded, freeing the soldiers to fight. Behind the walls the Men of the city struggled to keep the streets clear and dig wounded and dead out of the rubble as the enemy's trebuchets continued to rain ruin upon them. Then the Nazgul came, snatching Men from the inner walls to fling to their deaths, and uttering the terrible screams that froze the blood in the veins and sent Men cowering under whatever cover they could find, hands over their ears. But not all Men. **** High above the battle the four Fountain guards stood unmoving at their post of duty. A Nazgul on his winged beast stooped down upon the Citadel, sending those watching from the buttress wall running for cover. But the Fountain guards held their ground, turning to face the threat, spears leveled. The Wraith hovered directly above them and voiced its terrible cry, and still they did not blench. But it did not attack. Perhaps some virtue in the dead husk of the Tree kept it at bay. Or perhaps it prefered to seek less determined prey. For whatever reason the Nazgul turned aside, swooping down upon the lower levels. Weak with the aftermath of terror and the effort of will it had taken to withstand it, Beregond, Gildor, Angrim and Meneldur, exchanged looks in which relief and astonishment mingled. Then resumed their usual stations, the silence imposed by their discipline unbroken. **** The Nazgul's cries came only distantly to the first circle but still Women and Men stopped their work to look upward with haunted eyes. Idril urged them back to their tasks, with a mounting frustration that almost held back fear. She could get their people to follow her orders and work in their own defense but she could not put the heart back into them. Nowhere did she see the rage and defiance that burned within her and it was beyond any power of hers to inspire it. Neither could Mithrandir, or Hurin or Imrahil of Dol Amroth though Idril had watched them all try. It was like firing wet wood, the sparks they struck were soon smothered. The one Man who could have kindled all these hearts chilled by fear and despair to renewed courage had gotten himself killed pursuing some unkown quest when he was needed at home. His brother, who perhaps could have taken his place, had instead thrown his life away in a useless gesture. And the father who had sent both to their doom had forgotten all duty in his grief and despair. Idril was furious at father and brothers alike for failing their people - and her - in this last need. And at herself too for being but bastard Anarioni, and a Woman at that, and unable to wear the winged crown. The House of the Stewards had failed, just as Telemmaite had predicted. Gondor needed her King but there was no King to hear or heed her call. **** One by one the candles in Faramir's sickroom guttered out until Denethor's hunched form in its dark robes was almost invisible. Pippin could stand the strain no longer, he had to get out, if just for a few minutes. He groped his way to the door and slipped through it. The six gentlemen in waiting stood still and silent as ever in the outer room. Pippin hesitated, but they didn't ask him his business, scarcely seemed to notice he was there. He went past them, through the presence chamber and down the long stair to the great door of the tower. It was dark outside too, except for the reddish light cast by the torches on their poles. Pippin leaned against the stone wall and shook. Suddenly the Captain of the Citadel came through the arch between tower and hall followed by the five companies of the guard, each with its captain at its head. "Come you Men," he called to the sentries posted about the court, "down to the lower levels." The guards abandoned their posts willingly, almost eagerly, each joining his proper company behind the fair haired captain. Pippin hesitated, fear fighting his reluctance to return to the Steward's chamber, painfully conscious of his armor and weapons, and the White Tree on his chest. But as the tail of the column past him he fell in with it, another guard of the Citadel, however small. The tall soldiers didn't run but they strode very fast with their long legs, and Pippin soon found himself falling behind. The streets of the lower city were strewn with rubble, dispite the best efforts of the Men trying to keep them clear, with more wreckage raining down on them every time an enemy boulder struck home. The difficulty of getting through the streets and necessity of taking cover every few minutes broke up the column. Pippin clung determinedly to the band he was following, they knew where to go and he certainly didn't. The Big Folk didn't seem to see him at all until a group of them accidently knocked him off his feet getting away from yet another fall of masonry. A big chunk fell practically next to Pippin, shaking him badly. Some of the city Men noticed him then, picked him up and dusted him off with apologies, then directed him after the vanished guardsmen. Pippin wouldn't have believed things could get any worse after that - but they did. Horrible winged Nazgul swooped down on them, uttering their bone chilling cries and sending everybody, even the bravest soldiers, stumbling for cover hands over ears. Yet finally he made it to the wall, collapsing winded on a chunk of roof as the other guards pounded up the stone stairs. But his conscience wouldn't let him rest for long. He squinted up the at the battlements and saw a flash of white cloak - Gandalf! Pulled himself to his feet and started to climb. He arrived just as the Orcs did, pouring out of their huge wooden siege towers. Gandalf saw him and cried: "Peregrin Took, go back to the Citadel!" "They called us out to fight." Pippin managed, round eyes fixed on the enemy. An Orc started for them and Gandalf struck in down in a whirl of cloak, sword and staff. "This is no place for a Hobbit!" he shouted. Pippin couldn't have agreed more, but he couldn't move. The big hulking Orcs were just like the ones at Parth Galen and just as at Parth Galen he couldn't *move* couldn't do anything but stand there like a lump watching Gandalf fight for his life - as Boromir had. The he saw an Orc come up on the wizard's blind side. Before he knew what was happening his sword was out of its sheath and he'd thrust in straight and hard into the nasty creature. It fell and he stood staring in disbelief at the the black blood on his blade. Had he really done that? Gandalf smiled at him. "Guard of the Citadel indeed." then crisply; "Now, back! Up the hill! Quickly! Quick!" Pippin obeyed, scampering for the stairs. But once down off the wall, away from the Orcs and able to think clearly again, he hesitated. Wandering uncertainly through the first circle he walked into a little cross street square full of wounded men being tended by Women, including Lady Idril. She looked up, yellow eyes widening at the sight of him. "Master Peregrin, what are you doing here?" "The Captain of the Citadel ordered us down to the walls," he explained, glad to find somebody to confide his uncertainty to. "but when I got there Gandalf ordered me back. Now I don't know what to do - I'm no kind of warrior but I want to do my duty." "Mithrandir is right," the Lady answered without hesitation. "Your place is in the Citadel, Master Peregrin, at the Steward's side. You are his esquire." Well that settled that, though the thought of returning to Denethor's darkened rooms was almost as appalling as facing Orcs on the wall. He squared his shoulders. "Then I'll go back. Thank you, my Lady, for clearing that up for me." |