Tolkien Fan Fiction
| 18 |
| Chapter Eighteen |
| Kralak was grumbling again. Martok really had it out for him, selecting him to lead the small band of four scouts across the river, just when he had been about to be served breakfast, the last food he would be able to enjoy before the legions moved over the great river into Rohan. Admittedly he had managed to manoeuvre himself into the last ranks behind his fellow Easterlings, his best chance of surviving any battle and gaining all the spoils he would be able to gather from the dead on both sides after it, but as he had not yet been in position, he had been easy prey for Martok’s vindictiveness. The raiding party was only an hour or so later than they had expected, what were they getting nervous about? The horsemen were a day’s march away by all reports, and would be at their most vulnerable when they would attack before sunrise the next day as they camped close to one of the weaker crossing points to the south. They would not be expecting an attack from their own lands, he thought to himself malevolently. It had been rumoured that the raiding party had been sent to capture someone of special importance to the Astari – a woman, no less. The Astari were the best fighters Kralak had ever seen, they would be useful against the horsemen when it came to battle. With the main force of Riders destroyed, The Wold would become theirs – a worthy prize after the losses Sauron’s failure had inflicted on those tribes who had chosen to follow him instead of the Grand Master. The sun was reaching its peak in the sky as Kralak and his three companions dropped out of sight of those on the Eastern banks of the River Anduin. They rode down the steep escarpment onto the plain below, noting that the raiding party with the wagon loads of captured Rohirrim would have to take the longer, gentler route to the crossing point. As they began to canter across the open pastures their eyes were suddenly distracted by a searing light in the far distance. The four men pulled up to fully grasp what their eyes could not comprehend, blinded by the sharp glinting of an object moving at colossal speed towards them. Two objects, but nothing alive could possibly move at such a pace. Kralak’s instincts told him to turn and run, but however hard he pulled and kicked his horse, it was just frozen underneath him, he could see the others desperately trying to do the same, arrows hitting two of his companions in quick succession. He felt panic, a sharp pain, and then… nothing. With Finglor on Maela and Hadán seated behind Lothíriel astride Geldsheen, they soon followed Finglor’s arrows which had hit their mark so accurately all four scouts lay dead on the ground at the feet of their horses pacified by the power of the two Mearas. ‘Can you see the signal?’ Lothíriel asked Finglor calmly, as he watched the skies to the East. ‘Not yet,’ came his reply. ‘What do the waters tell you?’ ‘The power of the river is so strong, I can sense it from here. We need to move soon, before they attempt to cross. The presence of the scouts reveal their impatience, and…’ ‘There,’ Finglor interrupted her, ‘coming from the North, not the East.’ He raised his sword in salute at something too far out of sight for mere mortal eyes. ‘Are you ready, Alatariel?’ ‘Yes, I am ready,’ came her steely reply. The look-outs on the Eastern bank watching for when the four scouts would come back into view over the ridge after their mission were at first confused. Obscured as they were by the blinding brightness of Lothíriel’s mithril armour glinting in the rays of the noon day sun, as their eyes adjusted they discerned two huge horses bearing three riders. Just three, against their large force of Easterlings, arraigned on the other side in orderly columns waiting to cross the river, admittedly most on foot, but many on horseback and flanked by bands of orcs to their north and south. The look-outs smiled in anticipation of an easy crossing. Once assembled on the other side, the Rohirrim would not have the numbers to defeat them when their allies in Dunland forced them into two battlefronts. Lothíriel smiled to herself when she saw the orc hordes. At least Genting would be happy, she thought. Led by Finglor, they wended their way down the gently sloping escarpment to a point close to the river on the only raised ground facing the forces. In the distance over the river, Lothíriel could see her quarry in the centre of the Easterling army, standing on a small hummock. No Easterling himself though. She knew who he was, and he was surrounded by over a hundred of his fellow Astari. He was Pallamir, Pallakir’s younger brother, the Grand Master’s chief henchman, as his brother had been before him. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Sennebar, the centre of the lucrative slave trade, banned in the Northern Realms of Middle-earth but very much practiced from Umbar to the Far South and in the Eastern lands. The Grand Master had long taken the strongest and most ruthless of the race of Men within the lands under his influence and bred children using only the strongest of the captive slaves to train his elite guard of Astari. Pallakir and his brother had risen to the top of the ranks of his commanders and Pallamir had been sent to entrap his brother’s killer, a role he had long sought and was looking forward to enjoying. He had been instructed to kill her; how he did so was up to him to decide. And there she was, just across the river on a horse that made her look like a child riding a cart horse, with one other ordinary Rider of Rohan, judging from his lack of armour, not even the King, her reputed lover. And that bastard orc-elf. He, Pallamir, had the staff of the Grand Master, he was the vessel through which the Grand Master would wield his power by proxy. Did they really think that even if the full force of the Rohirrim was unleashed upon them they would be able to defeat his army of desperate orcs and hardened Easterling fighters, never mind the elite force of the Astari, when he wielded the staff of power? He could see she was wearing Alataturë. The Grand Master had been furious when he had discovered it stolen. It could only have been the Elf. He looked so much like an orc himself he must have been able to blend in with an orc pack looking for guidance after Sauron’s fall, even so, it had been audacious and utterly unexpected. The Grand Master did not think he would have dared leave his precious charge even for a day, knowing as he must have done, that the Astari had already been sent to track her. Far from being displeased that she was wearing Alataturë, it excited him. She would be relatively unscathed in the battle; he would have greater pleasure enjoying her whole before he began her long and tortured descent to death. It was time. He was impatient to take control of her and exact his revenge. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ‘Men of the East, you are not our enemy,’ a voice rang out clearly in the Easterling language. Clear and penetrating, despite the noise of the river between them, which seemed almost silent while the power of the voice rang out to all those on the eastern shore despite the distance between them. ‘You are free to return. Now. Through the corridor we will allow you to run through to escape our wrath, but only you. The Astari are mine. For those of you who decide to stay, we will offer no mercy. Turn now and you will escape all injury. Whatever you have been promised by the Grand Master is as false as the promises Sauron gave to your kin who died in Gondor. We wish to trade and become prosperous with you. We do not want to threaten and conquer you, subject you to our laws and abuse you. This is not our way. But we will fight as you have seen, and we will win. Our numbers are too great for you to overcome us and the River itself will not suffer you to cross ever again to the land of the Horse Lords. You should turn away now, as my companions are becoming impatient, and we… are… coming.’ Lothíriel was shining, but not from the sun. It was coming from within, the voice was coming from with her, an ancient voice of immense power. Through his connection to the staff Pallamir felt a flicker of doubt in his master; a murmur of disquiet rose amongst the Easterlings, but Pallamir had waited too long for this to waver; three lone riders against his legions - he laughed in defiance. ‘Pallamir. I am coming for you!’ the voice boomed. Her battle cry resounded through the air, the ground began to tremble and the first of the Easterling forces began to flee in the rear, back to the East. Hundreds of Mearas appeared on the crest of the ridge, some ridden by Riders, King Éomer foremost on Moonsheen. They thundered over the ridge and as they descended towards the water’s edge Lothíriel raised her mithril sword and intoned in Quenya an invocation that was soon answered. The waters of the greatest river of Middle-earth roared ferociously, a huge wave forming from the north. It turned eastwards and swept over the riverbank’s eastern side, crashing violently into the enemy forces. A solid path had been cleared through the stony riverbed over which the Mearas and the Riders of Rohan now stormed across. As those Easterlings fortunate enough to be furthest away escaped, the bands of orcs on the edges of the wall of water to the north and the south held firm, only to suffer attack from a large Elven force hailing from the north and Aragorn’s forces from the south. The Swan Knights, with Imrahil and his three sons at their head, were prominent in the fray together with Aragorn and his most trusted Captains in the vanguard, Faramir foremost among them. The archers of Ithilien were picking off the few still standing after the power of the water had overwhelmed them. Only the cabal of Astari held firm in the centre. The power of the staff had deflected the water away from them creating an even greater space around them devoid of orcs or men. Pallamir held the staff high above his head as he intoned in Quenya. He was drawing power through the ground. A crack of energy sounded overhead but still Lothíriel charged. Flanked now by Éomer and Finglor, with Hadán seated behind her, Lothíriel went straight for Pallamir at their centre. She was not the only one bearing down on Pallamir. From the east came the great eagle Gwaihir carrying the Brown Wizard, Radagast. From the south, the white long hair of Mithrandir was streaming behind him as Shadowfax brought him at equal speed, his staff pointing towards that which Pallamir was holding to the sky. Radagast too levelled his staff towards the source of the power emanating now through the Chief Astari. From the north hailed the two Elven Ring-bearers, Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel, her white golden hair glimmering in the sun. All four were focused on Pallamir as he threw the staff in the air, it was whirling around his head, sucking energy through the very earth on which he stood, creating a vortex which pushed the Astari around him out towards their oncoming foes. The first of these to reach them were Lothíriel and Hadán, who between them cut through the ranks of Astari aided by Finglor and Éomer beside them. Geldsheen swerved at the edge of the vortex catapulting Lothíriel through it. She landed on her feet, her mithril sword drawn ready for attack. The Grand Master’s staff began to descend but Mithrandir and Radagast between them extended their full power to prevent the vortex from closing in on itself. They understood the power of what had been created, a link between the ground on which they stood and the very heart of the Fortress of Sennebar. This had been the trap, to lure Lothíriel into the vortex where Pallamir could take them both through, directly to the Grand Master himself. Elrond had moved to the west of the vortex and Galadriel remained to its north, four of the greatest powers remaining on Middle-earth encircled the vortex and prevented Pallamir and Lothíriel being taken back through it to Sennebar. Elrond’s twin sons led the Elven forces, intent on destroying the orc forces before turning on the Astari. The alliance of the Elves of Lothlórien and Mirkwood in the north and the Men of Gondor and Rohan to the south made swift work of the remaining orcs and Astari, none of whom asked for or were given mercy. As the last were cut down by Legolas and Gimli who had arrived with the Elves of Mirkwood, all they could do was watch the battle within the vortex. It had been a trap within a trap, but how it would end would depend on the physical battle between Pallamir and Lothíriel, and the metaphysical battle between the great powers outside the vortex and that of the Grand Master. She was beyond the aid of all those who loved her, and they could only stand by watching in fear and hope. Lothíriel appeared almost as one flame of white light as she fought Pallamir. The mithril armour meant she could take bigger risks, but he was also well protected and was undoubtedly stronger. She had to end this quickly or she would tire before he did. She would need to use speed, both mental and physical to overcome her adversary. Finglor and Aragorn both had to restrain Éomer and Imrahil from entering the vortex when they saw Lothíriel thrust her sword into the ground at the centre of the vortex, a move that rendered her defenceless. The vortex shuddered. Pallamir screamed and moved in desperation to take the sword from the ground. With two swords he would be invincible, only Lothíriel was not without a weapon. She had swiftly untied two castatas from her waist where they had hung resembling a belt and went into the attack while her opponent’s focus was distracted by attempting to grasp the mithril sword. While his sword play had easily been a match to her own, he was not used to combatting the fearsome speed of the castatas. Castatas were not considered a worthy fighting skill by the Astari, they were considered a woman’s weapon at best and any sword would cut through simple wooden castatas. Only these were not made of wood. These were made of solid mithril. The speed of the castatas in her hands surpassed any reflex of Pallamir. As one castata crushed his left hand which had reached out for her mithril sword, the other shattered his face. She rained blow after blow onto his body while avoiding his attempts to skewer her with his sword. She almost danced around him twirling the castatas around her moving ever closer to his body until she let loose one of the weapons to wrap itself around his sword hand, using her free hand she pulled out one of her mithril daggers from their casing bound to her forearms and she thrust it deep into his throat, the weakest spot in his armour. As he fell backwards, she grabbed her sword from the ground, decapitating him in one fluid movement. Before his severed head even reached the ground, she plunged the sword into the centre of the vortex once more, only deeper up to the hilt with triumphant cry in the ancient Elvish tongue ‘The walls of Sennebar will fall!’ The ground shuddered beneath them, the vortex swayed violently, Mithrandir, Galadriel, Elrond and Radagast, now on foot, approached together incanting Elvish words which invoked an invisible power, the terrifying force of which all those around the vortex could feel. The four pierced through the weakening vortex to reach Lothíriel and place their hands on the hilt of the sword impaled into the ground. The vortex was spiralling into the sword and back into the ground from whence it came. An almighty cracking sound echoed around the barren hilltop as the staff above them split in two and fell either side of the group. The spell had been broken, the staff had been cleaved, the walls of Sennebar had fallen. The trap within a trap had succeeded. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The five holding the sword hilt stayed joined for some time silently communing with each other. As they began to disengage one by one, Finglor came to put his arms around Lothíriel, who eventually was left alone still kneeling, her hand clasping the hilt of the sword. She tipped forward at his touch and he enveloped her in his arms to steady her. She had no strength left even to take her hand off the hilt, never mind to stand. He picked her up semi-conscious and carried her to her father and Éomer. An awkward standoff ensued with neither man sure which had greater right to kiss her first. Their hesitation was not rewarded. Hadán strode purposely towards her and was the first to kneel down before her to take her hand in his, much to Imrahil’s shock and fury until Éomer was able to reveal Cissy’s reincarnation. While Hadán and Finglor fussed over Lothíriel, Mithrandir came over and interrupted her father and her beloved. ‘I believe we owe you both an explanation,’ Mithrandir said kindly to the concerned men. ‘We are four of the remaining six members of the White Council, myself, Galadriel, Radagast and Elrond. The Master Stone of the Palantíri of Gondor is held in the Fortress of Sennebar. It can now be recovered. Let us first tend to the wounded, dispose of the dead and deal with any Easterling survivors. The Mearas are becoming restive to return to their homelands. We will use the barges the Easterlings intended to use to create a causeway across the river to reach Rohan and we will set up camp on that side if, Éomer King, you will permit those of us who will attend the Council leave to stay in your lands? We will gather together tonight to explain the history of this.’ ‘Willingly, aye. How is Lothíriel?’ he asked, finding it hard that he was not the one cradling her in his arms. ‘She will need to stay with Finglor until she is sufficiently recovered. He tells us that there is still an as yet unidentified Astari assassin in your camp. He will have a hard job getting past an Elf of Finglor’s hearing and reflexes. So, you all need to be on your guard and put your trust only in those beyond all doubt. This is not yet over. Stay vigilant at all times,’ Mithrandir instructed the men. Éomer and Imrahil had no choice but to leave Lothíriel in Hadán and Finglor’s capable hands and deal with the aftermath of battle. The Brown Lands did not encourage setting up camp on its barren fields, therefore the Elves began to withdraw to their woodlands and most of the Gondorian forces, commanded by Elphir and Erchirion, made to move south to the more fertile foothills of Emyn Muil. Those remaining joined the Mearas crossing the Anduin over the causeway made of barges. By sunset all that remained of the signs of the battles were the smoking stacks of orc dead, the trampled ground and a burnt hollowed out circle of ground on the hillock where the vortex had stood. The mithril sword hilt was all that had remained of the sword. The blade itself was buried deep within the bowels of the Fortress of Sennebar, all its protective power lost and surrounded by Ottakar and Tuor’s forces. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Finglor would not leave Lothíriel, not in her weakened state, but Hadán was soon called away to aid the Rohirric wounded. Genting had allowed his fury in battle to overcome his caution and had received several minor injuries and one serious slash to his left arm. While he had joined Erkenbrand’s Éored for the crossing of the river, he had steered himself south to join the Gondorian force’s annihilation of the orcs. Hailing Amrothos across the battlefield, together they cut through any orcs which had survived the violence of the wave of water which had crashed into them, and were two of the first after Imrahil and Aragorn to reach the large band of Astari fighters guarding the vortex. The Astari had proved highly skilled fighters, but they had the misfortunate that those spearheading the attack on them were the elite fighters of the West, those who carried the blood of Númenor in their veins. Even with the fray of battle around him, Genting’s usual single-minded attention was drawn to one man, above all those matched against the Astari, who was proving the most effective killer. As he watched mesmerised, he barely noticed that Faramir, Elphir and Erchirion had entered the fight unfolding before him; he was unable to take his eyes off the man as he easily dispatched these expertly trained Astari, and yet he was only an ordinary Rider of Rohan, one he did not recognise. This striking blond-haired man could only have been from one of the Éoreds of The Wold serving under Elfhelm. Genting could not understand why he had never seen this man before. Théodred had been all man, not as classically handsome as Éomer, but powerful and very masculine. This man was striking, the most beautiful man Genting had ever seen and, like Théodred, clean-shaven in the style of Gondor - such a contrast to most Rohirric men and definitely how Genting preferred them. ‘Genting!’ Amrothos cried out as a wounded but still lethal Astari lashed out his sword from behind Rohan’s Master of Horse, whose focus was so riveted elsewhere. Genting heard the cry and had reacted in time for an otherwise fatal sword strike to cut deep into his left arm rather than his torso. With a swift leap to protect his friend, Amrothos cut the Astari down before he could inflict any further damage. The battle on the field over, Amrothos urgently sought out his family. He spied Elphir and Erchirion standing protectively beside their father as though to prevent him from entering the vortex in which their sister was still trapped. Genting was now beside him as they both ran towards the hummock on which the vortex swayed violently as Mithrandir and Radagast pierced through its power. Genting barely felt the pain in his arm as he saw in quick succession Lothíriel stab, then decapitate her enemy; he looked beyond the weakening vortex to see Finglor holding Éomer back as Lord Elrond entered the circle around her; and standing next to Éomer he saw the handsome stranger looking intently straight at him, Genting. He gawped back at the man feeling somewhat foolish. There had been no mistaking that look of interest, despite the circumstances. It did not feel real. He was falling… The power of the staff breaking had thrown Genting backwards and he stumbled over the body of a dead Astari, landing on his wounded arm which crumpled under him. He blacked out. When he came to, he was being carried with some difficulty by Amrothos to where the wounded were being assessed, followed by the Mearas horse which had brought him from Elbrond. He asked Amrothos to put him down, it had only been a momentary black out, he could walk… ‘She did it, Amrothos, she did it! Thank Béma. How is she?’ he enquired, still feeling weak, but noticing that his left arm had been expertly trussed up by his saviour. Amrothos sat down on the ground beside him, suddenly weary himself. ‘She’s in good hands. She’s with Finglor,’ he struggled to answer. ‘And the other, the Rider of Rohan who was with them, do you know who he is?’ Genting found himself asking unable to restrain himself. ‘No idea, but by Oromë that man could fight. Not your usual Rohirric style but most effective. Those Astari were fast bastards. But no match for the Elves once they surrounded them.’ He groaned, ‘I ache all over, but you have lost a lot of blood and I must get you to the House of Healing. Lothi will never forgive me for deserting one of her best friends, and Éomer won’t be happy to lose his Master of Horse through my neglect. It seems your Mearas agrees,’ he laughed as the horse nudged Amrothos to get up and help Genting onto her back as she knelt down beside her stricken Rider. Amrothos walked beside Genting and the Mearas to make sure that Genting did not relapse on his way to the main makeshift House of Healing. Dizzy from lack of sleep, the long ride from Elbrond, the battle and the loss of blood, he was not going to pretend he did not need the help. He was now in considerable pain, yet felt almost elated; those he cared most about had all survived and he had been pleasantly surprised by Amrothos’s acknowledgement of Lothíriel’s feelings for him. He loved and admired Lothíriel and he was touched to be recognised as the close friend of one he regarded so highly. He slid rather ungracefully off the back of the Mearas and allowed himself to be supported by Amrothos towards the tents which had been speedily erected to give privacy to those most severely wounded. ‘Genting!’ came a concerned cry behind him. Both he and Amrothos turned to see the striking clean-shaven Rider of Rohan striding towards them purposefully, his blond hair tucked behind his ears, dark strong eyebrows hunched in a frown as he came beside Genting, making him sit down on one of the makeshift beds so he could examine his injuries. All Genting could do was stare at the man in amazement. Quick to understand that the two were not unknown to each other and although curious as to the story between the two men, Amrothos had urgent duties to perform. ‘Genting, you are in safe hands now,’ he said kindly. ‘I will come and check on you later if you don’t mind. Lothi will want to know that you are alright.’ Genting nodded absent-mindedly, still staring at the man in front of him. ‘Cissy?’ he managed to say once Amrothos had gone. Hadán looked at him cautiously. ‘Cissy died with her mother when the raiders attacked our village. I am Hadán. I was always Hadán. My past is… complicated, Genting. More complicated than one of Lothi’s Faradin games. Let me fix this arm of yours. Here drink this, it will help with the pain.’ Hadán waited while Genting drank what he had been given and cleaned the wound thoroughly before bandaging it up securely. He helped Genting to lie down and made sure he was comfortable. Genting was totally confused. Cissy knew everything about him, he had told her the most intimate details of his life and he realised with a jolt that he knew nothing about this man. Tightly clasping Genting’s right hand, Hadán gazed intensely into Genting’s eyes, ‘You are going to need to rest. I don’t want to involve you in what’s about to happen. I cannot bear for anyone else I love to be hurt because of what I am…’ Hadán said looking away in shame. Freeing his hand, Genting grabbed Hadán forcing him to face him. Hadán swallowed hard. ‘You need to rest,’ he said firmly. ‘You? It cannot be you?’ Genting suddenly felt sick. His head turned and he blacked out once more. |