Eorl the Young led the Eotheod south to rescue Gondor’s desperate army at the battle of the Field of Celebrant in the year 2510 of the Third Age.  Much has been written about the subsequent alliance between Eorl’s people and Gondor and the pledges made between Eorl and Cirion. 

However, there is little to mark the details of the battle itself or the preparation, strategies and tactics of the Eotheod, Gondor, Orcs, Balchoth and their leaders in the days leading up to the conflict. 

Nothing at all is written in the known history of the Age of the unplanned inclusion of Aragost, Chieftain of the Dunedain, in the host of the Eotheod.  Keeping it secret for years, he left his account on a scroll hidden deep in the Dunedain archives at Rivendell, only recently discovered along with these two surviving maps of the encounter:

https://imgur.com/a/p0j5oCO

https://imgur.com/YkeRIcW

Join us then first in a short foreshadowing chapter in the year 2463 of the Third age, followed by the unfolding of events in the days and weeks leading up to the climactic battle of the Field of Celebrant.

T.A. 2463

The two men came in out of the storm, brushing epaulets of snow from their shoulders.  The tavern was quiet.  Few would venture out in such weather. 

The older traveler nodded towards a corner alcove where an old man in a grey cloak sipped on an ale.  He was expecting them.

They picked up two tankards at the bar and made their way over. 

“Not a fit night out for man nor beast” The old man in the grey cloak said by way of greeting.

“They say the weather has changed since my grandfather’s time.” the older traveler replied, easing into a seat at the table.

“It was indeed a more benign time for your grandfather Aragorn in more ways than one” the man in grey replied

“You knew them both?”  the younger traveler inquired.

“Yes, Aragost, and their fathers and grandfathers before them, chieftains of the Dunedain as you will be one day.  They and your father Arahad have been guardians of these lands during the Watchful Peace.  It appears that time is ending.”

“Ending?” Arahad said quietly

“Sauron has returned to Dol Guldur.  Far to the east, beyond the sea of Rhun, it is said that men may be gathering in numbers.  There are signs of stirrings in Mordor.”

“It does not bode well, Gandalf” Arahad replied

“It does not.  As such, I, and another of my order have met with Elrond and others.  Word is going out to Thranduil in the north of Mirkwood, and to the dwarves where they may be found.  Arrangements will be made to inform Gondor.  And I am here to share these tidings with you.  We must now be on guard.”

“What do you expect?”  Aragost inquired

“He will test where things are strongest and that is Gondor.  As to what other mischief he will stir, it remains to be seen.  You are the eyes and ears of what transpires along the Misty Mountains, west to the Shire and south to Dunland.  It would behoove us to meet here once yearly”

“Agreed.  Provided it is not in mid-winter.”  Arahad let a smile soften his weather hardened mien.

“When the leaves turn then.”

The two men nodded in agreement.  It was done then. 

The innkeeper took that moment to arrive with a tray heavily laden with bread, cheeses and smoked ham.  It was on the house.  He knew well that these two travel weary men with serious faces kept Bree and its outlands safe.  A generous meal and his best overnight room was the least he could do.

He had been summoned from maneuvers on the Pelennor scarcely an hour ago, escorted by two of the Steward’s Guards of the Citadel.  Neither of them had said a word, leaving him to speculate as to what he might have done to arouse the wrath of the Steward, if that was what was in store for him.

“Borondir” Cirion intoned as Borondir was led into the Steward’s private courtyard by the two guards who then wordlessly left. 

Gondor’s leader was a tall man, with dark brown hair swept back from a noble, but serious face with penetrating grey eyes which now focused on Borondir.

“Your reputation commends you to me.  We are in need. Come” Cirion motioned him to a long waist high table.  Borondir untensed his shoulders.  He was not facing punishment.  Another fate awaited.

A great map was unrolled, secured at the table corners with brass weights.  Cirion approached the table and pointed out features on the map.

“North of us the Balchoth marshal on the east side of the Undeeps.  They arrive in great numbers.  I ride out tonight to meet our Northern Army already some days march to the Anduin.  I need you and five others to ride out to seek aid if we are assured to prevail”

“What aid can that be?” Borondir wondered out loud.  “Are we not alone, always alone, facing invaders?”

Cirion shook his head and directed the pointer to a corner of the map.

“Far to the north, over two hundred leagues from where we stand dwell the Eotheod.  Centuries past we fought together against the Wainriders.  A desperate hope it is that they will come again to our aid, but hope we must.  You and five others will ride to them in pairs.  What I tell you must be committed to memory.  You will take this carven stone as evidence of my seal.  The rest…is in the hands of fate.”

Borondir had then listened to and memorized the Steward’s plea for aid, with details of the Balchoth horde, their numbers, weapons and plans as they surmised them. 

Then he was led away through halls and passages, emerging to a paved open space where a powerful chestnut stallion waited.  It was heavily laden with supplies for the long ride.  A captain of the guard gave him final instructions.

“You will ride north from Minas Tirith tonight.  Make way through Anorien, then mark your path to the North Undeeps.  From there follow the Anduin.  A map is in your saddle pocket.”

Borondir nodded, walked over to one of several swollen saddlebags the horse was carrying.  The Captain commented.

“Special feed for the horse.  Your provisions are in another bag.  A resupply station awaits you in west Anorien, at the River Glanhir and at the Undeeps.   Then you  must forage to supplement what you carry.  North of the Undeep you may encounter Balchoth raiding parties”

“Did you hear that?”  Borondir whispered into the horse’s ear.  “We must fly to stay ahead of hunger and murder.  What say you?”

The horse snorted then turned its head, assessing Borondir fully for the first time.  It could sense the seriousness of the emotions of men.  Life would be at risk.  Was this man up to it.

Their eyes locked.  Borondir smiled.  They understood each other.  Equals, partners, the arc of their lives crossing on this mission of peril.

Borondir gently held the horses’s head in his hands. 

“You have heart enough for both us.”  He stepped back, turned to the Captain.

“My partner?”

“He awaits you at the gate to the city.”

Borondir stepped up and swung into the saddle.  A nudge, then hooves clattered on paving stone as they started down the road to the gate, far below.

Erandor looked out over the battlements of the old fort towards the river, glimmering in the morning sun.

It was nearly half a league to the far shore.  In between were shifting sandbars and shoals, small rocky islands and the great pulse of the Anduin sliding by.

His keen eyes could just make out the activity of men on the far shore, advance groups of Balchoth.  When the wind came from the east he could hear the sound of voices in their harsh, rude tongue.  And hammering.  They were building things, rafts if the spies were correct.

It was getting harder to spy with the buildup on the other side.  Indeed it was a close run thing that the Steward’s messengers crossed here at the North Undeep just the day before.

Their path would not be easy.  The Vales of the Anduin were no longer safe.  Armed scouting parties of Balchoth had driven most settlers out, those who had survived the random night ambushes. 

Erandor remembered his hurried conversation yesterday, with Borondir who had stopped to resupply with his scouting partner.

“What news from Minas Tirith?” Erandor had asked.

“The North Army marches to confront the invaders.  I ride north to seek aid from the Eotheod.”  Borondir had replied as he’d refilled his saddle bags with feed for his horse and field rations for his own appetite.

Erandor had paled at the thought.

“But that is over one hundred fifty leagues from here.”

“Well do it know it” Borondir had replied grimly, his face set in resignation to his chances of surviving the distance.

That was when Erandor had finally understood.  Gondor’s North Army might not carry the day on its own.  Committing the South Army as well would leave the entire realm open to invaders from Umbar and Harad. 

“It will take…”  Erandor had started, but Borondir interrupted him.

“Ten days hard ride to Framsburg.  Even if Eorl comes to our aid, the muster will take time and their journey south over a week.  Yes, it will take time! Gondor must then buy time and you, Erandor, must hold fast with Gondor til our return.”

There was steel in his voice, hardness in Bornondir’s eyes. 

It had been a dose of reality for Erandor.  Until that moment it had been a distant thing, a possibility and one that surely Gondor would meet and prevail.

But from that moment on, imminent arrival of the Balchoth across the river was real, building its strength with the intent to destroy.   He would be in battle, trying to save his life, to save Gondor.  

“I will meet you on the battlefield, Borondir” he had replied.  “Not as a corpse, but with my sword cutting them down like spring wheat.” 

“Pray the harvest is good, Erandor!” Borondir had shouted as he swung into the saddle.  A nudge to his horse and he’d galloped away.

Would Borondir survive the ride?  Would aid be granted?  Would his bold words to Borondir come to haunt him as a fool’s boast?

Erandor had no answers to these questions.  What mattered today was across the river.  The far shore was now thick with Balchoth, a tide of men that ran north and south along the Anduin.  The east wind bore the voices of a large multitude.  The river bank was dotted with their large wooden rafts, being assembled at a feverish pace.

His small garrison of twenty was steadily sending reports to the North Army. It was still a good two weeks away, pushing to beat the Balchoth to the western shore of the Anduin and drive them back into the river.

If the Balchoth attacked before then, Erandor had orders to evacuate the fort, head south and meet the North Army.  A sacrifice of the garrison would serve no good purpose. 

A scout returned from a spy mission on the river.  Overnight he had hidden on a shallow river island, in a thicket of shrubs and small trees.  He whispered into Erandor’s ear, then made off to a waiting horse to ride south to the North Army.

The news was bad.  More than five thousand had already arrived.  Scores of large rafts had been assembled.  And over a thousand more arrived every day.  Erandor knew from reports two months ago that their numbers could reach twenty thousand. 

Then they would attack. 

Erandor estimated that would occur in two to three weeks at the rate they were arriving.  The North Army would be at his doorstep in two weeks at best.  It would be a close call and he could do little more than wait.

Cirion emerged from his field tent on a slight knoll, standing quietly, looking at the stars wheeling above.  He sighed heavily, reviewing once again the latest scout’s report which had confirmed his worst fears.

The Balchoth were massing at the Undeeps, their wains bringing supplies and countless rafts they would use to cross and ravage Calenardhon.  He could not permit that to succeed. 

Cirion looked out over the plain below him.  Campfires flickered in the darkness.  He had 10,000 battleworthy soldiers.  More could not be spared for risk of inviting attack from the south or east.  His son Hallas had remained in Minas Tirith, entrusted with its defense

The scout had estimated at least 10,000 crudely armed Balchoth, with another 10,000 to come.  They carried clubs, short spears, some with hatchets.  They bore no chain mail, just padded coarse tunics, some with a leather curiass.  They did not deign helms, letting their black hair run wild. 

Cirion’s men carried swords, short spears and small circular shields. Some had forgone the spears for short battle hatchets.   Armor included helmets and chain mail hauberks.   One tenth of his forces were archers. 

It might not be enough.

So he thought, as he heard footsteps approach.

“You’ve received the scout report” a gravelly rasp queried.

“Yes, general.  Such numbers.”  Cirion replied to Vorandur, general of Gondor’s north army.  An old campaigner he was nonetheless still a canny tactician and firm disciplinarian.

“So be it.  We cannot retreat back to Minas Tirith.  That will not lessen their numbers.  And we would cede all of Calenardhon.”

“No we cannot.  We either have the strength to defend the kingdom or Gondor falls.”

Cirion’s thoughts went back to the tenth day of the month when he had sent Borondir and his companion north, the first of three pairs seeking out the Eotheod.  Even then he had feared the worst, an attack in such numbers to overwhelm his better equipped army. 

Even if Borondir survived a ride of over two hundred leagues, there was no assurance that the horsemen would come, would come in sufficient numbers, and most importantly, would come in time.

More than two weeks had passed since the riders galloped off.   

“General, what is our timetable?”

“We are at least two weeks march from the Undeeps.  It will take the Balchoth many days to organize themselves on the east bank of the Anduin.  Then they must take their rafts across the river and reassemble on the western shore.  That will take time and they will be vulnerable.”

Cirion smiled.  It had a chance.  Let them land a third of their force on the west bank.  With the army had at hand he would have the numbers to annihilate their vanguard.  That would begin to even the odds should they still proceed.

It had to work. 

It was a still clear night. The moon shone bright and hard.  The first wisps of ground fog were collecting in the low folds of the land.   

Borondir was awake.  A third night on an empty stomach did not grant sleep.  Nor did his throbbing head, still oozing blood from a Balchoth club during an ambush south of the Carrock.  It had claimed the life of his partner.

His horse lay on its side, snoring lightly, exhausted after days of riding.  Its stomach was bare as well, having eaten the last of the feed two nights before.

He unrolled the map the Captain of the Guard gave him in Minas Tirith in what felt like months ago.  Moonlight lit up the pale vellum, contrasting with the lines, figures and illustrations that were Middle Earth.  He drew his finger along a black wavy line bearing north from Gondor to the far north.

It was the Anduin and by his reckoning they were a half day from the junction of the Langwell and the Graylin whose combined waters sent the mighty Anduin down to the sea.  Then another half day to Framsburg.

It was all the time they could afford.  Their bodies would only carry them so far. But his horse could no longer carry him.  They would walk together to the land of the Eotheod. 

He went to the horse to whisper in its ear, to say it was time to get up and take this last long day with him.  The chestnut snorted wearily, stared at him accusingly for a moment, then made a show of clambering up on aching legs.

Borondir smiled, stroked its muzzle then led it on, north into the night.

                  ----------------------------*------------------------------------

Time passed.  They followed the gentle folds of the land, the Anduin valley a few miles to the west, wreathed in silvery fog.  They stuck to game trails, narrow creases in the wild grasses frosted by the moonlight. 

Fierce stars glittered overhead.  His breath exited in a light fog.  It was utterly silent save the brush of his legs against the grasses and the soft whoosh of the horses’s breath at his side.

After a while the harsh blackness of the night sky began to soften in the east.  Borondir felt a flicker of anticipation for the dawn.  With light they would better see the crossing of the Graylin.  Better light would make them seen as well, or so he hoped.

Another hour and the moon set west of the Misty Mountains, tugging night with it leaving a flat, cold early dawn.  The sound of rushing water ahead bespoke the Graylin making its final rush to merge with the Langwell, forming the Anduin. 

He could now make out the rough stone bridge that crossed the Graylin.  From his instructions nearly two week past, he knew that Framsburg was another few hours march.  There he would find Eorl, son of Leod, Lord of the Eotheod to receive the Steward’s message and plea.

He would not arrive alone.

On the other side of the bridge eight horsemen left their position guarding the far shore of the bridge.  They crossed, split into two groups that sped forward, eventually bracing him on either side, leaving two riders athwart his path to bring him to a halt.

They were well armed, each with light chain mail, battle swords drawn.  An axe was at hand’s reach in a leather saddle sleeve.  A long spear hung in a leather sheath on the left side of the saddle. 

“You there, what is your business” A stern, blond haired young man demanded.

Borondir took him to be the leader.

“I have ridden over a fortnight from Gondor with an urgent message from the Steward”  Borondir replied weakly but relieved nonetheless. 

The leader stared blankly back at him.  Borondir smiled wearily and drew a small greenstone with the Stewards seal engraved on its face. 

“The Steward’s seal” Borondir handed it to him.

He examined it, turning it over and over, then gave Borondir an appraising look.

“You have come far.  I know not of stones and sigils, but it is not of our kind.  We will bring you to our lord Eorl at once.  He will listen to your message.  Your horse is spent.  Eric will care for him while you take his mount.”

A tall, golden haired man dismounted and led his piebald white and brown horse over to Borondir.  As it approached, it shared a glance with Borondir’s steed.  A brief eye contact ensued as the piebald assured the spent horse that Borondir would be safe.

Bornondir wearily mounted the piebald.  The patrol leader motioned to him.

“We will be in Framsburg in an hour.  You will find some bread and dried meat in your left saddlebag.  More will be provided at the Eorl’s table, but for now you must begin to restore your strength.”

Borondir wasted little time fishing a small loaf of bread out of the saddlebag and hungrily tearing a chunk off.  Ahead, the patrol leader’s horse cantered off.  Four cavalrymen surrounded Borondir then followed, making way across the bridge spanning the Greylin, en route to Framsburg. 

Aragost stood at the rail bordering the small flagstone courtyard.  The sky was beginning to pale in the east. His breath hung in the still cold air of early spring. 

It had been ten years since his last visit to the Eotheod.  Leod had then been the Lord of the land.  Now his son Eorl was master of not only the realm, but Felarof as well, the great white steed that had thrown and killed his father.

Eorl had extended his hospitality, providing private lodging at a guest house built next to the great hall.  Eorl had his own much larger manse on the other side of the hall.  Last night was for greetings.  The morning was for conversation.

The doors of the hall opened.  Aragost could see he was not alone at this early hour.  Eorl was striding his way, followed by a single servant with a full tray.

He was tall, broad shouldered.  A mane of long blond hair framed a strong face and piercing blue eyes.  Clothed in doeskin pants and tunic, he was dressed for a light ride in the country as was his want in the mornings. 

Aragost matched him in height and breadth.  His face at 79 years was that of weathered nobility under a sweep of dark brown hair with the first streaks of gray. For the Dunedain, 79 was a man in his prime, not one doddering in old age.  He walked towards Eorl as they met at a table set out on the courtyard in front of the main hall.  The servant left a tray of bread, cheese, blueberry jam and hard boiled eggs.  Hot cider steamed in mugs.  Eorl gestured that they should sit.

 “I trust you slept well?”  Eorl inquired, taking a bite out of an egg.

 “The hospitality of the Eotheod has no match.”  Aragost replied spreading some jam on a slab of bread.

 Pleasantries dispensed, Eorl pressed on with the business of the day which was the state of affairs in the lands to his south, now that evil had once again taken residence at Dol Guldur.

 “What of Orcs?  How is it you are here?”

 “Not an easy thing.  They have multiplied and infested the Misty Mountain passes to the south.  The Elven Lady Celebrian was beset by a band of orcs in the Redhorn Pass.  She was at their mercy until her sons Elladan and Elrohir arrived and laid waste to the orcs.”

 “I trust she is well.”

 “Recovered in body but not in spirit.  She has made way west to the Undying Lands.  For myself it meant I had to be even more cautious.”

 “They have been more bold from Mount Gundabad.  That has only decreased their numbers as our armed patrols have extended their range.  Great pyramids of severed orc heads are lit to burn for days.  It brings temporary peace.”

 Eorl’s eyes glittered and a wolfish smile suggested he was a frequent participant on patrols.

 “It is to the south where our concerns may lie.”  Aragost resumed

 Eorl gestured that he should continue.

 A great body of Easterners, called the Balchoth, has overrun forests near Dol Guldur.  They harry what folk remained in the Vales of the Anduin.  That will not satisfy them.  I fear they intend to move west into Gondor’s northern province, Calenardhon.”

 “We have marked them since the days I was born, Aragost.  Refugees from Rhovanian have brought tales of their brutality.  We take nothing for granted.  There are none we can expect to aid us this far north.  Our armorers have been busy these past years.”

 That had been apparent to Aragost as he’d entered the realm of the Eotheod.  It had grown since his grandfather Araglas’s time, now pressing across the Langwell to the lands to the south.  He had observed local eoreds mustering and practicing combat maneuvers.  To a man they were mail clad, with deadly spears and straight swords.  Some were bowmen, capable of sticking a target at 100 yards at full gallop.

 It was a formidable army should Eorl muster all the eoreds.  But for the moment it was a force for defense of their homeland. 

 “None would be so foolish as to test the resolve of your people.”

 “Let them come.” Eorl laughed.  “Death awaits any foe at the end of spear points or the edges of seven thousand swords.”

 Aragost smiled.  The young lord of the horse people relished the idea of combat as a young leader might if he had yet to be tested by war.  Skirmishes with outnumbered orcs was not war. 

Aragost changed the subject.

“You are running short of open pasture.  Many farms fill the land north of the Langwell.  You have even crossed that river for some leagues with settlement.”

Eorl nodded in assent. “We have prospered and have surplus to trade with the Northmen across the Anduin.  Yet we relish the open plain.  The lands to the south are wooded.  A hard labor to create riding space by cutting trees and burning stumps.”

 Aragost replied.  "There are open lands west of the Misty Mountains and south of the East West Road. Much of what lies between ruined Tharbad and the hobbit lands of the Shire have scarcely a man to count.  None make claim to it.”

 Eorl shook his head slowly.

 “It is no small thing to move. Our ancestors did so or I would not be here this moment talking of movement yet again.  But they fled from mortal danger from the East. There was no choice. No such danger is imminent. Can I risk the people in a crossing over orc infested high mountain passes to a land none of us has seen?”

 Before Aragost could answer, a young member of Eorl’s personal guard crossed the courtyard at a brisk pace, leaned over and whispered in his ear.

Eorl’s blue eyes widened slightly as he digested the message. 

 “Tell them I’ll be there in a moment.”

 Aragost raised his eyebrows in question.

 “A messenger…from Gondor, riding for a fortnight. I must go.  Come with me.”

They abruptly got up from the table. The personal guard was gesturing for them to come his way, down a path of stone steps to a large house with a thatched roof. Their medical house.

He hurried them inside to a bed in the corner where a man in light chain mail lay battered and bloodied, hollow with hunger. But his eyes were bright with the intensity of the message he was bound to deliver. Eorl knelt at his side. The messenger opened his mouth and began to speak.

A soldier was waiting at the Healing House as Eorl and Aragost approached. 

“Come, he his weak and anxious to give you his message.’

Eorl and Aragost walked briskly to the rear of the main room where a man lay.  He was clad in light mail over a dark padded tunic bearing the symbol of the white tree.  His strong face was thinned by hunger.  An aide was slowly feeding him some broth.

Eorl knelt down beside him.

“They say you have come two hundred leagues from Minas Tirith.”

Borondir stirred, braced himself up to a sitting position.

“I have a message from the Steward for the leader of the Eotheod.”

“I am Eorl, Lord of this realm.  What tidings prompts the Steward to risk such life and limb of his riders on a journey to our far land?”

“We are sorely pressed, my Lord.  East of the Anduin, over twenty thousand Balchoth gather near the Undeeps with intent to flood Calenardhon with their menace then march south to the heart of Gondor.  We have scarcely ten thousand men marching to meet them.  As your ancestors aided Gondor during the siege of the Wainriders in the days of the Kings, the Steward asks your aid in our hour of need.”

Borondir paused, closing his eyes, panting and exhausted.  The aide came with more broth and a small oat cake.  Eorl stood up, turned to Aragost.

“It is just as you said, the Balchoth”

“The threat is more imminent than I expected…and it would seem more dire” Aragost replied.

“My patrol leader said he left Minas Tirith on the tenth of the month.  His path north took him past Gondor’s north army then across the Undeeps on the fourteenth.”

Eorl paced back and forth trying to picture the situation to his south.  He stopped and turned to Aragost.

“Gondor’s army will make for the Undeeps.  They must meet the Balchoth head on as they cross.  It will take time for them to make that march, at least a fortnight, ”

Eorl paused and stared at Borondir, now in deep sleep.  He would let him rest, then press further for detailed dispositions of Gondor’s army.  But he knew enough already to make his decision.

He motioned Aragost to follow him through the entranceway back out into the bright morning sun. 

“We could do nothing.  Give the brave rider refuge with us here in the north, and leave Gondor to its fate.  Perhaps the Balchoth will not venture so far north to capture farmland and pasture when there is land and plunder much closer at hand across the Anduin.”

“But if they do…”  Aragost left the sentence hanging.

“If they do, we would face more than twenty thousand with the seven thousand riders we can muster.  I care not for the odds and many lives would be spent in uncertain victory.”

Eorl’s brow was furrowed with grave deliberations.  He paced back and forth, then turned and spoke to Aragost.

“But if we join with Gondor now, our combined forces number nearly those if the Balchoth,  Our horses will trample their foot soldiers into the earth.  Our swords will take their heads.  Our spears will pierce their bodies and their wills.  They will be defeated and of no further concern to Gondor or the Eotheod!”

Eorl was almost shouting.  The path was clear to him.  The excitement of the pending battle was in his blood.  His eyes were lit with the song of the sword. 

“Is there enough time?” Aragost quietly intruded.

Eorl’s heart slowed its pounding, his eyes cooled. 

“It is nine days hard ride to the Undeeps. Every man with a horse must come.   But I cannot just simply will such a thing.  The people must assent to such a task.”

Aragost nodded in assent.  It would risk all they had built over many generations.  Their lands would be undefended.  The preparations to muster 60 eoreds of over 100 riders each would almost be as daunting as the ride itself.

“I know your thoughts and have much the same.  We have rarely massed more than a thousand riders over the years.  At peace, we have no need to move armies.  Our eoreds are all we need to conduct patrols using local militias.  Now we must move seven thousand and see that they and their horses do not starve en route.  When we arrive our seven thousand must have a plan of attack.  I must meet with the Marshalls of the realm, my chief commanders who will bring their twenty eored captains.”

“How can I help?”  Aragost asked

“Join me.  Listen to the men.  Tell me what you see.”

Aragon nodded his assent.  Eorl stood facing him, hands on hips.

“You asked if there is time.  There is not.   I should have at least twelve weeks.  I have scarcely twelve days before we must depart.  But it must do.”

Eorl signaled to an aide who came running.  He whispered instructions in the aid’s ear.  The man went running.

“I have ordered messengers to ride to the Marshalls at all due speed.  They need gather their Captains.  I will ride out tomorrow.  Four days hence I will either have their support or we will watch from afar.”

Eorl took off at a brisk walk up the long stone path back to the main hall.  The wheels of his mind were turning rapidly from what he would say to the rations the men would need. 

Aragost watched the tall, blond haired warrior stride away.  Eorl would rouse his men to action, Aragost had little doubt.  He would bear witness as Eorl had requested. 

And then what.  Ride south with Eorl, plunge into battle hundreds of leagues away, risk his life and the line of the Dunedain?  Some knew of his journey to this land, his father Arahad for one, now old living out his last years.  His son, Aravorn, was learning his destiny in Rivendell at the hand of Elrond’s masters of lore and martial arts. 

His death on this mission would thrust Aravorn into the role of Chieftain.  One he was not ready to assume having passed just twelve summers.  One that Arahad could no longer carry given the infirmities of age in the winter of his life.

And he was just one man, no matter how well fostered in youth, or tempered by years in the wild.  His sword would cleave only so many Balchoth.  His absence would not affect the outcome.

He respected these truths but they did not sway him.

It was simple really.  He could not in good conscience claim the lineage of the kings of men and turn his back on Gondor in hour of need. 

The sun was setting behind the Misty Mountains as Eorl arrived with his personal guard.  The mustering field was dotted with tents, one for each eored captain and a larger enclosure for the Marshall of the northeast lands.

Eorl gestured to the guard leader who busied the troops in setting up Eorl’s tent.  Aragost walked with him to the tent of the Marshall.

“Wulfgar served as Marshall to my father, Leod.  He commands more than a score of eoreds.”

“What will he think?”  Aragost replied

“First he must hear the facts.  And realize that such a mustering and journey has never taken place in all the time of my people here.  He is brusque but will speak his mind truly.  That is why I value him.”

Soon they approached a large circular tent.  Decorated in green and gold it had white stallions emblazoned on each side.  A guard with a spear stood next to the entrance.

“The guard is his son.  There is no threat here.  He insures his father is not disturbed for trivial matters.”

“He looks formidable enough for any task you might assign”, Aragost remarked

“He may have his chance.” Eorl replied, approaching the guard

The guard saluted, recognizing Eorl.

“We have been expecting you.  Come inside.”  The guard opened the tent and bade them in.

It was well appointed.  Banners hung depicting forests, hunting for deer, men on horseback.  A long table anchored the center of the room.  On it were spread maps and three mugs of ale.  Off to the side the Marshall’s own area, with bed, chair and personal items.

“My lord!” Wulfgar the Marshall stepped out from the table, clasped his fist to his chest.

Wulfgar was a stocky man, powerful built.  His mane of dark gold hair was beginning to grey. 

Eorl stepped forward and gave the man a large bear hug.  Wulfgar had been like an uncle to him growing up.  Upon his father Leod’s death, the young Eorl, barely 16 summers, was instantly supported by his father’s favorite Marshall to lead the realm.

“Wulfgar it is good to see you.”

“You bring a guest?” Wulfgar queried, looking past Eorl at Aragost, paused at the entryway into the tent.

“His name is Aragost.  He has come over the Misty Mountains from Eriador.”

Wulfgar walked up to Aragost taking in his lean visage, high forehead and dark hair flecked with grey.

“You had less grey whence I saw you last at Leod’s court ten years past.  Man of the Dunedain.  What brings you to our land this day?”

“To visit, share tidings as before.  Though tidings come not from Eriador.” Aragost glanced at Eorl.

“A rider has come from Gondor, two hundred leagues south.”  Eorl replied

Wulfgar raised his eyebrows. 

“He did not come to share tidings.”  Wulfgar said flatly, then paused, thinking.

Wulfgar resumed.

“No, he came on most urgent business, such a journey.  Gondor needs our aid.”

Eorl smiled.  The veteran horseman was as shrewd as he was skilled with a lance.

“It is true”, Eorl replied, “The Balchoth, at least twenty thousand strong will cross the Anduin at the Undeeps.  Gondor’s North Army brings ten thousand men.”

“They may not prevail.”  Wulfgar said grimly, shaking his head. 

“Or it may be such a win as to bleed out both sides, reducing the army to a shadow of itself.” Eorl replied

“Leaving Gondor victorious but vulnerable for many years while rebuilding its forces.” Wulfgar replied, folding his arms across his chest, head slightly bent as if anticipating what would come next.  A moment’s thought and then his face was settled, a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Come, my lord, and guest, Aragost.  Let us continue in more comfort.”  Wulfgar gestured to an area in the tent with comfortable benches.  They each picked up a tankard of ale on the map table.  Wulfgar retrieved a scroll and spread it out on a low table in front of them as they sat down.  Eorl spoke first.

“We could choose to do nothing.  A matter beyond our concern.  An unnecessary risk.”

Wulfgar took a sip of ale, then pointed to the map on the low table in front of them.

“One hundred fifty leagues south.  They could well be overwhelmed and destroyed.  At best, they win but are sorely depleted, fatally vulnerable for years. If the Balchoth turn their eyes north it would be we alone who face their thousands”

“Or we could muster the eohere.  Seven thousand riders.  Even the odds.  The Easterners are on foot, rudely armed.” Eorl countered

“The Balchoth would be destroyed.  Wulfgar replied, “Trampled under hoof, hewed with swords and stuck with spears.  Gondor would be preserved and our realm safe.” 

Aragost remained silent.  It was not for him to decide. 

“It seems that the choice to remove doubt about the future lies in our hands,” Wulfgar continued.  “We must act”

Eorl smiled.  The old Marshall had come to the same conclusion as he had in conversation with Aragost the day before.  It was best this way.  As lord, he could have simply ordered the mustering and committed to the long journey south.  But having his Marshall come to the same conclusion not only confirmed his own thoughts but created an active supporter.

“Act we shall” Eorl replied, “Come, let us look at the map.  There is much to plan if we are to move such a host.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day Eorl stood in the mustering field on a bright fresh spring morning.  In front of him were assembled twenty-three eored Captains and their Marshall, Wulfgar. 

“Marshall Wulfgar.  Captains of the realm.  I come to you with news from the South.”

There was a murmuring among the Captains.  Wulfgar silenced them with a glower.

“A messenger has arrived from Gondor.  He has ridden more than two hundred leagues, survived attacks, arrived starved and weary.  Over twenty thousand Balchoth mass on their borders against Gondor’s army of barely ten thousand.  Gondor may not prevail, may be defeated and overrun.  They seek our aid.”

The murmuring resumed, swelling into conversation among the Captains.  Eorl motioned to Wulfgar that they should feel free to debate.

After a while their voices subsided.  Eorl continued.

“You might ask, what if we do not heed their call.  It is far away.  The Easterners invade Gondor, not the land of the Eotheod.  Why should we risk our full strength in a battle not our own.”

The murmuring renewed.  A few nodded their heads at his last words.

“Because, my Captains, if Gondor falls, we are left alone against the Balchoth and their dark allies.  Then we will the ones facing them with long odds.’

The murmuring stopped.  Eorl slowly paced back and forth in front of them, then continued.

“No, today we must heed their call.  With a full muster of the eohere we nearly match their numbers.  Our horses will trample them into the dust.  Our swords and spears will cut them to ribbons.  We will destroy them!  What say you1”

A split second passed.  Then the Captains erupted in a roar of approval.

Aragost watched it all play out from the side of the Marshall’s tent.  These men would follow Eorl to the ends of the earth if he so asked.  Now the Captains would report back to their villages, inform the men of their eored of their task and begin feverish preparations. 

                                        9. On the March

It was late afternoon. 

His army was spread out below him, setting up tents and campfires.  The sounds of ten thousand voices rolled up the hillside where his field tent was situated. 

It was clad in white, the Steward’s colors, which made it visible to all the troops. 

Despite the noise of the army making encampment for the night, Cirion felt a  larger quiet about him.  They were in open land, grassland, empty land 

And that was at the root of the problem.  An empty land meant no farms, villages, towns or commerce.  Calenardhon could not contribute men to Gondor’s army.  It was a place where an army of ten thousand could march with only the grass and their own ears to hear the tread of their boots. 

And so to defend Gondor’s northern province, an army of soldiers from homes in Anorien, Minas Tirith and parts of the White Mountains must of needs march north to meet the enemy.

It was not sustainable, Cirion knew.  Empty lands were just lines on a map.  Without people, it was of little use to defend it.  Yet the magnitude of the threat was not of roving bands of brigands.  It was of such numbers that Gondor itself was threatened.  It had to be met or Gondor would be perceived as weak and others beside the Balchoth would soon be at their doorstep.

True enough but nonetheless these last few days he had questioned himself over and over. 

Should he have committed the South Army as well, bringing their full force to bear, but leaving the entire kingdom open to invasion from the south and southeast?  Was it galling but more pragmatic to simply retreat to Gondor’s core territories and provide a fierce, strong defense should the Balchoth not be content with just Calenardhon?  Was that better than risking annihilation of his North Army in its entirety?

And then there was Borondir.  Had he reached Eorl?  Would the Lord of the Eotheod respond?  Would it be in time?

The fact was he had no good choices and he knew it.  A hard thing to know as he looked out over the sea of men he commanded, men who trusted his leadership, that he would not lead them to doom.

For all his doubts, though, the path he had chosen was the only one that offered the promise of victory…if Eorl answered his call. 

Cirion signaled to an aide.  He would go amongst the men, see how they felt, sample the morale, and dine with them around a campfire.  If doom was their destiny then he would share it and all else with them. 

Eorl had ridden west after the morning with Marshall Wulfgar and his Captains. 

In a setting similar to the morning meeting, Eorl met with Cenhelm, Marshall of the northwest, along with his twenty five eored Captains.  The outcome was much the same. Cenhelm had then hosted them in his field tent that evening.  Early the next day he accompanied Eorl and Aragost back to Framsburg for a meeting of the Elders of the Eotheod.

Eorl's Marshalls would represent the men of the eoreds.  Werhild, his father’s brother, as Landsman, would speak to the state of the crops and livestock.   Eadric, was well versed in the inventories of seed, fodder and foodstuffs and general supplies.  Hengest was the master armorer whose smiths might find themselves suddenly busy.      

Finally there was Grimgar, his grandfather’s youngest brother.  And old man of seventy, he was a trusted source of wisdom, one who took a long view irrespective of the passions of the moment.  When Leod was thrown and killed by Felarof, Grimgar had been a forceful supporter of the sixteen year old Eorl as the new Lord of the realm. 

Eorl would bring two guests, outsiders to the council of Elders.  One was Borondir, who had recovered sufficiently to recount his tale directly.  The other was Aragost of the Dunedain, by chance visiting to renew contacts after ten years absence. He stood with both of them outside the doors to the Council Chamber. 

“You are improved” Eorl turned to Borondir.

Indeed he was.  He had slept like the dead, then woke with the appetite of a bear.  He had washed off leagues of dirt and dust off.  Aides had cleaned his field uniform.  The image of the White Tree shone against the blue black of his short traveling tunic.  His eyes were clear and purposeful.

“I was running out of days.  You have given them back to me and more with your hospitality.”

“Come then.  The Council awaits.  A grave decision is upon us I fear.”

With that Eorl pushed open the tall doors and emerged into a room with a long polished oak table.  The Council looked expectantly at him as he walked over to his chair, motioning Borondir and Aragost to theirs. He paused for a moment standing at the head of the table, assessing the faces turned his way.  Then he spoke.

“Men of the Council.  Two days ago, this man…”  Eorl gestured to Borondir, “…arrived at the south bridge, half starved, exhausted from more than a fortnight’s ride from Minas Tirith bearing dire news.  I would have him tell his tale directly”

At the other end of the table, Grimgar nodded in assent.  Eorl bade Borondir begin.

“On the tenth of this month, Cirion, Steward of Gondor, sent out three pairs of riders who were to ride north to seek your aid.  It seems I am the only one to survive.”

“The Steward requests your aid.  To the east of Gondor, the Balchoth have advanced from the East.  Though rudely armed, they number twenty thousand or more.  They are massing at the Undeeps, planning to cross and overrun Calenardhon, perhaps then advancing on Minas Tirith itself.  Cirion leads the North Army of ten thousand soldiers.  The South Army guards Minas Tirith and the southern approaches to Gondor.”

“You have not enough” Grimgar declared flatly

“No, we do not.” Borondir replied

“And why is this our concern?” Werhild mused out loud, stroking his voluminous beard.  “One hundred fifty leagues to meet a foe of Gondor, their foe.  Do they attack us? Would Gondor ride north if Gundabad burst forth with legions of orcs to harry us?”

It was Werhild’s way, Eorl knew, to be the contrarian.  He respected the man’s links to the land its tillers, how they viewed the challenges of their world.  But he also knew that Werhild harbored some envy that Eorl, at 16, and not he, had been chosen as Leod’s successor. 

“They do not attack us.  Today…”  Eorl replied, evenly.  “But in recent years they have rendered the Vales of the Anduin uninhabitable below the Gladden Fields where Borondir almost met his doom at their hands.”

Werhild waived him off.  “A hundred leagues from here.  I know what you propose.  Vacate the realm of any who can ride a horse, wield a sword on this quest.  Where are the arms, legs and backs to manage the farms, tend to the livestock, defend the realm against enemies closer at hand?  What if you don’t come back?”

And that was the nub of it.  The room went silent, awaiting an answer.  Finally, Wulfgar, the old Marshall spoke.

“An army can march a hundred leagues in a month.  My eored’s can cover that in less than a week.  A week, a month.  That is the time that separates us from the present northernmost predations of this Balchoth.  It is a short time.  We are not so remote as to dissuade an enemy with a will.”

Wulfgar leaned back in his chair, glanced around the table, then continued.

“If we sit here, do nothing, then we are just waiting.  Waiting to see what the Balchoth and others like them will do after they defeat Gondor’s North Army, as surely they will if Gondor stands alone.  We would wait, our seven thousand horsemen against their twenty thousand foot soldiers should they come.  We might not prevail.”

Wulfgar let that sink in for a moment, then continued. 

“For my part, I prefer not to wait nor ask my children and grandchildren on to wait on their whims for a time when we are alone against them.  If we seize the day, this day, we meet them with Gondor’s strength beside us.  We will destroy them.  There will be no waiting”

A low murmur swept the room.  Eadric spoke.

“We have ample supplies of feed and traveling rations.  The last two harvests have been good and the winters mild.  It will not strain our reserves.  Men and horses must eat whether they are here or en route to Gondor.”

“They will have the best of weapons.”  Hengest offered as chief armorer in the realm.  “We have been at peace for many years.  It has given us time to prepare well for war should it have come.  Every man shall wield a fine sword, shield, and lance.  All will have light mail and helms.  Indeed, most of them already are so armed.”

Eorl stood, arms folded, looking down the table at Grimgar. 

“It is not in our nature to wait.”  The old man growled.  “Nor is it to chase foolish quests. Wulfgar is right to measure threats to our southern borders not in leagues but in time, the time an enemy takes to reach our realm.  I also look at time as an old man.  Not just this season, the fall harvest, the winter snow.  But the future of our people, the Eotheod, our grandchildren’s grandchildren.  It is upon us, in this room, to protect them.  To do that we must act.”

Eorl leaned forward slightly, place his palms on the table, fixing on Werhild who squirmed slightly in his seat.

“And act we will.  From what Borondir tells me, by mid next month Gondor will meet their foes at the Undeeps.  That is nine days hard ride south from here.  We must be there. Marshalls, can we muster the eohere in time?”

The two Marshalls, Wulfgar and Cenhelm, huddled together.  Then Wulfgar spoke.

“We can muster seven thousand fully armed horsemen and three hundred mounted archers.”

Borondir’s eyes widened at the number and realization that his mission might save Gondor. 

“Very well.  Every one of them must be in formation south of the Graylin no later than the sixth of next month.  Marshalls, consult with your eored Captains. Hengest and Eadric, see to their needs as best you can in such short time.  And Werhild, we need to talk about the state of spring planting.  We must have crops to return to when our task is done.”

And so the meeting ended.  The Marshalls hurried out to conduct a canvas of their Captains as to needs for arms or supplies.  Hengest and Eadric went their own directions to check on inventories.  Grimgar quietly left with a satisfied smile on his face.

Two men sat at a table in an outdoor courtyard awash in spring sun.  Except that only one of them was a man, and only half man at that.  The other looked like an old man but was something else entirely.

The one with the pointy blue hat was visiting, passing through as he called it.  His dark-haired host welcomed his visits which often lightened his grave countenance.  They caught up on the affairs of Middle Earth and worried about its future. 

“She has gone over? 

“Yes, Gandalf.  Celebrian no longer felt safe.  Though she survived the attack by the orcs, she had become sundered from Middle Earth in spirit.”

“It is not safe, Elrond, truth be told.” Gandalf replied, “Orcs multiply.  They infest all the passes through the Misty Mountains.  There is no present force to stop them”

“There is a larger problem to the south and east” 

“The Balchoth.” Gandalf replied, puffing on his pipe

“Word has come to me that Gondor intends to make battle with them west of the Undeeps in Calenardhon.”  Elrond unfolded a piece of paper and nudged it Gandalf’s way.

Gandalf perused the message, borne to Rivendell on the wings of a hawk released from Minas Tirith two days past.

“The Northern Army is outnumbered.  They seek aid.”

“We cannot help them in any material way, Gandalf.  And there are no great kingdoms of men who can.  Arnor has disappeared.  Most of Eriador is empty, save for settlements in Bree, Hobbits in the Shire and Dunlendings to their south.”

“What of the men of the north?  The Eotheod grow and prosper.  They are fine horsemen, fierce and well-armed to defend their realm.”  Gandalf replied.

“All well and good they are.  But how likely are they to pick up stakes and ride more than 200 leagues south to join Gondor in engaging the Balchoth in battle?”

“Perhaps we should find out” Gandalf replied

Elrond raised his eyebrows at what seemed to be a spurious thought.

‘Find out?  Do you propose to hazard the orc infested passes and trudge seventy leagues north to pose such a question?  Even if you arrived unscathed, the battle at the Undeeps would be long over ‘ere any aid could arrive” Elrond replied dismissively

“There is one there already who can answer.  I saw him off over a fortnight past as he made way north for a visit he makes once every ten years.”

“Who?”

“Aragost.  He was last there during the reign of Leod.  Leod who is nine years dead with his son Eorl now as Lord of the realm.  Surely we can spare a hawk to make inquiry with a message of our own.  Aragost will attach his reply to it.”

“You cannot expect him to rouse the Eotheod to Gondor’s aid, Gandalf.  They are safe and remote and will not risk all on the word of a single man, even if he is Isildur’s heir, which will mean little to them.”

“I have no expectations.  I am just an old wizard seeking knowledge.”

Elrond looked at him narrowly.

“There is something more to this than meets the eye, but I know better than to spend my time trying to pry it out of you.  Very well.  We shall release a hawk.  With favorable wind and weather, he may return in three days.”

“Plenty of time to get about.  I understand young Aravorn is about with Elladan and Elrohir, learning woodcraft and orc stalking.”

“He is a quick study, Gandalf.  You also might pay a call on Arahad who is my guest for the while, enjoying time with his grandson when the day’s lessons are done.”

“That I will.  Many a year it has been since I met with him and a much younger Aragost at the Prancing Pony to talk of the end of the Watchful Peace.  All in good time.”

“How long will you be gone” 

Leofric knew this was coming.  He had been back just a day from his meeting with the Marshall, listening to Lord Eorl talk of a bold mission. Equally bold was Freya, his wife of 10 years, standing before him in the upper field, hands on hips.  Clad in simple field tunic, she was nearly his height, broad shouldered with long blond hair.   

“All the eoreds muster at Framsburg.  We must ride south no later than the sixth of next month.  It will take nine days.”

“Your men are sharpening swords, bracing shields, fledging arrows.  Eorl does not muster the entire eohere to chase game.  You go to war.”

Her blue eyes blazed at him, rage not so much at his destination, but his reluctance to tell her the truth promptly and fully. 

“Yes, we do.”  He replied evenly, facing her.

Looking at him she had little doubt.  He was equipped for it.  Taller than most, hard muscle spread over a lean frame.  She had seen him practicing with his men, battle helm sconced over his mane of blond hair, demonstrating sword strikes on bales of hay. 

“I did not know we were at war.”  She said quietly.

 Leofric sighed.  All across the realm other husbands were facing their wives and this question.    

“A horseman arrived from Gondor two days ago.  They are outnumbered and will be hard pressed by Easterners called Balchoth.  If we do not respond, they are likely defeated.  Then nothing stands in the way of the Balchoth should they decide to venture north”

“Then we will meet them here, if they come this way.” 

“Freya, they number over twenty thousand.  Alone against them we may bear the same fate as Gondor’s army now faces.”

Freya turned away for a moment, looking down the slope towards the barnyard where her ten year old son and six year old daughter were tending the chickens.  Two flaxen haired children with no knowledge of what was to come.

“War makes widows and orphans, husband.  What if you do not come back.  What if none of you come back.  You do not know what you will find two hundred leagues south.  Gondor already defeated or retreated away and the eohere left alone to face this Balchoth!"  

“Retreat will not save them.  They would know that.  The only hope for victory is with our help.  The promise of a tomorrow where they…”  Leofric pointed to the children, laughing and chasing chickens, “…do not have to march to battle.  Our combined numbers are enough to take the field.”

She of course knew this, despite her protestations otherwise.  The women of the Eotheod had their own means of swift communication.  She wanted to gauge his commitment.  Doubt weakens the best sword.  It would not weaken his.

“Then you will be needing this.”

Freya opened a sack she was carrying and drew out a heavy tunic she had woven to be worn under chain mail.  Deep green it was with a stallion emblazoned in white on the front.  His eyes widened with delight and love for her.

“How could you…”

“This was meant for your birthday, come next month.  I did not create it overnight, husband, no matter how swift I weave.  We shall celebrate that day upon your return.  Now come, we must talk of practical matters, the farm, the children and what you will need.”

She led him away down the grassy slope towards their homestead, a sturdy stone house with a thick thatched roof.  She was smiling.

It was late in the day.  Aragost sat at a table on the terrace outside his quarters.  Long shadows from the Misty Mountains to the west would soon envelop the land, racing across the Graylin to Mirkwood and beyond. He and Borondir had visited the Armory.  Fine smiths had put a clean edge on his sword, closed holes in his chain mail and provided a long hand axe designed for horsemen felling orc heads from bodies.  Borondir had received his own attention, then left to join Eorl in counsel with his Marshalls about the route south.

An aide to Eorl brought a flagon of ale, some cheese and deer sausage.  Aragost nodded in gratitude.  Eorl would be by in an hour to join him for a full dinner after a pressing day that would not end with that meal.

Aragost had time on his hands.  Great events were in the making.  He would participate, ride with them to whatever victory or doom awaited.  But little more he could proffer.  They knew their tactics.  Each eored practiced them every year, often paired with neighboring eoreds.  Every other summer, Marshalls would mobilize their entire forces for a two week journey about the realm, living off supplies and the land, practicing larger movements.   Up to 2000 horsemen might ride, learning signals in battle, the use of pennants and horns. 

Now they worked out the battle doctrines for an army of seven thousand confronting a foe they had not yet seen, in numbers they had not known, in alliance with an army from Gondor with whom they had not spoken.  Aragost could not help them with this.  What lore he knew about great battles in the past, learned as a young man in Rivendell, was of little use. 

He sipped at the ale, gaze fixed to the east.  His sharp eyes caught a small dot in the sky, descending, growing larger as it took a wide, sweeping curve to the left and then to the right.  Then it straightened out and seemed to come directly towards him.  Aragost stood, watching the dot take form, growing swiftly larger. 

Aragost smiled.  He knew this creature.  Suddenly it was almost upon him, rearing up, baffling its wings to reduce speed, then floating down to rest on the table in front of him, staring expectantly.

Aragost glanced at its right leg where something had been wrapped about, just above the branch of its talons.  A message and judging by the rune on the outside, one from Rivendell. 

“Well master hawk, we meet again, both of us far from home this time.  We enjoyed a hunt three years past courtesy of Lord Elrond.  It seems I am your quarry today.”

Aragost cut off a slice of sausage and fed the proud red hawk which quickly snatched it away, downing it in an instant.  Aragost cut three more slices and left them on the table.  Then he slowly unwrapped the message while the hawk stabbed at the meat.

The Balchoth will attack at the Undeeps by mid next month.  Without aid, Gondor may not prevail.  Only with the Eotheod in force can victory be secured.

The message ended with Gandalf’s signature rune.

Aragost cut more sausage and cheese for the hawk, which he knew to be famished after such a long flight.  He would have to secure more before he set it off on return with his answer to the message. 

It did not surprise him that Gandalf knew of the peril from the Balchoth.  That had been building for some time and the old wizard had an uncanny way of knowing what was going on from the mouths of the Anduin to Iron Hills and west to the Grey Havens. 

But what to make of his last sentence.  Had he expected him to single handedly rouse the Eotheod to action?  Or did he know more and was just pressing the point home about the desperate state of things?  If he ever saw him again he would try for an explanation from the old riddler.  But for now, he had news and the need to get it back to him swiftly.  To what end he knew not, but he was far from underestimating what the old wizard could do.

At that moment he heard the sound of voices at the far end of the courtyard.  Eorl was bidding good day to his Marshalls and Borondir who would take a quick supper then resume their plans for the journey south.  Aragost spoke a few words to the hawk, communicating safety and friend so it would not fly off or try to peck out one of Eorl’s eyes. Eorl strode over to the table where Aragost sat, slowing his gait as he approached, stopping six feet short just to be safe.

“It seems you both are acquainted.” Eorl said

“We have hunted together in Rivendell, times past.  Buteor is skilled at spotting game and from time to time, orcs.”  Aragost replied

“Then he is welcome here, though his journey has been far for seeking game.”  Eorl eased closer and sat in a chair near the table.

“He brings a message from Gandalf the Grey.”  Aragost passed the paper to Eorl and cut more sausage and cheese for Buteor.

“I know of him,” Eorl replied, “He visited in my father’s time when I was a boy of ten.  He is well informed on the state of things.”

“I met him in Bree over a fortnight past just before I made my way north.  The danger of the Balchoth was discussed but not with the detail and immediate urgency that Borondir has brought us.” Aragost replied.

“Perhaps he had acquired more information since then.  Did he expect you to press us on aiding Gondor?” Eorl asked.

“I have long given up trying to fathom his thoughts and plans, though they generally fare well as pertains to the fate of men in Middle Earth.  He is a friend.”

“Well you have such a friend and also well you chose this time to visit.  The hawk would scarce have recognized anyone else.  Or not have come at all”

The hawk presently finished the last of the meat and cheese.  Eorl signaled to an aide to bring food more fitting for a raptor of the sky, then continued.

“What do you suggest we do, Aragost.  The outcome he seeks is about to come to pass.  Is it wise that we tell him now?  Is the advantage of surprise we now have at risk?”

“I have known him all my seventy-nine years.  In turn he has known the lives of my father, grandfather and those before them.  He has always acted without reproach.  Good always follows in his wake.”

Eorl contemplated this, chin in hand, while the aide came and dropped off a shallow bowl for the hawk.  A mix of shredded raw lamb and honey coated grains would supply energy for the long trip back.  

“Then we shall inform him.  If there is good to be found he will do so.  We should not turn away allies, whatever their contribution.”  Eorl signaled to an aide who brought pen and ink.  Eorl flattened the message, then turned it over, revealing a blank side used for responses.  Aragost watched as the pen scratched out a narrative in a small neat script.  Eorl pushed it over to him to read.

Aragost nodded his approval with its contents, then rolled the paper tight and fastened it to the hawk’s leg with a small piece of red dyed twine.  The hawk stared at him intently, then with a cry it leapt off the table.  Powerful wings pinioned and it rose quickly making for points west towards the foothills of the mountains.

“It will spend the night in the forests to the west.  It does not long suffer the world of men, bound to the earth.”

“But suffer it we must, Aragost” Eorl replied, “And we have work to do.  Come, Aragost, let me share with you what plans we have made.”

The two walked over towards Eorl’s private quarters near the main hall.  They were soon immersed in maps and the thought of distant battles yet to come.

It was late afternoon on a warm early spring day.  Bright clouds chased each other across a deep blue sky.  His army was making camp in the rolling swales of the Downs southwest of the Undeeps. 

It seemed unreal to Cirion, a fine spring day coexisting with the certainty of a desperate battle against a powerful foe not so many days away.  He was proud of his men, the best soldiers to be found.  Man to man, the Balchoth were no match for them.  But it was not man to man.  They were outnumbered at least two to one. 

Centuries past, Gondor had more men at arms and a cavalry wing to support them.  Time, invasions, neglect and a long period of peace had not been kind.  There were less volunteers, less pressure to commit funds and with the migration north of the Woodmen and Northmen, less horses.  Now what steeds they had were used by messengers or hauling wagons.  All the more reason he reached out to the Eothoed.  He knew their reputation, the unstoppable force of their eoreds.  It had been 20 days since his riders left for the north.  He had heard nothing, knew nothing. 

His eyes drifted north, over the near hills and beyond, catching the glow of the late sky.  Far off a dot emerged against a puffy cloud drifting west.  Larger it grew, moving little to the left or right, as if fixing purpose on him standing there.

Vorandur, his general, emerged from the field tent and followed his gaze. 

“A hawk, Steward if my old eyes don’t betray me” he growled

“Coming our way it would seem.  Look its wings have stopped beating.  It comes in at a glide.” Cirion replied.

The hawk banked left, then right, coming down from its high flight line, braking its speed, but keeping its eyes on the man in a white tunic standing just two hundred yards distant.  It was he who he had been sent to find.  The red hawk drew close rapidly, then reared up, fluffing its wings at the last, stopping forward motion and landing haughtily in front of Cirion, eyes flashing.

“Look, its right talon.  It bears a message” Vorandur observed.

Cirion approached it gradually, then knelt in front of the raptor, gently removing the tightly wrapped band about its right leg.  And aide appeared at his side with some scraps of meat to keep the hawk busy and sated.

Cirion unrolled the message.  His eyes widened, then closed with a relieved sigh.

“It is from Gandalf the Grey.  The Eotheod are coming, in large force.  Just over a fortnight they will be north of the Undeeps.”

“They must make haste.  The Balchoth will not abide along the Anduin waiting on their arrival.  I fear we will meet them sooner than that.  The latest scouting report estimates their lead elements crossing the Anduin on the tenth of the month.”  Vorandur replied

Cirion grimaced at the news.  Even moving at twenty miles a day he would be easily sixty miles west of the Anduin by the twelfth. 

“Yes, it means they will have crossed in full numbers before we can engage them.” 

“Our plan to attack them when they had only landed several thousand is now abandoned.”  Cirion muttered half to himself.  That plan had promise, his ten thousand to make swift work of seven thousand crudely armed easterners having just crossed the river.  Then the odds might look better against the remainder of the Balchoth after the first group was defeated.

Now the odds were longer.  They would be outnumbered at least two to one, maybe more.  Even worse, by his estimate now they would engage on the twelfth, a full three days before they could expect the Eotheod. 

“We must hold out, general.  The Eotheod cannot arrive to the Balchoth picking over our corpses on the battlefield, then turning and swarming over the horsemen who will be alone in this land.”

Vorandur knew what this meant.  Surrounded perhaps, facing a battle of attrition against an enemy of superior number with little regard for their own casualties.

“We must tell the men the truth.  That we face a dire battle.”

“We must also give them hope, general.  The possibility that the Eotheod may come to our aid.  A further reason to fight on, survive.”

Vorandur nodded affirmatively.  On the eve of battle, not many days hence, this would be revealed to the men.  In the meantime, tactics would be revised and drilled, supply and rations adjusted for a siege.  Men would have time to prepare themselves in their hearts that their minds would be settled and firm on that fateful day. 

Vorandur knew that would make them stick together in grim, solid purpose.    

“We got orders, Lugnashk” Bagrish barked

“What orders, Bagrish, you stinking slime.”  Lugnashk replied, loathing the commander he’d been assigned to as first deputy.

“His orders. ‘n you better be sharp about it. ‘e wants a thousand of you rats ready to go in a week, Lugnashk” Bagrish replied

“ ‘n where are we headed” 

“Make way southeast to the great river, ‘e says to me in my head.  Be there on the fifteenth where the Limlight joins the Anduin.”

“What then”, Lugnashk sneered

“ 'e says you’ll know what do to you little bug.  Just be ready to fight”

Lugnashk snarled and stalked out of the ramshackle hut that was their headquarters.  With equal charm he began shouting at his subcommanders slumped over rude tables in a shabby mess room, rousing them from wine induced stupors, kicking some, cuffing others on their pointy ears.

“Come on you swine.  We got heads to chop and guts to stick.  Find your troops.  We leave in a week.”

There was more grousing and groaning.  Several of them began fighting each other, dulled by splitting headaches from the sour wine.  Lugnashk separated them, beating them on their heads with his mailed fists, kicking them out the door.

Soon the woods and mountain crags were echoing with snarls and curses as the main host of orcs was similarly awakened. 

Bagrish listened with satisfaction.  He said the Steward of Gondor might be a prize and what might He pay for the head of such a trophy, Bagrish mused.  Whatever it was Bagrish would make certain that prize was his.

He was short, but wide and powerfully built under his padded tunic and small leather curiass.  Unkempt black hair spilled over his brow.  A nail studded war club and hand axe lay at his feet.

Dezoch brooded on the small knoll overlooking the rally point on the Anduin.  His two thousand men were idling on the riverbank, among the first of the ten tribes to arrive. He grated at the delay.  It would be nearly a week before all the tribes would gather, convert their supply wains to rafts and launch across the great river.  In the meantime his men were eating into their provisions, getting drunk on sour wine and losing discipline.  He would crack a few skulls later to bring them to order.

Mozuk, chieftain of the Balchoth, had placed Dezoch’s tribe on the south flank.  His men and three other tribes would soon separate from the main host once on the west side of the Anduin.  Mozuk would meet Gondor’s army head on.  Dezoch would lead the other tribes west, but just south of the battle.  Then they would swing north to stave in Gondor’s exposed right flank. 

Mozuk had hinted that others might attack Gondor from the northwest, but revealed little.

Dezoch cared little.  They would overwhelm Gondor with numbers and ferocity.

Once they had finished Gondor’s army, the lands west of the Anduin would be theirs.  So much land.  He had been promised a great swath and a lordship for his tribe, if he survived. 

Dezoch smiled.  He always survived.

“The men are ready, Lord.” 

Eorl looked out upon the assembly plain.  Marshall Wulfgar had assembled his twenty two eoreds in full combat formation.  Each rider wore a heavy tunic under a chain mail hauberk.  Soft deerskin pants were in order for the long ride ahead.  As to arms, they all bore a sword, spear, shield and axe. Saddle bags were full.

Eorl too was in full battle dress.  As with his men, his long golden hair fell out from a shining steel helm.  His polished chain mail hauberk lay over a leather padded tunic.  Light vambraces shielded his forearms, greaves protected his legs below the knee. 

“We do not as a rule mass in such numbers” Eorl remarked to Aragost and Borondir, joining him and the Marshal on a small rise overlooking the plain. 

“No more than five hundred men easily suffices to keep any orc incursions from Gundabad at bay.  But we prepare for much worse.  And it is a joy for us to ride so it is no labor.  We imagine such a foe that we would muster the entire eohere.  And that foe presents today to our south.”

Aragost looked out at the horsemen in the formation that constituted the right wing of Eorls’s army.  The twenty two eoreds of one hundred riders each were clustered into five groups of four to five eoreds.  Each group was led by a first captain, selected from among the captains of each eored.

“I battle I will lead the eohere at the center.” Eorl instructed. “Each Marshall leads a wing.  When we are upon the enemy I will give the order of battle.  My herald will sound the horn and Marshalls will sound theirs.  We then advance at speed to deal the enemy a terrible blow!”  Eorl’s ice blue eyes glittered for a moment, swept up in the scene he envisioned.

“The Balchoth will not stand idly by for slaughter” Borondir remarked.

“It would be quicker for them if they did” Eorl replied with a grim smile, “But adapt we can and our lead captains are expected to exploit what presents itself.  They will sound the horn for their eored group and take what prize may be offered.  Now watch and see.”

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Leofric waited several yards in front of the line of his five eoreds.  The Captains vote had chosen him Lead Captain for their section at the tail end of the right wing of the eohere. 

They were all mounted and ready, fully armed and pack laden.  It would be so in battle.  Leofric’s horn lay on his chest, strap cast over his right shoulder.  Upon the signal from the Marshall he would sound the horn as would all the Lead Captains.  Then they would ride in formation, charging across the assembly plain towards their targets, hundreds of posts, some with shields attached, others bound in straw.

His group would take the targets on the far right, hacking them to pieces in a single charge, then wheel around and charge back to their starting points heaving spears at freshly placed targets. 

He looked to the left.  The Marshall was galloping down from the knoll where he had met with Eorl.  Leofric watched intently.  Then as the Marshall approached the first of his troops he raised his horn and sounded the charge.

Immediately five horns echoed his signal.  With a shout, Leofric spurred his steed into action, hooves sending dirt flying.  The ground trembled with the terror of hundreds of horses charging at speed across the plain.

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Borondir and Aragost watched, transfixed as over two thousand horseman charged over the assembly plain towards their targets less than half a league away.  A great wave of hooves and steel led by the Marshall and his five lead Captains.

“See, the main formation, how each group of five eoreds maintains a slight separation from their neighbor group.”  Eorl was getting excited, watching them sweep across the plain in combat discipline.

“Now watch as the target masters in those scattered copses of trees cut the long ropes to raise new targets.”

Aragost and Borondir swept their gaze out into the distance.  Abruptly what had been rolling plain was dotted with a maze of new stakes risen up the far end of the wing. 

“A little surprise.  All tied down under tension, easily released by the target masters cutting the restraining ropes in the trees.  Now we will see if our Lead Captain at the end of the wing remembers his training.”  Eorl commented.

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Leofric saw it on his right as he closed the distance to his assigned targets.  A thicket of new targets, suddenly emerged, painted black, simulating orcs.  They would have to be struck down or the wing would be flanked.  At full gallop he raised his horn and sounded three times, then veered right. 

Three of his five eoreds split off from his formation and followed him.  The remaining two stayed on their original course.  Off to the left, the Lead Captain of the next eored group heard his signal and closed ranks with the two remaining eored’s providing support for their original mission.

Up on the knoll Eorl smiled in approval and gestured to Aragost and Borondir.

“Nothing is fixed in battle.  We train for change.  Watch now as the Lead Captain cuts his way through the orc targets.”

Down on the plain Leofric’s three hundred made short work of the stakes and straw dummies, leveling them with vicious cuts of their swords, then wheeling left to rejoin their other two eoreds which had decimated the original targets. The entire wing formation made a turnabout in good order, reforming the line, then charging back to their original position where large targets had been quickly raised.

Once again the ground shook under the pounding of incessant hooves. Dust and dirt flew in the air.  Men raised their voices in battle cry as they closed with spears drawn in their right hands.  Fifty yards out the spears were released, shredding the canvas targets.  A great cheer went up in the ranks.  They had performed well.

The cheers grew deafening as Eorl rode down to address the men, his sword held high in salute.

“Men of the Eotheod!  You have done well today!  In two days we depart to meet an enemy of flesh and blood, not straw and sticks.  But they will fall as hay before the scythe.  Gondor will be saved!”

A great roar went up in the ranks.  Men brandished swords, shouting. 

Up on the knoll Borondir spoke to Aragost.

“His men would follow him to any doom.”

“The doom will be for the Balchoth.”  Aragost replied

“If we are in time…if we are in time.”  Borondir said quietly to himself.

Aragost emerged from the field tent.  It was dark. Cold stars of adamant glittered against the black satin night, casting ghost light on a haze of ground fog. It would be dawn in an hour.  Dawn for seven thousand mounted warriors and three hundred cavalry archers who had arrived late yesterday and camped overnight. 

He still felt a sense of unease.  It was not the fear of battle, injury or even death.  For that he was well prepared despite the solitary nature of his life.  No, it was that he was still of two minds. His training, his birthright, had proscribed his life of a wanderer, a hidden shepherd of those dwelling in the open lands of Eriador.  He was not of Gondor, facing a desperate battle, not one of the Eotheod, warrior horseman riding to save Gondor and fulfill their own destiny. 

He was simply not necessary for the success of their mission.  Just another sword, a most capable one, but just one nonetheless.  Whereas, on the other side of the Misty Mountains, he was at times the only thing standing between men, hobbits, and the dangers of a world beginning to grow darker.  But there had been no great tests west of the mountains, not just yet.  He was seventy nine years old, in his prime as chieftain of the Dunedain, a lonely life he would begin to teach his son Aravorn in ten years.  A duty whose limitations had been hard to accept when he was a young man. 

Everything pulled him in the direction of that duty, to make west back over the pass, down to the East-West road the town of Bree and beyond, the rich farmlands of the Shire.  There to serve out the years until he was old and stiff and Aravorn wore the mantle of chieftain.

But until today there had been no alternative.  And he was made of flesh and blood, mortal, despite his long life.  He would have no other such chance as this. 

No, for all the pull of duty, he could not walk away from the great contest of his time.  To do so would be to give something away of himself, to surrender without a fight, quietly retreat home.  That was not in his blood. In fact at home he was more likely to die facing down an unexpected pack of wolves, outnumbered and alone, than in battle. His great grandfather had died thusly, rent by tooth and claw.   

Off to his left there was a rustle of cloth.   Aragost departed from his thoughts, glanced over.  A tall broad shouldered man with a long shock of blond hair emerged from a tent, mail clad, helm in hand.

“Ah, Aragost, always the first up.”  Eorl said as greeting, walking over, then continued, “I am glad you have joined me.  Do you know why?”

“No, if truth be told I do not.  I have been wrestling with the question of being here, not leagues away, west of the Misty Mountains as chieftain of the Dunedain.”

“I want you here because you are not one of the Eotheod nor a citizen of Gondor.  My advisors and Marshalls may not tell me all of what they really think.  You have no such need to withhold.  They will think only within the ways of the Eotheod.  You are not so bound.   You have lived more than thrice the years I have, received a noble tutelage.  We go to war, Aragost.  I will need your honest counsel in addition to your sword.”

“And you shall have it.” Aragost replied, the last vestiges of doubt being swept away. 

The two of them then gathered in front of Eorl’s tent for a quick breakfast.  The first fingers of dawn were reaching across the fading night.  Out in the plain, seven thousand warriors were finishing their own meal, packing their horses for the long journey.  An hour later they stood tightly packed in an arc below the slope where Eorl waited silently.

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The time for tests and maneuvers had passed.  He had seen them perform well, including the three hundred archers whose arrows would be sent to provide death and chaos in the ranks of the Balchoth. 

Eorl looked out at them on the bright, clear spring morning astride white Felarof on a small rise overlooking the entire eohere.  His helm was off, the north wind restlessly tugging at his blond hair.  The sun shone off his polished chain mail.  Felarof stood as a marble statue beneath him, a mearas, lord of horses. 

“Men of the Eotheod.”  His voice was strong and clear, as even the last rider could hear.  “Today we ride to the aid of Gondor.  For if Gondor falls and Minas Tirith is taken, there will be no allies to protect us from the same doom.”

“We have nearly two hundred leagues to ride.  It will test you and your steeds.  But we will arrive with mighty swords, stout shields and sharp lances.  We will cut them down like hay before the scythe!  Are you ready men?!”

A great roar erupted.  Men raised their swords, pounded their shields.  Eorl raised his own great sword, flashing light off the morning sun. 

Behind him the standard bearer rode up, bearing the pennant of a white horse against a green field.  It was the signal for the men to mount their horses.  Eorl then rode down the slope of the rise.  The ranks parted as he and his personal guard led the way.  The eoreds of the center formation followed in order behind him, then the right wing, and the left led by their Marshalls.  Such were their numbers that it was the better part of an hour before they had left the plain on the east side of the Greylin, making their way south.

Their lands, farms, their women and children would trust in their return.  Those too old for the quest would stay behind, still hale enough to provide a modicum of order and protection. 

Freya stood on the bridge over the Greylin, watching the riders disappear into the distance, the ground trembling with the storm of hooves breaking south.  Somewhere in the distant sea of sun glinting helms was Leofric.  His quiet strength now belonged to this task.  She did not begrudge that.  His heart belonged to her.

It was dark, an hour after sunset.  He did not care.  On the far shore his advance scouts had lit their torches.  A string of lights a league long outlined the far side of the Anduin to their west and south. Dezoch boarded the raft last, making way through the crowd of forty warriors, packed tight for the crossing.  He reached the far side, facing the river, where a flaming torch was ensconced in the wooden side rail.  Dezoch leaned out over the rail and looked north and south.

He grunted with satisfaction.  Torches lined the east bank of the river, each one a raft of forty men.  He gave the signal to a man onshore standing next to a huge stack of wood and kindling.  He tossed a torch into the pile which quickly flared up, then burst into a roaring column of flame easily seen a league away north and south.

Dezoch shouted orders and men along each side thrust poles in the water, pushing the raft out into the river.  It eased along sluggishly at first, laden with men and supplies.  Then he could feel it, the current starting to clutch at it, starting the long pull down the river.

He shouted at the men to pole harder, insuring that they made their way across and not find themselves dragged miles downstream beyond the torches on the far side.  It was no easy task.  The river was plagued with sandbars and small islands covered in scrub.  It was a good mile to cross the river.  But there was no choice.  It was waist to occasionally neck deep.  The river bottom was a tangle of dead trees in spots. Had they tried to cross on foot they would have been scattered, many perhaps drowning if the current caught them. 

Dezoch glanced up and down the river.  In the night he could make out the other rafts, all disembarked now, men poling furiously to get across. 

He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction.  Overnight he would put over 2000 men of his tribe on the far shore.  They would land, camp overnight, then regroup in formation and march west in the morning.  Farther to his north, ten other groups of fifty rafts were making way across the Anduin. 

His tribe would join with two more to his north.  Dezoch would command all three.  Eight other tribes would form up as the main attack.  Once the main attack engaged, he would stealthily flank Gondor’s army from the south, then charge north crashing into the rear of its formation, fomenting chaos and disorder in their ranks.  Gondor would be squeezed between his six thousand men on the south and the main force of sixteen thousand on the east. 

It would be the end of them. 

The rider came in at full gallop, hooves tearing up chunks of turf.  Weaving through the formations he at last came upon the white field tent of Cirion.  Dismounting quickly, he made for the tent, stumbled and fell.  Exhausted, he rose unsteadily, message pouch in hand.

At that moment Cirion exited the tent, alerted by the sound of the horse’s arrival.  Quickly he went to the rider, braced him by the shoulders and guided him to a camp chair.  He proffered a cup of water to quench the man’s thirst. 

“Sit, rest” Cirion commanded, “Let me read your message.  Then we can speak of what has transpired.”

His face hardened as opened the scroll and quietly read its contents.  It was his worst fears.  The Balchoth had commenced their crossing of the Anduin the night before, over thirty leagues from where he stood.  His strategy of meeting them at the river was a shambles.  Now they would face them on the open field, outnumbered two to one at least.  He handed the scroll to General Vorandur who had quietly come out of the campaign tent and stood at his side.

They both stood together silently in the late afternoon light, looking out over the encampment, ten thousand strong, of Gondor’s North Army.  

“Three days time.” Vorandur said flatly.  “We will meet them ten leagues west of the Anduin and do battle.”

And so the doom was upon Cirion.  Retreat would only buy time and surrender much of Gondor if they made way back to Minas Tirith, tired, hungry and dispirited.  Then what.  March north again, this time with the added swords of the South Army?  Leaving the entire kingdom vulnerable to Corsairs and raiders from Harad?

He debated it in his head every day.  At the end of each day he knew what it meant.  They would have to engage the Balchoth.  Perhaps by some great fortune they might enact a price so dear on them that they might retreat back across the river. 

Cirion smiled grimly.  He knew it was more likely that their mission would be to fight the Balchoth to a standstill, trying to hold them without being annihilated in the hope that the Eotheod would respond in time.

A south breeze ruffled the grasses of the Wold before him.  The open uplands stretched away to the north against an azure blue sky.  Too beautiful a country to be drenched in blood.  Cirion sighed, then turned to his General.     

“Summon your principal field commanders.  We need to agree upon our strategy and tactics.  The men must be alerted and prepared”

Vorandur saluted and went to the campaign tent.  He directed two aides to assemble and plant the long pole with the red and white pennants, signaling a conference.  Soon his field commanders would be here.  Whatever the outcome, this is what they had trained for their entire lives.  How much longer those lives would last was another matter. 

It had been an uneventful six days.  They were many leagues south of the Old Forest Road at the ambush point where Borondir had battled for his life not long ago.  Yet it had been quiet as far as their presence now.  For Eorl it meant that the battle to his south was imminent.  The Balchoth had withdrawn most of their northern raiders for it.

It did not, however, proclaim safety.  Far from it.  As the morning had worn on the skies had darkened.  A thick, low deck of clouds had unrolled form the east towards the vales of the Anduin, gathering from its source in Dol Guldur thirty leagues away.  The air grew still and sullen. 

“What say you Borondir?” Eorl turned in the saddle towards him.

Borondir reached into a saddle bag, drew out a scroll and unrolled it.

“It comes from the southeast, where Dol Guldur lies, thirty leagues distant.“

“Aragost?”  Eorl turned to his left.

“Sauron himself may be there, the secret hand behind the Balchoth.  We would be well advised to keep our distance.  We know not what may lurk in Mirkwood to our east or what is hidden in his dark skies.”

“Then we will make for the Anduin and cleave close to her shores.” Eorl decided.

“Under the watchful eye of the Lady of Dwimordene as you know Lorien” Aragost replied.  “But naught to fear as long as we do not trespass on the far shore.”

Eorl then mustered the eohere.  A blast on his horn, followed by those of his Marshalls and the host made west to escape Dol Guldur’s gloom.  By early afternoon they were closing on the Anduin when a fine white mist drifted from the shrouded west shore, wraithy tendrils crossing the river moving east towards them.  Eorl sensed hesitancy in the men. 

 “We must ride on” he shouted.  “We cannot go east nor retreat north.  We will not be stayed by river fog!”

With that he spurred Felarof on, tearing through the first ribbons of mist.  Soon they could see that the mist was beginning to drive back the low gloom of Dol Guldur and their spirits brightened.  Ahead they sped into the fog

They were in a realm of light, for the mist did not block the sun, instead spread its glow about them in a quiet shadowless luminance.  To their left and right the mist thickened, white walls providing cover.

“The Lady of the Wood protects us this day” Borondir marveled.

“So it seems,” said Eorl, “And Felarof feels no evil and I trust him in that.”

Eorl put his hand to Felarof’s side, his palm pressed against his snow white body.  “Feel his heart beat.  Over one hundred leagues ride and he is restored and strains to break loose.  Then let us go while we have such secrecy and make speed if we are to save the day.”

Eorl galloped off and the host of the eohere followed him south.  The mist enveloped them, muffling the sound of seven thousand horses as if they were flying though a cloud.  Like Felarof, their horses too felt new vitality in them, a gift of the mist the men mused. 

On they went the rest of the day and the next day as well, ever south, swaddled in mist sent by Galadriel, the Lady of the Wood, hoping they would be in time. 

The scouts came in late afternoon on fast horses.  They dismounted swiftly and came to Cirion, tired and breathless.

“The enemy makes camp less than three leagues east”

“In what numbers” Cirion pressed

“I make fifteen thousand”

Cirion looked at the other scout.

“Seventeen thousand from my view from the north”

Cirion waved them off in the direction of the campaign tent where they would give a detailed report to General Vorandur on their dispositions, arms and readiness.

So, call it sixteen thousand, he thought.  He was expecting twenty thousand, maybe more.  It should have been good news, but it left more questions than answers.  Had the reports these past weeks been the feverish exaggerations of frightened soldiers in lonely outposts.  Was there another wave yet to come from the east shore of the river, yet to reach the main encampment?  Or had the enemy split his forces by intent, the remainder roaming free for a separate strike?

He went back into the campaign tent.  Vorandur was hunched over a long table strewn with maps, deep in thought. 

“You have the latest reports, General.  What is your counsel” Cirion queried

Vorandur backed away slightly from the map table, squaring his gaze with the Steward.

“They gather in eight separate formations, tribes perhaps each with its own crude banners.  They wear no chain mail.  Most have little beyond lightly padded tunics for protection.  They bear clubs, rough spears, some with hatchets.  Less than a third have helmets of any sort.  They are shod in simple sandals, those that have anything at all."

“These deficiencies do not seem to slow their advance or limit their intentions” Cirion replied

 “To date it has been sufficient against their adversaries.” Vorandur observed.

 “Farmers, settlers, small towns and villages in Rhovanian where such arms and numbers overwhelm, General.  Perhaps they are overconfident.”  Cirion mused.

 “They will attack like wild animals.  There will be little discipline.  Each tribe, formation, will break upon our lines as a great gale lashes the coast.  Heedless of losses they will try to crush us with sheer numbers, pushing our lines back in on themselves.”

 “Your plan?”

 Vorandur motioned the Steward to the map table where he unrolled a large scroll, a map of their environs.  He began pointing at individual features.

 “We camp tonight on an elevated section of the plain.  In front of us the ground slopes gradually down to a shallow gully.  To our rear the land continues to rise to our west and south.”

 “They will have to come uphill to meet us.  Our archers will station on the upward slopes behind us with full view of their advance.  In front of them we will muster the left, right and center wings to form a shield wall.  In back of them will be reserves. 

 “The wall must hold, general”

 “They will meet our swords stabbing between our shields.  They have no armor and will die in large numbers.  Our second and third lines in back of the shields have long spears which they will thrust over the shields into the faces of the enemy.  At some point their dead will form in such great piles that the savages will clamber over them seeking to overtop our shields.  They will be cut down by sword, gored by spears and stitched with arrows.”

 “Will we prevail, general?”

 “No one will prevail on the first day of battle, Lord.  The terrain gives us advantage but they have numbers and both sides will be spent and reduced before sunset with little ground gained.  They will retreat and regroup to attack on the following day.  We must kill two to their one tomorrow to even our numbers”

 “As to numbers, general.  I was expecting more.  Do we await any more reports?”

 “The scouts from the south have yet to return.’

 “Could that mean our missing numbers seek to strike us on our flank whilst we are pressed with their main advance to our east?”

 “We do not have the luxury of sending our right wing south in search of a speculative host when it will be all we can do to keep those we can see from slitting our throats.  I share your concerns, Lord.  I regret that we do not possess a better array of choices.”

 “I meant no disrespect, general.  No thoughts should be withheld between us on the eve of battle.  Too much is at stake.  Ten thousand men have pledged their lives on our decisions, our own included.  Pray what we think are missing barbarians stay missing.”

Cirion expected they would be saying many prayers in the days to come.

The late afternoon sun washed gold across the restless plain.  Long field grasses glowed and swayed in the breeze.

Dezoch was not moved.  Only a scream from the far side of the encampment brought a brief smile to his hard face, the sound of a captured scout leaving the mortal world.  He was the last of three they had ambushed today.  Gondor was blind to the force he had assembled.  Dezoch had crossed the Anduin, six thousand strong with the three tribes.  The main force had marched due west, planning to meet Gondor’s army.  He had taken a more southwesterly path for three days, anticipating Gondor’s move north for what they would believe to be the main battle.

Dezoch had followed the gullies and low swales of the Wold, keeping his men below the general line of sight of the rolling upland plains.  And one more tactic he had learned from his ancestors, blending in.  Their woolen garments were a buff yellow, matching the grasslands themselves, almost invisible at a distance.

His scouts had verified that Gondor’s host had passed north of them, several leagues to the west.  Immediately he had turned his army north as well, paralleling their movement, though intentionally lagging behind to maintain their secrecy.  Now Gondor’s legions were just five leagues away to the north. 

Dezoch would resume their march, a league before dusk, then another by moonlight before they settled for the night with no campfires or lanterns.  He would rouse them before dawn and steal up low swales and shallow channels to within two leagues of them by daybreak. There they would wait, with scouts bringing back tidings of the battle so Dezoch could plan his attack.

Dezoch was pleased.  He longed to swing his studded club and feel its fatal weight pound enemies into submission and death.  All in his tribe felt it. 

He looked over to his right where men clustered around two banners.  Mubrat, leader of his tribe and Nuqab, chief of his, each with their lieutenants.  The blood lust coursed strong in their people.  They would have marched all night with him if he had asked.  He walked over to them idly dragging his club along the ground.

 “We must cover another league before we rest.  Tomorrow we rise while still dark and march another two.  Then we wait for our signal.  Mubrat, Nuqab, understood?” 

 Mubrat was taller, leaner than most.  The sides of his head were shaved.  The long tangle of black hair on the crest of his head had been partially resolved into braids that ended in a knot around bits of old enemies, ears, fingers and other parts.  His men were similarly adorned.

 “Let us pray we do not wait long.  The men are restless.’  Mubrat smiled evilly.

 Nuqab was Dezoch’s height, shorter than Mubrat.  Nuqab had filled out, almost to the point of plumpness.  A broad smile always filled Nuqab’s balld head from ear to ear.  But his eyes held no mirth, only a leering cruelty.  Unlike Mubrat, his men would take prisoners for later amusement.

 “Wait, march, kill.  It is all the same, Dezoch.  We live until we do not.  But I would live well tomorrow”  Nuqab’s grin revealed rows of teeth filed to sharp points.

 “There will be plenty for us all.  We will strip them of their mail, swords and helmets.  Their lands will be ours.  Now go to your men.  The time for talk is done.”

 Dezoch stalked away.  He would send scouting parties out in the night to hide within two miles of Gondor’s army.  They would send new scouts out at dawn, unsettled by the absence of any of their reconnaissance yesterday.  His men would bring them down like the rest.  Gondor would soon be too occupied by the eight tribes to their east to worry about the south.  Until it was too late.

 A rare smile cracked the harsh lines of his face.  It would be the day of days. 

Cirion emerged from his tent.  A light ground fog caressed the rolling plain lit pale by the moon setting tiredly in the west.  To the east a line of ruddy grey pressed back the night, dawn now just an hour over the horizon.  He was dressed for battle.  A shining silver helm sat over his dark brown hair.  His chain mail hauberk was polished to a gleam.  Greaves and vambraces with the insignia of the white tree protected his legs and forearms. 

Cirion would not be wielding a sword today.  General Vorandur would lead the battle, send in the wing commanders, position the reserves.  Cirion was for the men, visible in helm and mail, that their leader was with them.  He would also make necessary decisions not physically immersed in the battle, the fog of war. 

The sound of hooves muffled in mist and tall grass caught his attention.  He walked over to a half dozen men leading horses.  He would once again probe to his south.  The failure of the other scouts to return was suspect to him.  If there were forces to his south they could be no more than three leagues away if they were to participate meaningfully in the battle today.

Cirion addressed the scouts.

“We likely go to battle today.  The host before us may not be all we face.  Last night’s scouts to the south have not returned.  The six of you must survey the land up to three leagues from this spot.  Two will go southeast, two due south and two southwest.  Ride in a loop so you overlap the route of your neighbors.  Do not tarry.  Our fate may ride on your reports.  Now go!”

The men vaulted onto their horses and rode off into the grey early dawn.  If they were not back by mid-morning, that alone would tell him there was peril to his south.

Now as to his east, the enemy was already in motion.  Though is was not light enough to see that far, his ears picked up the sound of distant drums.  The Balchoth were on the march.

“We have three hours to get into position, Lord” General Vorandur advised in his gravelly voice.

Cirion was slightly startled. The General was skilled at quietly appearing by his side when the time was ripe.  Even as the words left the General’s mouth,  he heard the sounds of men on the morn of battle.  The muffled clatter of plates and cups as they fortified themselves with what would be a final breakfast for some. 

They would check the fit of their helms, the release of swords from scabbards, the edge on their axes, the points of their spears.  Shields would get a final look for any weak spots.  Conversation was subdued as most of the discussion was being held inside the heads and hearts of each man.

There had not been war in Gondor for several hundred years.  Though their training had been thorough and realistic, few had direct combat experience.  Those who did, had found it skirmishing on Gondor’s far borders with rogue bands of outlaws from Harad. 

Cirion knew they would be vulnerable to the changing tides of battle.  The intense discipline of their training would be tested.  The Balchoth had spent years fighting their way across Rhovanian, looting, pillaging, killing, burning.  They were no strangers to death.

Night had now been chased to a grey smudge on the western horizon.  The pale blue of imminent dawn was clear and unmarked by cloud.  The folds of the land were revealing themselves to the east.  The drums were getting louder.

General Vorandur was shouting orders to his three wing commanders and the captains of the archers.  The sounds of ten thousand feet tramping across the grassy plain drowned out the distant drums. 

Cirion was in the saddle of his war horse now, visible to the men taking their positions.  His archers were in the rear, five hundred bowmen on the left, five hundred on the right, each in block formation.  In front of them the forward units on the left, right and center, fifteen hundred men on the line in each of those wings with another fifteen hundred behind each one in reserve.  A total of nine thousand well-armed men and a thousand archers to meet sixteen thousand.  

Now they waited, wondering what tactics the Balchoth would use.  A wild massed charge against the center?  A broad front, making siege against his entire line?  Splitting their forces and trying to flank him to the north and south in encirclement?

A center thrust would push him back but allow his right and left wings to close on the enemy’s flanks.  A broad frontal attack would be a bloody grind where they would indeed have to take two of them for every one of his men lost.  Encirclement would be thwarted by deploying the reserves to extend their lines.

All well and good, Cirion thought to himself.  But after an hour’s rain of arrows and sword blows, the clarity of lines on a map blurs to mud and screams. He looked to the east again.  Across the shallow valley he could now see them marching, less than a league away.  Like a distant roar of wind, he could hear their massed voices raging.  In an hour they would be marching up the slope in front of him, death in their hearts.

It was time for a final review of the men on the line.  Cirion pivoted his horse away at a canter towards the left wing. 

General Vorandur watched him pause at various points in the line, engaging the men, shouting encouragement.  Cirion was not some distant lord high up on a marble throne, far from the cares of his subjects.  This lord would have to be restrained from joining the front line to do his duty which was to stay alive and lead.

By the time Cirion had reached the southern end of the right wing, the inchoate mass of men to the east began to take shape as two thrusts forming, one towards his center, the other to his left flank. Vorandur watched the Steward turn his horse east and pause.  Then he wheeled around and galloped north, to the rear of the lines, heading towards the center where the General waited.

He arrived in thunder of hooves and flying dirt.  His face was grim and set with determination.

“They are less than a quarter hour away and look to test our northern lines.”

Vorandur gazed east into the morning sun.  They were less than a mile off now, clearly split into two streams of eight thousand.  The roar of their battle lust was louder now, eclipsing all other sounds.  At the rear of their formations they had lit bonfires.  Great gouts of black smoke rose sluggishly, a rising blot on the clear morning air.

“They outnumber us better than two to one on the line even with the southern reserves drawn up.  But they make a smaller target for the archers so focused.  Now I must be off, my lord, to my wing commanders and archery captains.”

The General flipped down the faceplate on his helmet and galloped off to manage the battle first hand.  Cirion stayed behind, his chain mail gleaming in the cool morning sun, visible to the men about to lay their lives on the line. 

The wind was picking up now, out of the south, washing through the plains swirling amidst the flowing grasses.  Not strong enough to carry away the noise of the Balchoth which had devolved into a rhythmic roaring chant in a language strange to him.  They were but five hundred yards away, marching up the gradual slope towards his lines, where his phalanx of shields closed together.

There was nothing subtle about war, he thought.  In the end just brute force. 

To his south, the right flank reserves were marching quick time in their heavy steel mail to positions behind the left and central wings.  The right wing to the south was now thin but yet unopposed. 

He turned in the saddle towards the gentle upslope behind him.  The two archery battalions had moved to the rear of the left and central flanks.  They would wait until the barbarians were a mere fifty yards from the line before unleashing a fierce volley of a thousand steel tipped arrows. 

Or so was the plan.  In minutes the first blows would fall, and the vanity of such tactics and strategy would shrink to a screaming space where men killed men and plans were forgotten ghosts of neat lines on paper.

Then the hours, years of training had to take over, become part of the instinct to survive.   

They had lain hidden in shallow gullies and drainage swales, they tan woolen garments blending in with the windswept grasses. 

One by one, the scouts from Gondor made to cross those gullies only to be suddenly overwhelmed, pulled from their horses and bludgeoned.  Now Gondor’s eyes to the south were closed and silent.

Dezoch hiked out of the swale and made way to a low rise.  To his north the land gently sloped upward to a low rounded ridge just a league away where the land then eased down gradually to the elevated plateau where Gondor was making its stand.  Off to the northeast he spied black smoke rising above the plains clotting the sky with oily coils.  It was the signal he’d been waiting for, that the battle was about to begin.

It meant he had to wait.

To wait while the main Balchoth army battered Gondor’s mail clad soldiers, wore them down, spent their arrows, numbed their sword arms.  Then his six thousand men would roll over the low ridge south of the battle and sweep down upon them in a screaming rage.  Gondor would be crushed from the east, north and south.

Dezoch waived to his men who arose from low spots, shallow ravines and gullies.  They would march north quietly, then take position on the low rise overlooking the battle. They would await another signal. Then they would charge down the easy slope, rolling up whatever faint fabric of defense Gondor might have vainly retained on their southern flank, piercing the heart of the army and perhaps that of the Steward himself.  

Nothing short of a miracle would save them.  Dezoch did not believe in miracles.

They were a hundred yards away.  The sound of their howling was thunder on the plain.  The earth trembled beneath their charge.  Brandor peered over the top of his rectangular shield.  He knew what was to come.  The mob of faces advancing towards him would eventually resolve into one face, the face of the man who would crash a club down on his shield with all his might. 

Brandor would fix on that face.  And that man, that wild man would be fixed on his.  War would come down to the two of them.

Eighty yards, seventy.  His grip on the shield strap tightened.  A light sweat crept between his right palm and the hilt of his sword.  Sixty yards, he now could single out one man, staring back, mouth open in a war cry, black hair flying about in the rising breeze, heading directly for him. 

Then a whoosh of air, a hum, a vibration like a thousand strings plucked.  The thwack of steel on flesh followed by cries of pain and the thud of bodies on the grassy turf.

All along the line men were dropping like flies, festooned with arrows.  Those following them stumbled over their bodies, falling as well, then trampled by the surge of more ranks of the enemy. 

The man he had singled out was dead on the plain, an arrow to his eye, his body pounded to a pulp by the mob overtaking him.  Now Brandor saw another man fix on him, a new doom.

Again the air was roiled with a storm of arrows.  Again the Balchoth front line melted away in screams and falling bodies which were trundled over by the crush of the following wave.  Once again Brandor was spared.

But now he did not care.  Neither did the long spear men behind him, anxious to bury their points in the faces of any snarling Balchoth who would venture to other side of Brandor’s shield.  Now they had seen swift death at the point of an arrow.  The enemy was not invincible. 

His pulse was rising, face flushing.  They were scarcely thirty yards away now.  He imagined the first blow of a club on his shield, then the weight of men pushing against it.  He also envisioned the rip as his sword point plunged past a shabby tunic deep into the body holding that club.  An electric thrill shook his body, strength swelled his limbs.  The world closed in again to one man charging him, wild eyed, mouth writhing in snarl, club raised for the blow.

 He was at war.

The fine blue morning had quickly given way to a lowering grey sky, with scudding clouds hurrying in from the west.  The wind from the south had grown warm and gusty, riffling the grasses.  To the west, distant lightning danced in traceries and staccato bolts from south to north against a black storm cloud hugging the horizon, crowding upon the plain.

Though the light ahead of the advancing storm mimed early dusk, it was barely midday.  Dezoch had spent the morning on a low rise, watching the battle play out just over a mile away.  Those were his orders, to watch and wait until the second signal was lit.

From what he could see the lines had changed little in the last few hours.  Gondor had been pushed back marginally, if only to make room for more bodies in front of the shield wall.  It was butchery, he knew.  But Gondor’s men had to be tiring.  The volleys from the archers had all but stopped as they conserved arrows for the afternoon.  Impatiently he waited as the wind rose, thunder rumbled and the scent of pending rain wisped by.  Then he saw it to the rear of the battle off to the northeast, two roiling columns of black smoke rising from separate oily pyres of wood, ripped away north in the buffeting wind. 

He turned and scrambled down the slope to the three flagmen, each with pennants of tribal colors.  A few sharp words and they stood waving their flags on long poles.  At once the plain came alive as six thousand wild, unkempt men stood awaiting orders.  Dezoch barked orders at the three tribal leaders who in turn bellowed out commands to their troops. 

Now he walked back up to the crest of the low rise.  Behind him his small army swept up the slope, taking positions in a broad front facing north.  In front of them, less than a mile away, Gondor’s army held a wavering line, facing east.

Dezoch felt his heart pounding.  Sweat prickled under his woolen tunic.  He beckoned over to the flagmen again.  They stood and waved the banners back and forth three times.  A great roar erupted among the men.  Then the banners dipped down, facing north.  En masse, six thousand club wielding, snarling, wild haired men from the far eastern plains swarmed down the slope, the light of death in their eyes.

Gondor's doom had arrived.                    

Cirion watched the wind rip the black smoke away from the two great pyres of the Balchoth. 

“It is a signal, General!” he shouted at his army leader, just returned from the battle, slightly spattered in blood of unknown provenance.

“They do not roast mutton with their fire.  It is an ill omen of something we do not yet know” the General shouted back over the wind, nearly a gale.  Cirion rode closer to him.

“None of the morning scouts have returned.  Again, we are blind to the south.  I fear that those fires have summoned a host from that direction, one we can sorely face.  How do we stand?”

“The men fight steadfastly, Lord.  They have claimed more than two of them to our one.  Balchoth pile up like winter cordwood, yet more clamor to test our shields and offer themselves to our swords and arrows.  But even the arms of butchers tire.”

Cirion knew that a terrible decision was upon him.  Most of his army was facing east, fully engaged with the hordes of Balchoth.  His position was exposed to the south, guarded by just one regiment of barely a thousand men.  If they attacked in strength from the south, his entire position would be rolled up as they hit the rear of his lines.

There would be only one solution.  The regiment would beat a fighting retreat.  It  would link with the southern tip of the north-south combat line between Gondor and the Balchoth.  Grudgingly they would fall back as the combat line gradually pivoted to a northeast to southwest angle , then finally an east-west front that would concentrate their position. It would also open up a tactical retreat to the north, crossing the Limlight, forming a defense on its far shore.  It could be their last stand.   

There was little time to contemplate the possible.  A shout from one of his personal guards, finger pointed animatedly south.  Cirion followed the line up the shallow slope to a low rise to the south.  His heart sank.  Like maddened ants swarming over a neglected picnic, he saw what he had dreaded for two days, the southern wing of the Balchoth spilling over crest scarcely a mile away.

Before he could turn to him, General Vorandur had galloped off to his commanders in the center wing to begin the pivot back and linkage with the thin southern regiment.  Cirion ordered his signal men to sound the trumpet for a fighting retreat to avoid the regiment being overrun completely.

Then he turned to the Master of the archers. 

“Make haste to the south with your first battalion.  Slow the enemy as best you can to allow our regiment to the south to retreat north.  Return then quickly, behind our reformed line.  Your second battalion will stay here to riddle the enemy who will seek gaps as our line regroups on an east – west front.

Orders were shouted.  Five hundred archers hurried south to take up positions and buy time.  The remainder checked their stock of arrows, tightened their bows and waited further commands.

Cirion cocked his head.  Thunder, distant thunder on the wind.  He wheeled his horse around, galloped up the gradual slope to the west, pausing at the crest.  It took his breath away.  A long black wall of cloud was nearly upon them, its ragged skirt skimming the windswept plain, veins of lightning racing through its dark heart.  It was headed his way, fast.

A tight smile creased his patrician face.  What strange stay of luck this was. They might yet live to see tomorrow.  He knew what to do.

“Well, Lugnashk its clouded over nicely.  No reason why your pack of dogs can’t put in a few more leagues, being the sun ain’t there to make ‘em whine.”

Lugnashk promised himself that Bagrish would meet with a battlefield accident for all his arrogance.  But for now he would endure.  Bagrish was nearly a head taller than him and any of his subordinates, all of whom were intimidated by him. 

“Let’s see if your bow legs can keep up with your mouth, Bagrish” Lugnashk stalked off snarling orders at his sub-commanders.

Quick draughts of noisome orc wine were squeezed out of greasy black pouches for a boost of strength.  Shouts and curses greeted the orders to march on.

They had come far from their lairs in the Misty Mountains.  Down their rugged flanks, winding through steep gorges to the foothills, then out into the rolling plain.  Carefully they gave Lorien wide berth to the north.  Equally, they ran well away from Fangorn forest to the south.  Moving by night, sheltering by day they had reached the Limlight and now followed its course toward the Anduin.

Bagrish sniffed the air.  Storms to the south.  He read the skies and grunted.  The  rains would pass them by.  But the soldiers of Gondor would struggle in the mud.  It mattered not to Bagrish.  He would kill them wet or dry.

That would be tomorrow by his reckoning. 

Bagrish watched as his orcs moved out, eating up the miles with an easy lope.  He tightened his belt and quickly overtook them with his relentless jog.  Up ahead Lugnashk was setting the pace, leading the troops. 

He was insolent and untrustworthy.  Bagrish contemplated relieving his shoulders of the burden of carrying such a head resembling a rotted potato.  Things happen in battle.  For now he was more useful in one piece.

Brandor collapsed in a heap forty paces from the battlefront.  His helm was dented, blood trickling down from a glancing blow by a Balchoth club.  Sweat stung his eyes.  His shield was battered but whole.  Blood and gore dripped from his sword, running down the blade and drying to a sticky red mess on the guard.

They had pulled him from the line where he had sent over twenty to oblivion.  It was part of the rotation, putting somewhat rested men in, pulling spent ones out to rest so they could return and fight again. Brandor took a long draught from his water skin and wiped his eyes.  The haze of the killing madness slowly receded.  The shouts, screams, thunk of clubs on metal shields, the rip of rough Balchoth tunics as Gondoran steel rent them and raw flesh beneath.  These did not recede, nor did the almost continual spray and smell of blood where the lines clashed, where he had been moments ago.

He rose slowly to his feet, propping himself up with his sword, catching his breath, slowing his heartbeat.  The wind whipped by from the south, pulling at his hair hanging wet and slack from beneath his helm. 

He heard trumpets, knew the sound of a fighting retreat being ordered.  To the west he heard thunder, saw the flash of lightning against a dark roiling sky fast approaching from the west.  Now shouts and commands were coming from behind him.  Orders to reform the line.

All morning his center wing had faced the Balchoth, slaughtering them as their human waves broke upon the death jetties of Gondor’s shields, swords and spears.  Their north south line had held.  But now they were slowly giving way, by command, aligning from northeast to southwest, making contact with the southern regiment which was retreating north.  Only the left wing of the army still held fast to the north, the hinge of the door of soldiers now swinging to position itself on a mostly east to west line.

Brandor cursed at the thought of yielding ground on which he had bled to hold.  He glanced west over ground littered with Gondor’s dead and wounded, pulled from the fray.  There on the more distant upslope was the Steward, mounted, staring out at the battlefield, his helm and chain mail darkly silvered against the pending storm. 

Something had changed.  Brandor knew not what it was or what it portended.  Only that he would soon be fighting over a new patch of ground, trying to stay alive for a few more hours. 

Cirion looked out over the windswept battlefield.  General Vorandur had reformed the line.  Now he was fully engaged briefing his commanders on the next vital move and the overall plan. To the south, the vanguard of the once missing Balchoth legion was approaching the line.  The remainder of the enemy forces were surging in from the east, attacking the newly formed shield wall. 

To the west, writhing bolts of lightning were tearing into the plain.  Thunder ripped the air and shook the ground.  Cirion felt a spat of rain spatter his cheek.  The time was now.  He gave the signal to the trumpets.  Across the darkening land the bray of trumpets sounded the retreat.  Not a fighting retreat, but an exodus en masse, at a fast march, creating a momentary separation between the lines.  At that instant the two battalions of archers released a volley of a thousand steel tipped shafts, winged death in a whoosh of air. 

He watched their inexorable arc then saw men falling by the dozens, first from the south and then along the rest of the line.  Then a second volley taking out scores more, creating momentary chaos in the Balchoth advance.  Cirion waved the archers on to quickly retreat, their job done.

He had timed it perfectly.  For at that moment a great dark curtain swept the battlefield.  A roaring gale overtook the land.  Blinding rain left men fighting for breath.  White hot ropes of lightning gouged the earth, lit up faces tensed in fear.  Thunder cracked and boomed, challenging the voices of mere men.  Cirion galloped ahead due north through the tempest, taking the lead ahead of the army, barely visible beyond twenty paces.  Behind him, General Vorandur was exhorting his commanders to maintain formation.

In the lines Brandor chugged along at a fast march, slogging through the wet grass and mud.  Great sheets of rain stung his face and soaked the padded tunic beneath his chain mail.  He heard shouts of orders between the violent claps of thunder pummeling the plains.  His world had reduced to grey shapes of men on either side and in front, gasping for breath, lashed by the storm. 

It was a maneuver they had practiced, a strategic retreat.  But that was on an empty training field in the sunshine three months past.  Now, even though he knew not their direction, he knew he need only follow the men nearest him and stay in formation.  The Steward and his commanders had a plan.  They too wished to live.

It was their only hope.

The same thought echoed in Cirion’s mind as he prodded his reluctant mount forward into the teeth of the gale.  In this storm they would steal away to the north while the enemy was confused and disoriented by their sudden tactics and the fury of the violent deluge.

With luck he would put a league between his tired army and the Balchoth before they could regroup.  That would allow them to reach and cross the Limlight by day’s end, utterly exhausted but alive for a final confrontation tomorrow.

Dezoch watched a subdued sun rise over the eastern horizon, first light catching the tips of broken spears and notched swords littering the battlefield.  Unwanted detritus as they’d salvaged the useable weapons yesterday after the storm. Mail had been stripped from corpses, helms yanked from bloody heads.  Swords and spears were dumped in piles. 

But Dezoch’s real focus had been on restoring some measure of order.  The hours of battle, the violent storm and unexpected enemy retreat had left the eleven tribes in chaos.  The death of Muzok, the main army leader, had left the fractious coalition near turning on itself over scavenged booty and assigning blame. Dezoch had wasted no time establishing himself as new chief, clubbing one contender to the ground, menacing two others.  Overnight he had sent out fleet scouts to track the path of Gondor’s army. 

His three scouts returned, tired, but obviously pleased with their news.  Gondor had retreated north of the Limlight.  They would force him to cross it to do battle. 

Dezoch assessed his army.  They had lost four thousand men.  Another thousand were too injured to fight.  He still outnumbered Gondor two to one as their dead had yielded more than a thousand swords, spears and helms.  It would be a bloody crossing, but his numbers would prevail.  No force of nature would interfere.  He summoned the leaders of the eleven tribes for council.

They arrived one by one.  Wild haired, some bearded, their short wide bodies struggled to fit in the chain mail stolen from Gondor’s dead. Dezoch stood in his own stolen mail, still crusted with blood from its late owner.  He leaned on one of Gondor’s short battle swords, recently pulled from the body of one of his kinsmen.   

“Leaders of the eleven tribes.  We have taken the battlefield.  Gondor’s army waits for us north of the Limlight.  We can be at their throats by noon with a hard march.  What say you?

“Aye, why not finish it.  Three hours march and we are at the river.  Why give them any more rest"

It was Gorbuz, leader of the tenth tribe.  Going towards stoutness, his wild mane of brown and grey hair jutted out in all directions.  His beard was flecked with bits of gore. 

“Old warrior, let it be so then.  This day they will contemplate their death for die they surely will on the points of their own swords.”

Gorbuz grunted his assent. 

Dezoch stared at the other leaders.  None spoke.  Gorbuz had settled it for them.

“Good.  Now, finish scavenging the battlefield.  Organize your men.  We leave in half an hour.”

Dezoch turned on his heel and marched back to a small field tent left behind in Gondor’s hasty retreat.   

High above him, in an azure sky the first carrion birds wheeled in on the freshening breeze, patiently waiting the departure of the living. 

Their feast was only beginning.  The day was young.

Cirion looked across the glistening waters of the Limlight to the far shore one hundred yards south.  Already the Easterners were marshalling, massing for a final assault.  Their front ranks were clad in stolen mail, shouting, wildly gesticulating with swords.  Of late such weapons had been the province of Gondor’s soldiers.  Such was the fate of the unlucky dead to yield up to the victor.  It might be his fate as well.

Gondor’s army had slogged across the waist deep water yesterday afternoon, drenched and buffeted by the storm.  Then to a man they simply collapsed, utterly exhausted from a days battle followed by a forced march in a raging gale.  Like the dead they had slept. 

In the morning Cirion had seen to the distribution of food.  There was little more than each man had carried with him.  Some escaped with their lives only.  All would share so that no man fought his last battle on an empty stomach. The rest of the morning had been spent tending wounds, taking stock of what weapons they still had and planning their defense. 

It was not a matter of great subtlety.  He had eight thousand men left, including nine hundred archers.  Many arrows had been spent in the battle and now they had but six per bowman.  The archers would be arrayed at the river’s edge.  As the Balchoth made their way across the Limlight, they would make their arrows count.

Once they were spent the archers would go to the rear. They were not swordsmen though they would draw them at the end.  No, five thousand of his front line soldiers would take the line at the river’s edge.  The rest would act as reserves to reinforce the line, prevent attacks on the flank, and provide the final guard to the Steward.

Barring a miracle they would all be dead by dusk.  Their task was to take as many with them as possible, reducing the magnitude of the remaining threat to Gondor.  A threat his son Hallas in Minas Tirith would have no direct knowledge, only the dull ache of growing certainty by the silence in the north. 

Finally, he thought of Borondir.  Loyal, brave Borondir who had ridden north against all hope and succeeded.   

Cirion looked out across the Limlight again, at the massing hordes on the other side, listening to them shout and roar like beasts.  All would be decided in a matter of hours now.  Would he see Borondir again, galloping ahead in the vanguard of seven thousand spears and swords thundering across the plain.  Or would Borondir find him dead and broken with all of Calenardhon overrun.

He dismissed that thought from his head.  Speculation was no longer relevant. The wheels of fate had led to this moment which would not be forsaken.  A battle was upon them.  They would oblige by wreaking slaughter on their foes with all the strength that remained in them.  Nothing else mattered.

Cirion turned his horse around and made for a small tent where General Vorandur was giving final orders.  He looked at the men gathering into formations.  There was little talk.  Their eyes were serious, faces hard.  Fear did not find any purchase. 

We are all of one purpose then, he thought, appraising them.  This is the way.  Let them come.     

The eastern sky was just beginning to pale when Borondir woke with a start, shaking the sound and feel of battle from his mind.  A dream some would say, though the Steward’s banner surrounded by wild men felt real enough.  Then he’d smiled, recognizing that the fading stars meant the mists had left.  And something more, the cool west wind brought the scent of water.  The Anduin was near.  He’d gone to wake Eorl to appraise him of their location, but the young Lord was already up, tending to Felarof.

“My lord, the mists have left us.  We are less than an hour’s ride from the North Undeep.”

“The night scouts say none stand in our way.  We will need your eyes to take us on the best path of crossing.” Eorl had replied, grooming his great white horse, cleaning its ears. 

“I came just this way weeks ago heading north.”

“But it was just you.  Now seven thousand must cross and without delay.  Quickly now, meet with the wing commanders and first captains.  Set out their path.  I feel this morning a great need for haste.  Time is not our friend.”

Borondir had instinctively saluted and walked away briskly towards the commander’s encampment.  Quickly he’d outlined the plan then made way back to his horse.  He’d heard horns sounding as the eoreds woke and mustered.  Orders had been shouted, saddles creaked, weapons rasped as they slid into sheaths. 

He’d too felt the need for haste.  His heart had told him the dream had been no fantasy.  It foretold what was to come unless they were in time.  He’d mounted his horse and joined Eorl and Aragost.  The final act had begun.

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Leofric took his station as first captain, positioned ahead of five eoreds who would follow his command.  A restless tension was in the air.  They had crossed the Anduin and now waited in formation for Eorl to give the signal.  Leofric looked down the line from his position on the far-right wing.  Seven thousand helms glinted in the morning sun.  Chain mail caught the light in a dull sheen.  A pulsing wall of steel and hooves ready to be unleashed.

They had been riding for days.  Now, suddenly they had arrived.  What was a practice field drill or a distant goal, was now their purpose imminent upon them.  Leofric felt a shiver of excitement mixed with a tinge of uncertainty, not of fear, but for lack of past experience to guide him.  Brelof, his dark chestnut horse pawed the ground, blowing expectantly through his nose. 

Once again Leofric checked his weapons.  His sword slid easily out of the scabbard.  He hefted his lance then replaced it in its long sheath.  Stilling himself he straightened in the saddle, let his fingers idle through Brelof’s black mane and took a deep breath.  The signal.  They waited on the signal.    

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Eorl waited impatiently, alone in front of the center wing. The river crossing had taken the better part of an hour on top of two hours prior ride.  He had positioned his fastest scouts in the front, to swiftly depart once they had crossed, their mission to find the trail that led to battle.  Now they returned in a flurry of hooves and flying grass, dismounted and dashed over to Eorl, breathless.

“Three leagues to the west.  A great battle.  The plains are littered with dead.”

 “What of Gondor?”  Eorl replied sharply.

 “The earth is trammeled and worn moving north.  Methinks Gondor has retreated with the Balchoth in pursuit.”

Aragost unfurled a map on a small folding camp table.  Eorl stared intently as Aragost pointed out features on the land. 

“The battle was several leagues from the Limlight.  Gondor will not retreat only to have the river to their backs.  They would have crossed last night and will defend their far shore to the last man.”

Borondir had quietly walked up and joined them.

“Aragost speaks truth.  Such tactics are as we have been trained.  But while we stand here the Balchoth are mustering to cross the Limlight.”

Eorl digested this information and counsel for a moment.  Then he mounted Felarof and looked east.  The entire eohere had made the crossing.  They were in formation, nearly two miles wide and eight riders deep.  The morning sun sparkled on seven thousand polished helms.  The horses were restless, sensing the anticipation in the men, the imminence of battle.

Their enemy was less than two hours ride away, on foot, unsuspecting.  He summoned his wing commanders along with Borondir and Aragost. 

“The Balchoth advance will be slowed by the labor of crossing the Limlight and what resistance Gondor will make on the far shore they defend.  The bulk of their army will be crowded along and behind the near shore eager to take their turn in the crossing.”

Eorl paused for a moment then shared in the wolfish smiles breaking out on the faces of his commanders.

“Yes, you see it as well.  We will charge through their ranks like a great scythe through winter wheat.  The right wing will cross the Limlight and make battle with any Balchoth who have crossed and engaged with Gondor.  The center wing will obliterate those Balchoth yet to cross into the mud.  The left wing will then pursue any still standing across the plains til none live.”

“And of the archers, Lord?”, asked the commander of the left wing.

“Let them loose their arrows where the enemy is most thickly clustered, then save a few shafts for the pursuit of the stragglers across the plain.  Now, join your men, issue your orders.”

The wing commanders galloped off.  Aragost and Borondir mounted their horses, joining Eorl who sat astride Felarof, the great white steed snorting with excitement

The sun was shining in a vault of deep blue.  A fair west wind rustled the grass.  It was a day meant for victory.

Eorl turned in the saddle and signaled to his hornsman to blow the march.  His wing commanders responded, then the first captains, their horns echoing over the plains. The great line began to move, gathering speed. The land trembled under the rolling thunder of thousands of hooves.   Eorl felt a great surge of pride in the men, their mission.  This would be the best of days.

Bagrish crept up to the edge of the low rise.  He raised his hand, indicating a pause to the companies behind him.  Lugnashk crept up next to him.

“Well ain’t that a pretty sight.  The Steward’s banner and ‘is troops trapped between the rivers.”

Half a mile away Bagrish watched Gondor maneuver archers into position and form soldiers in ranks.  In back of them the Steward’s banner snapped in the breeze.  They were faced south towards the Balchoth.  No defenses had been readied for an attack from the west.

“Don’t get no ideas, Lugnashk.” Bagrish growled.  “You want to be a pincushion for their darts?  No.  Let the brutes from the East take arrows in the eye.  Let ‘em cross the river and push them soldiers back.”

“And get all the glory and loot?”  Lugnashk protested

“No, you fool.  After they spill a lot of ’eir blood, then we crash in and finish off the Steward, take what we can off the dead.  Then be on our way.”

Lugnashk grunted, signaling his understanding and acceptance of Bagrish’s rude logic.

They would wait, Bagrish thought, for no more than an hour.  He would nearly be right.

They would soon run short of arrows.  The deep thrum of bowstrings launching steel tipped shafts smacking into the waiting flesh of the Easterners would cease.  Archers would drop their bows and draw swords as the Balchoth made their way across the Limlight uncontested.  Then it would be the butchery of war.

Cirion had formed the line with his eight thousand troops still able to wield a weapon.  From what he could see the Balchoth had twice his numbers.  The river would slow their crossing and allow his men some reprieve to cut them down at the water’s edge.  But eventually their sheer numbers would push his men back.  Perhaps two hours time they could buy before his standard and his head would be the prize of some Balchoth chieftain. 

Already now he could see a few archers casting their bows aside, useless in what time they had left.  Across the river it did not pass unnoticed. A great roar swept across the water as the wild men knew they would no longer fear the deadly darts and plunged into the current in great numbers with the surety of meeting their foes head on. Then on his right he heard an answering call.  One not of allies arriving at the last exigency or his own men shouting defiance.  This was a very different assault on the ears, a uluating shriek that had only one source, orcs.

Cirion turned in the saddle in astonishment.  A half mile away, a swarm of black dots swept down a long shallow slope like ants overrunning a picnic.  A ripple of fear coursed through him which he quickly suppressed.  He had to make a quick adjustment.  He shouted orders to a runner to bring to the commander of the right wing of his line against the impending Balchoth.

The line would have to pull back from the river to his south and reform two battalions to the west to meet the orc attack.  Now they would be dangerously thin and trapped in a corner between the Limlight to their south and the Anduin to their east.  But for some miracle there was no way out. 

Louder and louder the roar of the Balchoth wild men broke upon his ears as they made their way across the river.  The unhuman wails of the orcs grew in strength as they ran unimpeded towards his makeshift line.  The cries of the wounded tore at his heart, the men he had led to their doom. 

Slowly the lines gave ground, grudgingly retreating from the river’s edge to the south and backing to the east from the orcs who had crashed into his wavering battalions to the west.      

He was running out of space, out of men and out of time.    

They came upon the first Balchoth stragglers two leagues south of the Limlight.  The mighty fist of the Eotheod scarcely paused, churning the hapless easterners into the mud, obliterating them from existence. 

Despite a lifetime of mostly quiet watching and patrolling west of the Misty Mountains, Aragost now found himself caught up in the moment.  The smell of sweat on his horse mixing with his own, the rumble of thirty thousand hooves shaking the plains.  The sheer power of the unstoppable wall of steel and death tapped into deep roots of the line of kings that preceded him, men who had faced battle in kingdoms long gone.  He now knew some of what they had felt. 

Today he would take part, bear witness and lend support to the kingdom of men in this age, Gondor.  To his right Borondir was grim faced, strained, desperately hoping they would be in time to save the day, the Steward and many a soldier he called friend.  To his left Eorl had blue fire in his eyes, golden hair streaming back from a face lit up with expectation and victory. 

The scattered stragglers grew in number.  They were nearing the rear echelons of the Balchoth now visible as a dark stain on the plains just a league short of the Limlight.  The horses saw them too and picked up the pace, just as eager to fulfill their destiny.  In another ten minutes they would be upon them.

Eorl blew his mighty battle horn, the signal to close upon the enemy.  The wing commanders responded.  They were now free to execute the plan and make such adjustments as the battle dictated.  All along the line the men now began to shout with excitement, their blood up, a collective mind hurtling across the plain.

Ahead of them the faces of the wild men turned in panic and astonishment at the sound of the horns, the trembling of the earth.  Wide eyed faces screamed then were trampled to oblivion. 

Now the wings began to separate.  The right wing would skirt the main body of Balchoth yet to cross, to quickly make haste over the Limlight to the aid of Gondor’s besieged army.  The center wing would eviscerate the marshalling Balchoth at the river's edge.  The left wing would protect the center’s flank and pursue any stragglers out into the empty plains to the west and south cutting them down to the last man.

“Down the slope!  Cross the river you fools!”  Dezoch screamed at what he felt was the slow pace of the Balchoth advance now that Gondor’s arrows were spent.  Some he just cuffed on the back of the head.  The more reluctant he clubbed in a rage until his commanders pulled him away.

No matter, hundreds were slogging across the Limlight every minute, meeting the thin ranks of Gondor’s North Army on the far shore.  Gondor’s soldiers fought bravely but their swords were being overwhelmed by Dezoch’s minions.  Dezoch paused to catch his breath, sparing a glance south where the long lines of his invaders were pressing towards the river.  A leering smile of satisfaction strayed across his face through yellowed crooked teeth.  They would have the Stewards head inside an hour and all the weapons of Gondor’s army.  The wide open lands of Calenardhon would soon follow.

Off to the northwest he could see the band of orcs streaming down the slope to hit Gondor’s weak flank, hastily reinforced.  All the more reason for haste on his part.  He had no intention of sharing any booty no matter how they shrieked and whined.

A fleeting light tremor danced through the earth beneath his feet.  He paid little notice.  After all he had thousands of men on the march.  The land should quiver in fear beneath their feet.

The tremor returned, steadier and stronger.  Off to the south he heard what sounded like a distant horn over the din of his shouting, jostling masses headed towards the river.  Still, he dismissed it, occupied with matters at hand and the sight of the Stewards banner now almost completely surrounded, backing towards the Anduin.

The horn was met with faint replies and the tremor became a low rumble.  Now puzzled, Dezoch climbed up atop a low rise to get a better view. 

At first nothing.  Then a line emerged on the southern horizon, vague in form but at times sparkling like tiny stars in the mid-day sun.  Something was coming, headed his way.  Not reinforcements, as he knew the entire muster of the Balchoth had crossed the Anduin days ago.  Nor could it be Gondor’s South Army.  What prisoners they had taken revealed under torture that it remained in Minas Tirith.  He briefly entertained the notion that it could be a stampede of some wild hooved plains grazers that could be found in his eastern homeland. 

The arrogance of his disbelief continued even as he could ascertain that the line had separated, its right flank altering path from the mass in the center and left.  The ground now trembled beneath his feet, noticeable to the wild haired tribesmen waiting their turn to cross the river.  They too looked to the south, with puzzlement and unease. 

Shaking his head, Dezoch broke the spell of his uncertainty and cursed himself a fool.  Whatever his shortcomings, and they be legion, he was a survivor and saw the shadow of death approaching however improbable it was.  It was too late to reorder his entire army, now spread across two sides of the river.  But there was time to make for an escape for himself and those of his tribe yet to cross.

Shouting a command in his tribal dialect he ordered a retreat west for his tribesmen, abandoning the rest to whatever fate would deliver. 

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Across the river, Cirion had no thoughts of escape or survival, only a swift death when it came, which seemed soon.  The line of battle was now scarcely fifty yards away.  To the south he heard the shouts and curses of the wild men and the clunk of wood on metal as their clubs battered the shields of his exhausted men. They retreated grudgingly, the rise and fall of their swords cleaving heads and arms in bloody spurts, the lances of the spearmen plunging deep into the faces of the maddened invaders.

To the west his thin battalions clashed sword on sword with the ravening orcs pressing for advantage with savage cruelty. 

On the line, Brandor felt his strength ebbing.  His shield arm was tired and almost numb from the endless club blows that had battered his shield nearly to ruin.  His sword arm was heavy and nearly spent, gutting one Balchoth after another.  Yet more came, pressing from the rear, forcing endless battle.  The ground grew slippery with their blood, the air foul with their odor and spittle ridden curses.

He slipped and fell, pulled back from a death blow by the lancer in back of him.  Gaining his feet he took a massive strike to his shield, sending him to the earth once again.  The lancer could not help this time, both hands on his spear lodged in the eye of an attacker.  With great effort he managed to stand one final time, mud and gore dripping from his chain mail.  Two huge wild men advanced, great clubs raised for a finishing blow. 

Dazed and weaving he thought he heard the sounds of horns in the distance.   A club blow sent his shield sailing off his useless left arm.  He fell to the earth once more.  A second barbarian stood over him leering, raising his war club to crush his skull. 

Brandor shut his eyes, ready to meet his death, having given the last measure of his strength.

Then a whizzing sound vibrated the air and a startled gurgle greeted his ears.  Brandor opened his eyes.  The crazed man with the club was clutching his throat where a steel tipped arrow stuck out under his chin.  Others like him were falling as well.  There was shouting in the distance, the horns louder.  The line of Balchoth wavered. 

His life spared for the moment, Brandor scrambled to his feet.  Over the heads of the remaining Balchoth in the line he saw a man with golden hair streaming out of his steel helmet, a man on horseback with a wild sword cleaving heads from shoulders. 

All along Gondor’s line he heard scattered shouts build, merge into a roaring cheer.  The sound of the turn of the tide.

Leofric approached the low bluff at full gallop, then hurtled in midair down the riverbank towards the Limlight.  Behind him he heard the thrum of bowstrings and the fft…fft…fft of hundreds of arrows let loose by the company of archers.  Their sharp steel points glistened in the sunlight as they descended in a power arc towards the unsuspecting backs of the Balchoth on the far side of the river.

He was on the far end of the right wing, a half mile wide wall of thundering death surging down the riverbank, about to break upon the unprotected rear of the right flank of the Balchoth army already across the river.  Ahead Leofric could see the chaos breaking out in their lines as the arrows fell, Balchoth toppling all along it, impaled with a startled death.  Their ragged comrades turned to see what manner of madness this was, only to see the waving swords and fierce countenances of over two thousand riders bringing their doom.

Now he was upon the first of them, stragglers still crossing the river, flailing in panic.  For those he didn’t trample into a watery red pulp, his sword hissed through the air sending heads spinning from shoulders, blood spraying in red pinwheels out of severed arteries from astonished heads.

Soon he and his five eoreds were across the Limlight, charging up the far bank into the rear ranks of the Balchoth that pressed on Gondor’s shrinking perimeter.  Flashing swords rose and fell cleaving through flesh and bone.  Spears thacked into exposed backs.  Flying hooves cracked skulls and crushed the fallen wounded. 

Amidst the bedlam of horses screaming and snorting, wild men wailing and shouting, Leofric heard a great roar sound out all along the battle line.  It came not from the Eotheod, but from the throats of Gondor’s beleaguered army, men who now realized that the Balchoth were trapped between their stout shield wall and the remorseless hooves and swords of the Eotheod.

There was no way out for them.  No quarter would be given. 

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In the center wing Borondir rode at the van with Eorl and Aragost.  Several thousand Balchoth had been milling and jostling at the low bluff overlooking the river, awaiting their turn to cross.  Now they were wide eyed with fear, scattering like ants caught at a picnic.  He rode through the masses slashing right and left, eyes fixed on the far bank of the river and beyond where the Steward’s standard still stood.  Across the river he plunged along with two thousand of the Eotheod’s finest riders carving a wide swath through the heart of the Balchoth ranks.

Off to his right the far end of the Eotheod center wing was soon to link with the advancing flank of the right wing to form a mile long wall of hooves and steel pressing the Balchoth into an alley of death between Gondor’s shield wall and the army of the Eotheod.

To the west the Eotheod’s left wing began to envelop and pursue clumps of Easterners fleeing the carnage at the river.  They were also closing on the band of orcs.

But Borondir cared not for strategy at this point.  He was fixated on the Steward’s banner now only one hundred yards away, separated from him only by a maddened crush of trapped Balchoth flailing their clubs and stolen spears.  On he rode carving a lane of death into their ranks, sword flashing, whirring through the air.  And they fell back from him seeing their doom in his eyes.  But not in full disarray as they surged towards the Steward and the last of his personal guard, hoping in one final charge to take him to his death along with their own. 

The suicidal sea of club wielding wild men broke upon the Stewards's guard dragging them from their mounts one by one even as they died in the act.  Ahead Borondir saw the Steward’s banner waver and fall, then Cirion himself topple from his mount.  Borondir desperately urged his horse forward, its flying hooves tearing into the Balchoth mob.  With a roar he reached Cirion, dismounted and carved a circle of death with his sword, standing bestride the Steward.

But in his zeal he had outdistanced the wave of Eotheod riders behind him.  He was surrounded, isolated in a sea of snarling Balchoth, enraged at the turning of their fortunes.  Though only rudely armed they still had numbers and began to hem him in.  His sword could not ward off every blow of their clubs.

 Aragost saw his plight and shouted to Eorl.

“My lord!  Ahead it goes poorly for Borondir!  Time is short!”

Eorl saw at once.  Felarof raised up on his hind legs, hooved forlegs clawing the air, plunging down to crush skulls, stove in ribcages and break backs.  Then he leapt forward churning Balchoth into pulpy mire as Eorl cut through their ranks like wheat before a sharp scythe.  Aragost spurred his mount on to join him, a long dormant wild fire of battle bringing fury to his face and death to his sword, now a silvery blur of elven taught skill. 

Though they outnumbered the two riders, the wild men screamed in retreat before the fell swordsmen who rode like fierce warriors of men from the age of Numenor. Fifty yards, forty, thirty, they closed on embattled Borondir.  But then a mighty blow sent him to his knees.  Aragost saw clubs rising and falling over their fallen comrade who was shielding the Steward with his body. 

In seconds Aragost and Eorl had reached him, scattering the mob.  Behind them, Eorl’s personal guard closed the gap and pushed the Balchoth away towards their final doom. 

But it was too late.  Borondir had been severely battered, his helmet dented, body oozing blood through his chain mail.  Aragost and Eorl knelt next to him.  His eyes were half open, breath coming in ragged gasps, blood trickling out of the side of his mouth. 

“The Steward…?”, he managed to rasp through broken teeth.

“I am safe”, Cirion replied thickly, struggling to a sitting position, holding Borondir’s head in his hands.  “We have won a great victory and live another day thanks to you.”

But Borondir had no reply, just a long sigh and a smile on his face as he left the land of the living.  Cirion closed Borondir’s eyes.  Eorl and Aragost met the Steward’s gaze and saw the depth of gratitude and grief intermingling.

Then they took their leave, mounted their horses and galloped off to the last pockets of Balchoth resistance, allowing Cirion his privacy to grieve for Borondir’s sacrifice.

It was not how it was supposed to end.

When Gondor’s archers had cast down their bows, arrows spent, it was time.   He had signaled Lugnashk.  The shouts went out to the captains and the host, one thousand strong, rose from concealment, howled like wolves and began a mad dash down the shallow slope towards Gondor’s exposed north flank.

They had been seen.  Swiftly Gondor rushed men from the battle line with the Balchoth to their exposed flank.  But they were two battalions of exhausted men, wearied from yesterday’s bloodletting in the Wold and what would be a last stand today.  With savage glee Bagrish had led his men snarling and slashing into Gondor’s line.  Back and back they had driven them, stepping over their chain mailed corpses.  To his right and down along the river the Balchoth were pressing hard.  The Steward’s banner was now just over a hundred yards away. 

Then the horns sounded.  Distant, then louder.  He’d looked south across the Limlight.  A great wave was pouring into the rear of the Balchoth line, slashing great rents in the formations.  Men were shouting, screaming.  Bagrish had seen them before when he was young, lurking in the far northern mountains near Gundabad.  The yellow hairs, fiercely defending their farms and families in the lands between the Langwell and Greylin.  He could not fathom what sorcery had brought them to this battle, this day.

He had wasted little time on speculation.  He’d known that this was death on horseback.    

Bagrish did what any sensible orc would do.  He turned and ran, leaping over the bodies of the dead, scampering back up the slope to the northwest until he fell, gasping for breath in the tall grass.  He’d risen slightly and scanned the battlefield.  He saw the horsemen envelop the line of the Balchoth, forcing them into a vise between their hooves and the resurgent men of Gondor.  Caught in those jaws were most of his fellow orcs though he’d seen stragglers desperately clawing back up the slope where he lay.

Now their fate seemed sealed as well.  A company of horsemen detached from the main left wing of their attack and charged up the slope, trampling most of them.  Those who resisted were quickly dispatched by spears or sword strokes.

Bagrish flattened himself into the ground, cowering.  The earth trembled as the cohort of riders swept up the slope.  Then just yards short of him they stopped.  Horns had sounded summoning them back to the melee with the Balchoth.  There were wild men escaping to the west.  Off they galloped.   He would live.

Bagrish waited til dusk’s grey blanket cloaked the sky then rose and began the long jog back to the Misty Mountain hideout.  There would be no booty, no fancy swords from Gondor to display and no Lugnashk to berate.

No, this was not how it was supposed to end. 

And once the Master received the news of the day in Dol Guldur, Bagrish’s own end might be far less savory than that of his soldiers at the hands of the yellow hairs.  

Dezoch had fled the scene of battle the instant he had recognized the doom the Eoetheod represented.  Abandoning his command and tribeman, he’d made his way northwest along the banks of the Limlight. 

It was a good plan.  The horsemen would be occupied with the main battle for an hour of more.  He would cover two leagues in that time.  Dezoch would also kill several Balchoth who tried to follow him and escape death.  His chances were better alone.

He’d reached a marshy bend in the river where he could hide in the reeds, cattails and sedges.  And waited for hours while the flies and mosquitoes tormented him.  Now dusk was creeping over the land.  Dezoch slowly crept out of his hiding place, quietly padded up the river bank to the low bluff at the edge of the grasslands.

It was quiet.  The ground did not tremble beneath the hooves of the northern horsemen.  He was alive.

The coming night was not a time for sleep.  That would be a luxury that the men of Gondor and the riders from the north would partake, well earned after their decisive victory.  No, Dezoch knew that he had to make his way back to the Anduin, to the Undeeps.  That was easily thirty, perhaps forty leagues distant.  At best he would make eight leagues tonight before dawn reddened the skies.  Then he would need to find a place to hide, some shallow ditch, a cleft in a low rock outcrop.  All the next day he would wait, unwilling to be seen by scouts.  And so it would go for at least four days.

He had enough dried meat and crude field biscuit to last him.  There might be more if he scavenged the dead at the first battle with Gondor.  His plan decided, Dezoch set out at a steady lope as the sky darkened and stars began to glimmer. 

He reached the Anduin in five days, tired, ragged, hungry, but alive, leader of an army of one.  The rafts from their crossing nearly a fortnight’s past were beached on the great river’s western shore. 

He was not alone. 

The shore was home to wounded survivors of the first battle, laggards who never went beyond the landing areas, and a few like him who had somehow managed to escape the defeat at the Field of the Celebrant.  He would round them up, cross the Anduin on what serviceable rafts were present.  Once on the eastern shore any other latecomers would be absorbed.  He would take them back to the southern eaves of Mirkwood and Rhovanian beyond.

With the massive losses of men, Dezoch resolved to do his duty to repopulate his people and provide comfort and sympathy to the many widows.  He would be father to many children who would be back someday to settle the score.

On foot, though rudely armed, the Balchoth’s numbers had put them on the brink of victory over Gondor’s exhausted, depleted army.  Seven thousand fierce horse warriors changed that calculus.  Now the Balchoth host was reduced to small pockets of die-hard defenders and disorganized remnant groups fleeing west over the grassy plains of the Wold.  Their fate would be no different as Eorl sent most of the left wing of his army after them to be hunted down to the last man.

Aragost quietly eased his horse through the heaps of the dead towards the Steward’s banner.  The fire of battle had passed from him.  An hour of madness, his elven forged sword whirring and cutting, wild angry faces screaming curses, bloody death in his wake. Then suddenly it was done.  No more foes before him, all now dead or scattered.  His breathing began to slow.  Knotted muscles unwound.  Soon had it seemed like the past hour had been something another Aragost had done.  It was.  One he might not see ever again, but one who would be there if the need was manifest.

Across the battlefield he heard shouts and cheers.  The men of the Eotheod, flush with victory, calling out their good fortune to be alive and fulfilling the task of their long journey.

Just ahead he could see Eorl and Cirion, dismounted, talking quietly together.  Beside them soldiers of Gondor were preparing Borondir’s lifeless body for the journey south and an honored burial. 

Then their conversation ceased for the moment.  Both men had urgent tasks with their respective armies, tending to the wounded, gathering the dead.  The time for parley and future plans would be in coming days. 

Eorl mounted Felarof, scanned up and down the battlefield.  Events were well in hand with his wing commanders and eored Captains.  He nudged Felarof.  The great white steed made its way towards Aragost.  Soon they were beside Aragost’s mount.

“You are ready to take your leave” Eorl spoke directly.

Was it that obvious, Aragost mused to himself.   Or was this lord of the north perceptive beyond his years. 

“My contribution is done.  Yours, I suspect is just beginning.  But I will play no part in that future and must return to my duties west of the Misty Mountains.”

“So be it.  Your contribution was more than you might think, even if it goes unheralded.  But you cannot simply ride off now.  You have fought a fierce battle.  The enemy is vanquished.  You have blood on your chain mail.  Your sword needs a fresh edge.  And your horse will throw you if you start a long journey this minute.  I see it in his eyes”

Aragost smiled at Eorl’s words. 

“We would do well with a fresh start tomorrow”

“Then come, Aragost.  We will dine with Cirion tonight.  You can be a trader from the northern lands, a soldier for hire or Aragost.  He knows not at this point. I leave it to you.”

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His horse had been well fed.  Eorl had seen to that as well as getting Aragost’s chain mail and other accoutrements cleaned.  Aragost had taken time to wade into the Limlight and wash off some the grime of battle and several days travel from Framsburg to the Undeeps.  Then he’d walked over to a pair of tents, side by side.  One was green with the figure of a white horse, the second white, colors of the Eotheod and the Steward of Gondor.

A small camp table and chairs had been set up.  Cirion was seated, wearing a grey tunic with white trim.  Eorl had shed his armor for a short deerskin tunic and leggings.  Simple fare was brought, travel bread, dried meat and fruit, mixed nuts and seeds.  They had lived on it for days.

Cirion had watched intently as Aragost came to the table.  Who was this man, dressed in a worn leather tunic, woolen leggings and weathered boots.  Cirion had wasted no time. 

“Eorl tells me you are also from the north, a visitor who has made common cause with him on our rescue.  You are too fit and strong, too skilled with a sword to be a tradesman.  Eorl has no need to hire soldiers.  And you are not of the enemy, not with a face as yours etched in strength and duty.”

Aragost had seen no need for artifice or concealment.  His name and ancestry would be of no bearing this day.

“I am Aragost, son of Arahad, chieftain of the Dunedain of the North”

“You are far from home” Cirion had replied, startled to find a descendant of the line of kings at this remote table on a battlefield.

“Far indeed.  Home is in Eriador, the lands between Bree and the Shire, Weathertop and the borders of Dunland.  Every several years I make way to the land of the Eotheod to share tidings and renew friendships.  No sooner had I arrived than Borondir was brought in very much the worse for wear with urgent news.  I resolved to join the host, to lend my sword and whatever counsel I might offer in hope of meeting your request for aid.”

“And now he cannot wait to depart” Eorl shook his head ruefully.

“Where will you go?” Cirion questioned, genuinely curious about the plans of leader of the Dunedain.

“Back to my duties in the lands west of the Misty Mountains, tending to the needs of my aged father and seeing that my son, Aravorn, will be ready to fulfill his role as chieftain when I become old and grey.”

Aragost sat down on a chair at the table and met Cirion’s eyes.  There was a trace of suspicion mixed with relief.  Suspicion as to whether Aragost’s presence constituted some plan to use his lineage to make a claim on Gondor.  Relief that his pending departure put that to rest.

With that the atmosphere lightened and the three men had talked quietly of the events of the day and what the future might hold.  It had then been clear to Aragost that Cirion had something more permanent in mind for Eorl and the Eotheod. 

But that was something for them to devise in the days that followed. 

Dawn’s first grays were softening the night sky when Aragost left the encampment.  He had a long journey ahead of him.  Retracing his steps up the Anduin put him at risk for any lingering Balchoth or worse that close to Mirkwood.  He could not make passage through Lorien.  The Misty Mountains between Fangorn and Lorien were infested with orcs. 

It left the long road west to the Isen.  Then a turn to the northwest on the old North South Road, passing through the ghost ruins of Tharbad then finally the crossing at Sarn Ford, just south of the Shire.  It would be many weeks travel.

Aragost paused his mount, looking back at the battlefield in the early dawn mirk.  They would be busy for some days, tending to wounded, burying the dead both here and at the first battle site.  And they would be building great pyres to render the dead Balchoth to ashes.   

Aragost nudged his horse towards the west.  He was ready to go.  His past life had not shared in great events in his lonely patrols along the East West road, monitoring the Shire from little known trails and lanes.  At the end of the day, his decision to ride with Eorl was to test himself.  Had a lifetime of quiet surveillance dulled his ability to rise to the challenge of a greater demand should it present.

Aragost half smiled.  The wolf in him had come out for a time.  But then retreated to a distant lair.  That was how it worked with him.  He had acquitted himself well.  All the training of his youth, fostered in Rivendell, had not been in vain.  And the strength of the ancient kings still ran in his veins

It spoke favorably for his son, Aravorn and those to follow.  Perhaps one would lead again in a distant future time he could not forsee.  He would not lack the strength at the end of the day.

Aragost took in a deep draught of the cool morning air, savoring the smell of dew and the swell of the west wind drifting across the endless grassy plains.  A fine morning to start a journey. 

T.A. 2533, Twenty-three years later

The innkeeper led him to a corner table.  Grey haired and road weary, he eased his lean frame down into the chair.  A tankard of ale was quietly delivered. 

He had returned from Aldburg, paying a visit to Eorl, now king of newly named Rohan in his fortress town in the middle of the Folde.  The king was a hale and vigorous 48 years.  The once empty Calenardhon province of Gondor was thriving with expanding farms, pastures and open range.  Eorl had been granted these lands by Cirion for saving the Steward, his army and perhaps Gondor itself from the Balchoth nearly a quarter century past.

Eorl had done well with them.  His people prospered.  Many of those who made the fateful ride from far Framsburg to the Field of the Celebrant still lived.  Their sons were now reaching manhood. 

Aragost had spent some weeks with Eorl after an absence of over ten years.  Eorl had taken him out into the countryside to witness the growth and progress of his people.  Memories of their time together years ago were shared over ale and roast beef. 

Now he was back, expecting a visitor. 

At the far corner of the room the door opened.  A tall figure clad in a heavy grey cloak entered, took off his blue pointy hat and made way towards Aragost’s table.  The innkeeper swept by and left a tankard of ale and a plate of fruit and sausages.

The old man settled into a chair across from Aragost.  He had not changed in the over 100 years he had known him.  The same long gray hair joined a beard mixed with streaks of white, his bushy eyebrows framing keen eyes that saw through every veil.  Gandalf had arrived for tidings from the lands of the Rohirrim. 

“It is not often that men of the north, even a chieftain of the Dunedain, make such a journey to the kingdom of Rohan.  But if memory serves me, it is not your first encounter with its king, Eorl.”

The old fox, Aragost thought to himself, taking a sip of ale.  He had never uttered a word of his ride with Eorl that fateful year.  But he suspected that the old wizard knew somehow or harbored thoughts which he had long been eager to validate with an admission.  For years, Aragost had decided that the knowledge of his ride was neither of benefit nor relevance to anyone.

And, to tell the truth, he felt a small sense of satisfaction in withholding the information.  Wizards, elves, and others had their own special powers.  This bit of information he had held for many years was his.  It was time to let it go.

“No, it is not.”  Aragost replied minimally, savoring the last moments, trying not to smile.

He could sense Gandalf’s impatience. 

“You know I first met Eorl the year he led the entire eohere to the Field of the Celebrant.  Buteor had tracked me down.  Eorl himself wrote a message in reply that he was coming to Gondor’s rescue.”

“That’s not what I meant” Gandalf replied with slight exasperation.

“And the next time I met him was over ten years past, a long journey to Aldburg to renew our friendship and the contact between his people and the lands of the north”

“The two of you seem to have developed quite a bond, based on your brief visit to him in Framsburg over twenty years past.  I say brief because little was seen of you for many weeks.  You must have patrolled half of Eriador after your visit before returning to Bree and the Shire!”

Gandalf was getting testy.  Aragost finally relented.

“No, Gandalf it was not brief. I listened to Borondir’s message, the plea from Cirion, the Steward, and rode with Eorl and seven thousand horsemen to Gondor’s aid.  I provided such counsel as could benefit but was just one sword among many and sent many howling wildmen to their own vision of eternity.”

Gandalf sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“You could have been killed.  The line of kings is a slender thread indeed.”

“Do not think that I went unaware of that and simply cast it aside.  No, there was a powerful draw calling me back to protect the Dunedain legacy and resume my tasks in the Shire, around Bree and lands south.  And yet I felt an obligation to Gondor.  Gondor came to the aid of Arthedain when Angmar attacked near six hundred years past.  I had no armies no fleets as they did in routing the Witch King, just my sword and what counsel I could give.  To have turned my back on Gondor in its hour of need, no matter how modest my contribution…

“Would have been unkingly.”  Gandalf replied softly.

“Yes.  And I could not abide that.”  Aragost replied

Gandalf paused for a moment, taking out his long pipe, packing a pinch of Longbottom leaf and lighting it, sensing that Aragost was not done, needed just a bit more time. 

“And there is more.  After the years of training in my fostering at Rivendell, the long days and nights patrolling the Shire, Bree and the lost lands of Arnor, did I have the mettle to join in battle and great events as did my ancestors centuries past.  Or am I just a link in a chain, preserving a lineage that has lost its strength and  purpose.”

“Did you find your answer?”  Gandalf replied.

“I did.  As will my son Aravorn and all who follow.  All will have the strength they need.  It is in our training and in our blood.”

“Yet you kept all this secret all this time” Gandalf prompted

“In the telling I might be setting myself apart somehow from those before me and those yet to come.  I would not have my son Aravorn thinking that he would need a similar chance to match such a deed when he becomes chieftain.  He must find satisfaction in the bounds and chance encounters of his own life.”

“And as to telling wizards or high elves, it seems you are also chary with your words, at least up to now” Gandalf was smiling.

“Well, I always assumed you somehow knew, as you seem to know all that occurs in Middle Earth.”  Aragost replied with a slight smirk

“Yes, well what a wizard knows or doesn’t know is ultimately the province of wizards, Aragost.  And since we both now know something, I declare the matter settled.  Will you join me in carving up some of our Inkeeper’s fine sausages?”

“As along as you agree to another round of ales for us.”

“Done!”