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.