Chapter Three - Preparations

MINAS TIRITH

   Asfaloth reached the main gate of Minas Tirith covered with foam and sweat. The wardens gaped at him and at their queen, clutching to the steed's mane as if she would fall off any moment. The gates were opened, her coming announced, but she did not react to the greetings. With restless eyes she searched for the captain of the guard, and when he came up to her she asked:

   “Are there tidings from Ithilien or Rhûn?”

   “No, Queen Arwen. We have not heard from Prince Faramir and his men in weeks.”

   She steered the stallion up to the sixth ring. Sliding out of the saddle she was grateful for the smith to come to her aid. The broadly built man blushed deeply when capturing her from falling, and she thanked him for it. Panting heavily, she stood again on weak legs.

   “Your highness, my lady, what happened? Why did you ride as if there was evil behind you?”

   “The evil already got to him,” she breathed.

   Hiregon was puzzled, but did not dare asking. He called for Vlohiri, and he ran up to them. Stunned and wide-eyed he recognised the Queen of Gondor and quickly bent his knee.

   “Get up and take care of the horse!” Hiregon ordered sternly, but when the young boy hurried to oblige she held him back.

   “Vlohiri… the healers, are they all gathered by now?”

   “No, mylady…” His head turned to the old man with the grey beard, standing at the other side of the stable's entrance. “Lomac is still here.”

   “Lomac!” A feeble smile broke through her weariness. “Where…”

   “I am here, Queen Arwen.” Lomac came to her, slightly bowing, with his hands folded in front of his belly. And while Vlohiri led away the tired horse the queen looked into his face with utmost concern. “How can I be of help?”

   “Follow me.” She led him beyond the Hall of Kings to their private house, and while the guards greeted her she shed out of her cloak. A maiden came to take it, astonished but quiet about the exhausted appearance of the lady. The young woman hastened back to bring tea, bread, and cheese, while the lady and her guest sat down. “The king was captured and is probably taken to Rhûn,” Arwen explained, gratefully accepting the tea to drink and a wet cloth to wipe her dusty face. “He was… hurt by something, a dagger I suppose, and even now he is in pain.”

   Lomac cleared his throat. He had heard about the various abilities of Elves, but still he did not understand.

   “May I ask how you know about that?”

   “I know. He was hurt by an Easterling woman, and now, from time to time he seems to be… under another one's control.” Lomac lifted his bushy brows. “King Éomer and his men will arrive here shortly. I want you to ride with them.”

   “Ride?” He swallowed his reply and pursed his lips. “I will cross that bridge when I come to it,” he mumbled to himself, and louder he said, “It will be as you wish, Queen Arwen.”

   “Do not fail me, Lomac,” Arwen said rising, and the urgency of her plea made the old man flinch. “That woman did something to him… I fear she set him under her spell. You have to help him.”

   “I cannot promise anything that is beyond my power, my queen. But I will do as you bid.” He bowed and left.

   While the queen went to the embrasure to overlook the Pelennor and tried to sense her husband again somewhere in the wilderness, Lomac hurried as fast as his old feet allowed to meet his friend, Tinungelen. He had not seen him for many years, but when it came to spells and evil power he was the one to ask for help.

* * *

RHÛN

   Aragorn was not able to fend off his captors when they steered him out of the tent to a cart waiting in front of it with a horse already harnessed. But at the sight of the diagonal cross on the cart, the king's resistance flared anew.

   “You will not make me the bane of my people!” he cried and pressed his feet against the rim of the cart, fighting the hands pulling him up.

   Ridasha watched the procedure reluctantly. She would not have wanted to be a part of it, but since three men were needed to press the Gondorian ruler against the cross, her help was not required. The king kicked the first man against the knee, driving him back. Yet he gained no room and no advantage. Another warrior took his place, and when they held the captive firmly, the fourth man cut the bonds, only to pull up Aragorn's arms against the wood and bind his wrists and ankles again. The king tested the rope, but gave in. He would not waste his strength now.

   Aragorn's defeat was bitter, all the more upon seeing the readied army of Easterlings gathering along both sides and behind him. There were long rows of armed men and women, the pride of the Easterlings, who had waited for this day for two years. Their looks were confident and eager, and the knowledge of having the King of Gondor as their captive, heightened their moods.

   “You will do exactly what you were supposed to do,” Harishdane sneered when she got closer, and shot him an evil glance out of suddenly yellow eyes.

   “You will gain no victory!” the king shouted back. “You are but a leader of cowards!”

   Harishdane almost smiled.

   “Your whole army will do nothing. They will not even think of defending themselves against my people because we hold your life in our hands. Now, tell me, king, who are the cowards?”

   Ridasha listened to the conversation with a frown. Now that she knew his position, many details formed a greater picture, and she realised that indeed Harishdane had planned all of this to conquer Ithilien by blackmail. It had been an incredible long way to gain what she wanted, but in the end it would prove true what she had promised her kindred before: They would settle on new land without much loss of warriors. It had sounded like a promise impossible to keep, yet the men and women, who had lost many relatives in the Ring War, had gladly believed it. Ridasha had been among those, who had voted to leave the land to the east, and had remained sceptical when the promise had been made, but within the months stretching to years, Harishdane had proved to be a worthy leader. The doubts of many had faded, and they all had been content with Harishdane's decisions. And now, in the dead of the night, Ridasha saw faces of soldiers finally getting into the agitation of battle close at hand. The vanguard had left an hour ago and would reach the Gondorian soldiers close to sunrise. The army would march behind – with the king as its shield.

   Ridasha turned and met eyes with Gishvané. The old woman shared her worries, but there was no way to deny Harishdane's leadership and the decisions she made. Reluctantly they both stayed at the side of the cart while it rolled westward.

* * *

BORDERLINE OF ITHILIEN

   The horses neighed and fidgeted suddenly. Though calm and docile most of the time, now they were irritated and seemed to have caught a strange scent from somewhere in the wet, but warm summer night after the rain had ceased. The guards moved to check after them, tried to calm them down. Gently they talked to them, took their bridles and stroked their manes, but the steeds’ nostrils flared, and some of them reared. The soldiers jumped back, and with a yell of surprise evaded the thrashing hoofs. None of them turned. They did not see the eyes in the darkness, reflecting yellow on the flames’ shine. The soldiers kept their attention on the nervous steeds, knowing that something was wrong, but unable to determine what it might be. For weeks these plain had been still.

   When the first man turned it was because of a low growl emitting from the darkness. The soldier strained his eyes, still holding fast to the reins of his restless horse. He frowned, calling out to the next man, and he turned too. The darkness, an hour before dawn, was impenetrable like a blanket woven of velvet. Nothing shone; nothing seemed to move, but yet… An awkward feeling crept upon the soldiers, speeding their hearts up, making them feel uneasy. A soldier called out when his steed furiously threw up his head, and from his tent Prince Faramir came, putting on his jerkin, asking the guards about the unusual clamour, but already on alert. The growling resounded, low, but with a threat that reached every man's heart in the camp. The prince stood still and gazed northward. But the origin of the sound was hard to determine. The next time it seemed to come from the east. Faramir unsheathed his sword and yelled:

   “Prepare to defend yourself! There is something coming!”

   It was the moment the army of Gondor was caught by surprise. Without a sound of their own black beasts emerged from the shadows, taller than dogs, hideous as wargs. With their fangs bared and hissing, they attacked the horses first. Some got to the men nearby. Their sharp teeth bit flesh, ripped open trousers and greaves. The soldiers cried out with pain. Others nearby were rooted to the earth by terror, unable to move, and would have become an easy prey if it had not been for the stout-hearted, who simply thrust their swords forward with a cry of war.

   The beasts jumped at the horses’ broad chests, quick enough to evade the hoofs, biting them, terrifying them to make them turn to flee headless. Touching the ground, they immediately went for the next prey, growling with bloodlust, gaining on the shocked men. But more soldiers recovered and thrust their swords forward. Some of the beasts were slain, but there were many to take their places; they seemed to come from every side, and more and more filled the camp, causing chaos and death. The night was suddenly filled with cries, loud neighing, and the shouted orders of the Gondorian leader, who tried to bring his petrified men to order. He saw how devastating these beasts were, how agile and hungry for blood. But amid the turmoil he saw them halt and look as if they were deciding where to turn to next. Faramir brought his sword down on one of them, and with the elegance only cats possess it jumped aside to attack him the next moment from another angle. The captain of the guard beside him swung his weapon to strike, cutting the beast’s mighty body, but its claws had already ripped the pauldrons of Faramir’s right arm. The prince cried out and stepped back, renewing the grip on the hilt of his sword. When he turned, he saw amidst the fires and tents his men fighting back the beasts one by one. Though they still assaulted from behind, the animals seemed to retreat. Faramir’s gaze fell upon the horses. Some were dead, some reared and neighed still, and those, which had torn the ropes, galloped into the darkness, blind with fear.

   Faramir panted, and raised his sword once again to hit the neck of one mighty beast. He wounded it, and it broke off the attack, saving itself by running away. Others followed. The growling and hissing continued, but the enemies drew back into the night they had come from.

   With the same speed they had attacked they were suddenly gone, leaving the Gondorians wounded, in fear, and in disorder.

   Catching his breath, the prince lowered his sword and made sure that none of those catlike attackers still roamed the camp. Though he had seen them with his own eyes, he could hardly believe that the stories the settlers had told him had turned out to be true.

   “They are gone! Take care of the wounded and kindle the fires!” he shouted over the campsite, but he had not yet ended the command when another sound could be heard, and all his men stood motionless. It was the dull sound of feet on the soft ground. Marching boots. Many of them. The ground seemed to vibrate with every step innumerable men took. They were like muffled drums, played by an enemy they could not yet see. “No…,” Faramir mumbled. He swallowed dryly, glancing over his men, who were not even on the verge of recovering from the vicious attack of those beasts of prey. He could not risk another fight. Suddenly – though he could not explain how – the Easterlings marched up on them: Eight hundred men stood against his army. Faramir would not have thought about fleeing them, but at the moment there was no order to be brought back at once.

   The dull noise rose. It was a threat, very distinct, clear enough to all of the soldiers, who stood like rooted in the ground. It grew louder with every step, and the Prince of Ithilien hated the decision he had to make.

   “Retreat!” he cried aloud to be heard everywhere. “Retreat! Take the horses! Make haste!” He ran to his own steed and mounted. The sun slowly rose and with the first light the impressive ranks of the attackers could be spotted as they emerged from the east. But Faramir could see more than soldiers. Up front between the red and golden armour and the many polearms, raised like a wood of young trees, there was a cart with a grey horse and upon it a figure with his arms widespread and bound. Though the decision had been made, and his men were already leaving, the prince could not spur his horse. The man at the cross seemed so familiar, and yet Faramir could not believe what a first glimpse tried to insinuate. It could not be…

   He waited a perilous moment longer. His captain rode up to him and urged him to leave, but the prince simply lifted his hand to quieten him. His eyes rested on the cart, and the person on it, unable to move. Now he could determine who the man was. Unbeknown Faramir shook his head. Another group of men passed him by - yelling, urging him to follow - and still he pondered over his decision. Could he indeed abandon his king and friend to the mercy of the enemy? Yet there was nothing he could do at the moment. There was no force left to fight eight hundred strongly armed Easterlings, whose ranks seemed to reach from end of the glowing horizon to the other. He wished that there was something he could do. He turned to his captain, who had followed his line of sight.

   “We ride south and alarm all men under arms-”

   “My lord, but…”

   “We have to hurry!” With utmost regret and the painful feeling of making a wrong decision at the worst time Faramir spurred his horse and quickly joined his men already on the way.

* * *

   The King of Gondor had never before seen men shift their shape, and the realisation of how long those catlike creatures had already roamed Ithilien took his breath away. He saw them return to Harishdane with bloodied jaws and hideous growls, and shortly after their arrival they turned into the men and women they had been before at the campsite. He stared at them in utter disbelief. He had heard about strange beasts during his long years of wandering Middle-earth, but all those stories he had considered to be myths. Now he had seen with his own eyes how Harishdane would gain her victory. But he saw, too, that Faramir's men had caused the creatures injuries, which had to be treated. Still those observations bore no comfort since the host was still so strong it could have beaten the Gondorians in a fair fight.

   Aragorn hung his head. Faramir had made the right decision to order a retreat, but that would only save his men for now. The host of enemies represented a strong force, and even if the prince gathered the garrisons from Osgiliath, there was a bitter fight ahead. He hoped that Faramir would bring forward all men under arms to defy Harishdane.

   Ridasha had watched the Gondorian retreat disappointed. She had supposed those fighters to stand and try to free their king. Now she saw that they all had turned and fled, leaving behind their dead and their gear. The Easterling soldiers mocked their cowardice, and, after the riders had disappeared, roared with laughter at their easy victory. Ridasha knew that the herds of sharos with a few men to guard them followed their march south and would take possession of the grassland. The animals had been starving for weeks and had been hard to hold back for such a long time.

* * *

   Faramir had never fled an enemy before, and the dread that befell him as he rode away from the Easterlings and his captured friend was almost too much to bear. He found no way to convince himself that he had decided upon the voice of reason. His heart told him he had deserted his ruler and left him at the mercy of his foes. Though stout-hearted, the memory of his friend - bound and helpless - almost brought tears to his eyes.

   “My lord, how can we turn our backs on them?”

   Faramir looked at the juvenile features of his second captain, and though he thought the same, he answered with grim determination:

   “And what could we have done, Captain Delion? What would have been our options? Face them? Or asked them politely to release him?” His words were poignant, and Delion averted his eyes from the fierceness of the prince's voice. “They have come for but one reason: To conquer Ithilien by threat. We need a force stronger than ours to hinder that.”

   “My Prince, there are only two garrisons waiting at Osgiliath, and they won’t be…”

   “I know. We have to send messengers to Lebennin and Rohan and ask for their immediate support.”

   “They will need days to get here!”

   “They had already been informed and will be prepared to depart immediately.” He shook his head slightly. “Now our advantage must be that we are mounted. Hurry!” He spurred his horse once more and with the picture of his bound friend still on his mind he rode on.

* * *

   The day stretched to uncounted hours of pain in the heat of the late summer sun. Aragorn but heard the dull sound of marching boots around him, and ever and ever again he fell unconscious. When he woke again, the face of Ridasha was in front of him, and he felt water on his lips. He drank greedily, but still he was too hoarse to speak. She understood by his gaze.

   “We stopped for a midday break, but will march on soon.” For a moment she looked at him. How deplorable the mightiest man from Gondor now looked. Tightly bound, marked, and deserted by his own people. “Do your own people not like you?” she asked quietly after giving him some bread and dried fruits to eat.

   “He was wise to leave,” Aragorn croaked.

   “Wise? He’s a coward! He abandoned you without a fight! You must hate him!”

   Wearily the king lifted his head.

   “Why should he have stayed to surrender himself?”

   “He could have fought for your life.” Ridasha lifted her brows. “Harishdane was right: There is no pride in Men.”

   “Pride is treacherous.” He coughed, and once again she gave him water.

   “But should they not at least be loyal? Are they not bound by an oath to serve their king?”

   He nodded slightly, and held her challenging stare.

   “They will serve the kingdom, Ridasha, not the man.”

   She did not believe his words and left him disappointed. She climbed down the cart and met eyes with Gishvané. Her bearing was that of a woman longing to get into action after hours of contemplation, and Ridasha frowned. Never before had she seen the high priestess so restless and worried. When asked, Gishvané tried to soothe her, but her smile was less benign than it used to be.

   “Do not worry, Rilon Avas. There will be a time when you will understand.”

   “I understand that you are discontented with our leader's behaviour.”

   “It is more than that. Úshemor commands us to treat our slaves well, not to let them suffer.” Her gaze wandered up the cart. The king hung his head and seemed barely conscious. “By her insolence Harishdane has angered the goddess and the wrath of Úshemor will come down upon us all if we give in.”

   Ridasha’s eyes widened.

   “You mean…”

   Gishvané silenced her with a raised hand.

   “That should not concern you, my child, for you have done what was in your might. It is upon all of us to change our fate. Go now,” she said evenly, “Go and see after your duties. We will march on soon.”

* * *

NORTH OF OSGILIATH

   Faramir sent errand-riders on the swiftest steeds southward once they had reached the forces at Osgiliath. With fresh horses the men departed, dismayed upon hearing the tidings of the king's captivity. The message the prince had given them to deliver was quite simple: They needed all strength the King of Rohan and the lords of the south could muster in haste to attack the Easterlings in spite of the blackmail.

* * *

   Pondering over the prospect of facing the host of enemies alone for the reinforcements would hardly be able to support them quickly, the prince rested in his tent when a young soldier entered and stood at attention.

   “Speak!” Faramir ordered sitting up.

   “I met a messenger from Minas Tirith, my lord. The Riders from Rohan are on their way. They have already reached the City.”

   He stood and his features brightened with surprise and bliss.

   “By the Valar! These are good tidings, Finon.” Quickly he made up his mind. “Ride up to them and tell them to approach the enemy from the west. Once the Easterlings have come hither, we will make them a fight they will never forget.”

   “Aye, my lord.”

* * *

   On the night's camp Harishdane allowed Ridasha again to untie the king from his cross. She sent Nisenur to aid her and to watch over the valuable prisoner. The young woman flinched at the sight of the Gondorian, who did not resist or even try to break into a run the moment the bonds were loosened. He but sank to his right side with closed eyes and seemed unaware of the ropes holding him hence on the ground. She hurried to hold the water-skin to his parched lips, and only then he moved slightly to finally look at her.

   “Drink,” she urged him, and when he did, she noticed that he gazed over the arrangements at the campsite, and she was relieved that his condition was not as bad as she had thought. “I get you some food.” She stood and left the cart.

   Harishdane watched her and was content with the developments so far. She was sure there would be no resistance once they would have reached Osgiliath. She even considered that many garrisons from Gondor had been called to Rohan to invade Dunland for rescuing the King of Gondor, but even if their army remained in their own land, she was convinced her threat would not be answered by force. For once the king had proven to be a worthy shield; the captain and his garrison had fled in complete disorder and fear. Though Lomarin still uttered concern she would not stray from her path now. The prospect of new land in Ithilien, of overthrowing the hated Gondorian regime was too blissful to even think about failure. She had walked too far to gain a victory to now back off.

* * *

   Aragorn watched the men rise in the morning. The guards reported in, and they seemed pleased that no one had yet challenged them. Harishdane ordered the host to break camp, and Asentis climbed up the cart to bind the king on the cross again, sneering:

   “You are already defeated, King of Cowards! Your little, pitiful army will diminish and crumble only seeing you like that. If they ever dare to approach.”

   “You hide yourself behind me. So tell me, who is the coward?” Aragorn replied, staring at the Easterling and hiding the pain the other man caused him. “You would not be able to win an open challenge, and you will not gain anything by blackmailing my people.”

   Asentis bared his teeth to a malevolent laughter.

   “You try to trick me, you fool! We know about the strength of your army. We know everything about the few men, who might oppose us! But still they won’t, for they fear you to be killed. So they will retreat instead of fight. Your land is beyond any defence, and you well know of it.”

   Aragorn did not grant him to see his worry.

   “And then what?” he demanded, his face stern. “Even if they retreat; do you think they will retreat forever? That they will leave the land to usurpers like you? Again, you are a fool to believe Ithilien will be yours.”

   Asentis stooped to meet eyes with the king.

   “Right now sharos by their thousands are led into Northern Ithilien,” he hissed. “Who will hinder them? Who will throw them out? You are weak, king. You will do as Harishdane bids, and all of this land, with its plains and woodlands, will be ours to rule and cultivate.” With that he jumped down and ordered the host to gather and move on. He knew his words had struck a vital cord, but when he glanced over his shoulder, the King of Gondor held his stare unflinchingly.

* * *

NORTH OF MINAS TIRITH

   Receiving the tidings from the errand-rider, Éomer commanded his éoreds north for an approach as Faramir had requested. He only hoped to be fast enough to be of help.

   It was then when he came to meet with his five men he had sent on pursuit of the Easterlings. They told him how the enemy had escaped over the River Anduin and how they had reached the northern frontier of Gondor in a strenuous march and with the help of fishermen, who had taken them in their boats for a part of the journey. King Éomer thanked them and with renewed strength and vigour hastened to reach his position in Ithilien within a day-ride.

* * *

OSGILIATH

   Faramir met the captains of the forces at the eastern shore of the River Anduin, including those, who had ridden as fast as their steeds allowed from Minas Tirith to meet the prince at the base camp. Others from the south were set in march, but only when the tidings from Éomer's host reached him that the éoreds would be in position shortly, he was relieved of the thought to have deserted King Elessar. Still he could read in the faces of his men that they dreaded the confrontation.

   “They know we won’t risk his life,” an old warrior uttered, shaking his head worriedly. “What use is all this force we can bring forward, if there is no chance to gain a victory?”

   “There will be a chance,” Faramir objected adamantly. “We will use every chance to free him. If it comes to a fight they will threaten his life, I know that well. But they will also hesitate to kill him since he is their only pledge that we will not attack with all our forces.” He still saw disbelief. “The Riders of Rohan are on their way to the western plain. Their diversion will give us the opportunity to save the king. We must rely on this option.”

   “It is his hope that you do,” a voice from the tent's entrance suddenly said, and all men turned their heads. A moment later they bowed deeply to the Queen of Gondor as she entered and threw back the hood of her cloak. “For it cannot be assumed that he will be able to escape alone.”

   “My queen,” Faramir greeted her and lowered his head. “We did not expect you.”

   Arwen nodded slightly to all men present to rise again.

   “You may proceed with your preparations, Lord Faramir. The army's command lies in your hands. Use it wisely.”

   “Of course I will, my queen.”

   Arwen looked into the faces of the men gathered.

   “Still you should consider that not only his life is at stake. If Ithilien is taken by the enemy, no one can tell if they would continue their conquest. The Easterlings must be stopped and thrown back.” She faced Faramir, who could not hide his reluctance. “And even though you are his friend, and he is my husband, and we both love him dearly, your concern, my prince, is the whole land with its entire people. If the king falls it will be for the sake of his kingdom.”

   “My heart is heavy to agree with you, Queen Arwen.” Faramir bowed to her. “But let me assure you, that I will not accept King Elessar's death unless there is no other option to throw back the enemy.”

* * *