Chapter Four – Battle

WESTERN ITHILIEN

   The scouts returned to the assembly point. Éomer awaited them in front of his tent, and the rain, which had lasted throughout the day, now drenched his clothes.

   “The enemy is still moving,” Thor reported and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “They will reach the Gondorian forces by nightfall.”

   The king nodded grimly.

   “So we will move too. Prepare the men for departure immediately. We will give them a not so warm welcome.” He turned and strode back to his tent. Finally the time for revenge for the capturing of his men and the Gondorian King had come.

* * *

NORTH OF OSGILIATH

   The beasts had already returned, and Harishdane watched them shift their shape to hear their report of the small Gondorian army that waited for them with their banners raised in the setting sun. The order to rest had been given for the night, for there was no way even for the catlike creatures to attack during complete darkness. After the rain had ceased, clouds still veiled the stars, and no moon brought light to guide them. It would have been too risky since the Gondorians were warned now and had placed horses alongside the camp. Even with all of the beasts gathered, the enemy's strength was too great to be confronted at once. Reluctantly the leader prepared for a last night within the foe's sight, but out of reach of their archers. Their reinforcements would arrive soon, and then, she knew, there was no hope for Gondor to win against them. Until then they would hold position, for an assault from their foes was not to be expected. It was on Asentis to lighten her mood, as they both retreated to enjoy their closeness. He whispered into her ear how they would live up once the battle would be over, and he assured her that even without the king as their captive no army would stand the host of her people.

   The two guards at the cart did not hinder her, even helped her up the tall rim to watch the bound captive lying on the ground. Gishvané thanked the men and quickly knelt at the king's side, holding the water-skin she had brought to the prisoner's lips. The man looked wretched and seemed exhausted beyond measure. The high priestess sighed. She had waited during the long hours of the night, until her prayers had subsided and her mind had been cleared of doubts. She had weighed up in her mind Harishdane's leadership against the will of the goddess and finally considered that she owed her obedience to Úshemor, whom she had served for the span of her life. Still it was no easy decision. She knew why Harishdane had gone the long way to ally her people with the primitives of the Misty Mountains, and first it had seemed like wisdom to draw the Rohirrim and Gondorian forces into a fight with the Dunlendings to hinder them from protecting their own realms. No one could have expected the Rohirrim to be a people of peace suddenly, a fact, which had almost ruined that plan. Now, at the end of that strenuous road, Gishvané could no longer agree with her leader. The marking of a captive without the blessing of a high priestess, and the treatment the prisoner had received opposing the goddess' bidding was something unheard of, and Gishvané's fear of Úshemor's wrath had risen during the weeks of marching. The strange power Harishdane had used to control the captive only added to the high priestess' unrest.

   The little knife plunged into her hand as she took away the water-skin. The king squinted and might only have recognised her due to her long black and grey hair, but he was on alert the moment he saw the blade.

   “What is this about?” he asked in a hushed voice, raising his head to quickly take a look around.

   “Will you stay true to your word?” she whispered, and when he frowned, added, “You told Ridasha there are other ways to find new land. Will you promise me to not slaughter my people the moment I free you?”

   Aragorn nodded slightly, and his heart pounded hard against his ribcage, thinking that he was suddenly given the opportunity to escape.

   “If you let me return to my people I will not order an attack, but dare a parley if your leader is willing to listen.”

   “That must serve well enough.” She cut the bonds. “You must have the strength to flee alone,” she whispered as she hid the knife again in her sleeve. Her face wore a deep frown. It was a risky plan, and never before had she ventured so much in her life. “I cannot do anything more for you, but send a prayer to our goddess to let you go unharmed and keep both our peoples alive.” She touched his head with a weary smile that quickly vanished. “Forgive your enemies, Strider, if you can.”

   “I have done so before,” he replied.

   Gishvané's features softened.

   “I thought so.” Then she rose, leaving the water-skin, and climbed down the cart. Aragorn remained at his place motionlessly. His muscles hurt, and he felt stiff. He waited until everything was quiet before he slowly crawled to the rim of the cart and glimpsed at the guards. There was one on either side, and they both seemed bored with the task given.

   Ridasha had watched the high priestess leave the cart, and when she had been about to doze off she saw movement again at the rim. She knew what had happened, and, turning her head, recognised Gishvané's concerned expression. She, too, was watching the king climb down the cart. Ridasha's heart sped up. She had to intervene! She had to call for help! The hope of her people to win rested on that prisoner, who quickly knocked out both guards. The woman lifted her head further to see what he was doing. Still she pondered over her decision. She had let him escape once. How could she stay and let him flee a second time? But when her gaze found the high priestess again, she realised that this escape was meant to be. She had not hindered him before, and she would not now.

   The king had hesitated only for a moment. It was close to dawn, and already the outlines of the many warriors could be guessed within the first light. He rubbed his wrists to improve the blood circulation, and when the first guard turned, leapt at him and threw him down. A quick blow to the man's head robbed him of his consciousness, and he pulled him between the wheels. Aragorn knelt at the ground for a moment, listening intently. Only when there was no movement, he ducked under the shafts of the cart to bring the second guard down. He took the man's scimitar and dagger and pivoted to run southward, hoping his escape would go unnoticed.

   Faramir had hardly slept, and with a tankard of warm water stood near the front-line. The night guards told him of a scheme that moved at the Easterling campsite, and the prince quickly ordered to rouse the men. He wanted to be prepared if there was any fast attack before sunrise. Captain Delion, blessed with excellent eyesight, stood at his side and stared north while the others readied themselves.

   “There is someone moving toward us, my lord, but… it looks like he's fleeing. He's running, but he's yet quite far away.”

   “It could be a trick,” Faramir growled and put down the tankard. “Be aware he could be accompanied by one of those beasts.” He had his bow ready as they watched the figure intently.

   Aragorn could only guess the Gondorian front-line, but with the strength he had left he hurried on, hunched over to be a small target. After the weeks of captivity the homecoming seemed like pure bliss even if he had to fight the Easterlings one more time. He would gladly take up a sword and lead his men into battle. This time it would be for revenge.

   Suddenly a wave of pain hit his neck. He cried out, putting his right hand on the wound. His legs quivered and gave in. He felt like he had hit a rock and slumped forward, breathless, stopping the fall with his hands and elbows. The grass was cool under his touch and moist from the dew, and he dug his fingers into the soil, trying to rise onto his knees, trying to move on. Anguish blurred his vision, but he was sure he could see the banner of the Prince of Ithilien somewhere in the distance as the light grew stronger. He could not get up. He panted heavily and his gaze was still directed south. Pain pressed him on the ground, and his legs did not obey his command, but were a useless weight.

   The captain suddenly exclaimed, “It's the king, my lord! It is King Elessar out there!” And only a moment later he muttered, “But what is this? He's fallen on the ground.” Faramir squinted, still holding arrow and bow ready.

   It was but a second of hesitation, and Faramir knew his men would run to aid their ruler if he ordered it. Those, who had heard Delion's words, had already turned their heads, expecting the command to cross the plain. But the prince saw the movement at the enemy's ranks. And the king was still much closer to the Easterlings than to his own men. If he ordered an approach now, it would mean the beginning of the battle – and the certain death of Aragorn.

   “Keep in line!” he shouted, as he watched in horror what happened.

* * *

   A force other than his own commanded him, and he heard a voice in his head as dreadful as the shrieking of a fell beast. His tunic was drenched again, and he felt weak as if life was bleeding out of him. When the king turned his head with a effort, he saw Asentis standing beside him. The Easterling stared down at him, but did neither speak nor move. It was Aragorn, who slowly made it to his feet, but he could not run from his enemy. He could not draw the sword to slay him. Horrified Aragorn realised that an evil power had captured him, and he turned away from his own host, when Asentis took his arm to steer him back over the plain. All resistance the king thought of was futile. His legs moved, he kept his balance, but it was not him commanding this. He blanched at the thought of being led against his will like King Théoden, whose mind had been overthrown by Saruman. Panting, the king tried once again to free himself. He broke into sweat, and his heart raced. Still he followed the pull by Asentis back to the ranks of Easterlings. Only then he spotted Harishdane among them, and by her look he knew what had befallen him.

* * *

   “He goes with him!” Delion shouted in disbelief. “It cannot be! My lord, we have to do something!”

   Faramir exhaled. With his eyes he followed the king, who was taken back to the cart without struggle. He frowned, deeply concerned by the strange behaviour of his friend. The prince was a learned man, and for long years he had listened to the wisdom and knowledge Mithrandir had taught him. There were more spells and evil powers at work in Middle-earth than the one destroyed by the Hobbits two years ago. Not all that was evil had been eradicated, and the prince realised that they would fight more than just Easterlings on this battlefield.

* * *

   Aragorn fought in his mind against the voice commanding him, but his legs brought him back to the cart, while the pain in his neck almost threw him off balance. His weapons were taken away, and he stood like rooted to the ground when Asentis sneered at him. He could neither move nor resist, and his opponent knew.

   Harishdane’s lips curled as she watched the king return to the ranks of her men. Profound confusion and - she relished that sight - fear lasted on his marred features. Asentis had disarmed him and nodded curtly in her direction. She stepped forward. In the first light, when the sun was only a shape to be guessed at the eastern horizon, and an expectant silence lasted over the plain, she raised her voice:

   “See, despicable worms from Gondor! See and mourn your ruler, for he has turned away from you! He is at my hands now, and he will remain under my command! If you want to spare his life you must lay down your weapons. If you dare fight us, he is bound to die!” With that she cocked her head in Aragorn's direction, and the Gondorian writhed with pain suddenly. His cry resounded over the battlefield, and he fell on his knees, his right hand clutching the scar on his neck. “Do not dare battle with us!”

   Harishdane saw the terror and almost heard the gasps on the enemy's side. She briefly nodded and released the prisoner from her mental grasp. Aragorn knelt with his head bowed, unable to catch his breath. Asentis at his side held the rope ready to bind him again, but knew there was no need to rush. He was silently amused about the sight: The king would not go anywhere without Harishdane's permission.

* * *

   Faramir felt a strange coldness touch his heart. Fear suddenly spread. He thought of defeat, of murdered people, of bloodshed beyond measure among his men. He wished to escape immediately and knew somehow that he had to leave this place or would perish among his doomed, inept soldiers. The grip on his bow loosened. He watched his friend on the other side of the front-line go down and cry with pain. Faramir realised that he had no chance to win by fighting. His friend would die, and he would have caused his death. There would be no help for all the people in Ithilien and beyond if he gave the order to attack. Only if the Easterlings were allowed to roam Ithilien, all of them would survive…

   Delion at his side grimaced and half turned to leave his post.

   “Wait!” Faramir said. The fear grew stronger, clutching his heart inescapably, but at the same time, as his men turned to flee, he knew that a spell had been cast upon them to make them headless and force them to become cowards. Regaining his composure and ignoring the fear that made his heart pound, he shouted over the ranks, “Do not fear her! She tries to put a spell on us! Do not despair! Keep in line!” And those, who heard him, remained in line, trusting their beloved leader, though they still looked at each other uneasily and disturbed by the foul thoughts that woman from the east put into their minds. “Stay where you are and draw your swords!”

* * *

   Asentis pulled Aragorn up again. With an effort the prisoner turned his head to watch the faith of his army reel. What he had feared seemed to prove true: The army waited instead of sending the first volley of arrows while advancing. He dreaded that sight. It added up to the pain he received by Harishdane and that kept him at his place though he longed to join his forces. He would have wanted to shout at Faramir to proceed, to not heed the fear the woman used to control and withhold them, but, alas, there was no way to tell him.

   “Lay down your weapons!” Harishdane shouted again. She sensed uncertainty among the Gondorians. She sensed their vulnerability and knew victory was close at hand. Her eyes were small slits as she concentrated again. She would break that army and make it surrender.

   Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a horn was blown and yet another, closer by, joined it. And over the hill in the west dust rose. The horns sounded again.

   Rohan had come.

* * *

   Harishdane swivelled around, and watched horrified the many horses breaking into the lines of her kinsmen, yelling, roaring, thrusting spears and wielding swords. Hoofs thundered on the ground as the King of Rohan led his men into the fight. Fierce was his look, and grim his demeanour. On Battleaxe he swung his spear and threw it against the first warrior, who crossed his path. Without losing speed he reclaimed the weapon to aim it at the next foe. Skewered the man fell with a cry of agony, and others quickly evaded, terrified by the sight of the éoreds bursting into their lines. Many were thrown down by the thrashing hoofs. Finally Éomer could avenge his men and vanquish the foes he had sought for so long! Crying aloud, he rode into their ranks, and the Easterlings – prepared for battle, but taken by surprise nevertheless – broke away in fear and disorder. Harishdane, Lomarin, and Asentis shouted at their men to regroup and hold position.

* * *

   Free of the pressure of the evil thoughts, Faramir shook his head and breathed through deeply. He saw his men do the same, and determined he raised his voice:

   “Charge!”

   The archers took position and fired a first volley into the ranks of Easterlings. The enemies ran away, disordered, terror-stricken. Within minutes the Rohirrim had broken their first line of defence, killed and wounded many. Only Harishdane's command from an elevated position brought her warriors to a halt, and they fixed their polearms to withstand the onslaught of the Rohirrim Riders, shielding the King of Gondor at the same time. Horses as well as men were hit and wounded. Soldiers fell off their steeds and got entangled in groundfights. The Easterlings used their polearms with skill, but their fight suddenly took place on two flanks. Their hope of outnumbering the enemy and forcing him down without a fight was crushed by the arrival of Éomer and his riders.

* * *

   Faramir shouted over the campsite, and all his men advanced in a rush, some mounted, but most of them on foot, to meet the Easterlings. The prince's gaze was fixed on Aragorn. He watched his friend take up the scimitar of a fallen warrior, and his heart was lifted with joy. The king would lead them! He had got rid of the evil power controlling him! Only then an enemy crossed Faramir's path and blocked his view. He slew him, but when he raised his sword again, looked in vain for his friend. More enemies were closing in on the prince and his soldiers, and they had to fight at all sides, unable to cover ground, but faced with fierce opponents, who handled their two-spiked weapons with deadly precision.

* * *

   Aragorn pivoted, punched a warrior from the east straight into his tanned face and grabbed his weapon when he fell. With the scimitar held firmly in both hands, Aragorn turned to face Asentis, but the second-in-command no longer stood close to him. He had moved backwards, and a strange, mocking smile lasted on his lips. The king shook his head, trying to clear his vision and to ignore the pain that spread over his back. He moved forward, willing to support his people and relieved that the onslaught had begun without Harishdane's chance to misuse him. He intercepted an Easterling to fight him, but the scimitar stuck in mid-air, and no longer did his arms obey.

* * *

   Faramir had shed the thought of fear for his friend's life the moment the king had taken up a scimitar and had run forward to aid his soldiers. Now, as he watched again, he realised that it had been but a brief moment of release. The torment Aragorn faced was not over yet. Determined to not let him stand alone, Faramir fought his way through, punching aside foes uncounted, only crossing blades if unavoidable, but not standing the fight to kill his opponents. He needed to get through to Aragorn fast, and his men shielded him the best they could.

* * *

   The king gasped for air, and doubled his effort, but to no avail. The warrior from the east glared at him, ready to attack. By then Faramir had reached him to thrust his sword into the enemy's body from behind. The Easterling fell with his eyes wide. The prince quickly pulled the blade to defend himself against yet another soldier.

* * *

   Harishdane had collected her most trusted warriors to protect her against the onslaught of both Rohirrim and Gondorians. She had no time for reconsideration, but to know that her prisoner had not proven as valuable as she had expected, deeply troubled her. Her whole plan to make the Gondorians retreat had failed! They had come in greater numbers than expected, and those hated Rohirrim had ambushed her kinsmen! Still her men held their ground, and made the enemies a hard fight. She sought the king again, and her wrath fell upon him like a dark, thick cloud.

* * *

   “Come with me, Aragorn!” the prince shouted over the clamour. “I get you out of harm's way!” He parried and hit an assaulting enemy with the hilt in his face. Screaming, the man went down. The prince turned to his friend again. “Come!”

   Aragorn clenched his teeth, willing to remain on his feet. If he could not fight his enemies, he would at least not let Harishdane command him on the ground again. Blurred by anguish, he watched Faramir reach out his hand. With him came ten soldiers close by his side, keeping the usurpers at bay. The king wanted to join them in their fights, but by all the strength he possessed there was no way to deny Harishdane's command over his actions. He feared the eruption of her malice when the scimitar in his hands seemed to rise all by itself. Panting he tried to lower it again, to not cross blades with his friend, but he could not stop himself.

   The king squinted, and opened his mouth for a reply that never came. Suddenly, without a warning or hesitation, he swung the scimitar and aimed at his friend's chest. He saw Faramir jump back and watched horrified how the weapon came down. It would have caught the prince's breastplate if it had not been for his fast reaction.

   “No! Do not fight me!” Faramir cried with his left hand raised, but instead of lowering the blade the king charged again. “I am your friend! Aragorn, do you not know me?” The prince parried the next blow. He could read mere terror in Aragorn's eyes. In the blink of an eye their blades met again. Faramir twisted his, irritating the king for a moment, and rushed forward to hit him. The king evaded. He was as quick on his feet as usual, but Faramir knew by the haunted look of his friend that he did not control his actions. More than once it seemed that Aragorn was about to say something, but he could not. Though he hated the thought, Faramir knew what he had to do.

* * *