Chapter Five – Harishdane’s Fall

   The King of Rohan had felt his spirits rise, watching the Easterling army shy away from his riders. And even now that they had regrouped, Éomer was certain to beat them since there were only few on horses among them. With forceful blows he threw down a red-clad warrior, and cried out with anguish as a polearm spiked his lower mail-shirt, scratching his thigh. He swivelled around and cut the wood with his sword, but the blade twisted, ripping open the wound. Éomer parried yet another thrust and killed his enemy. When he spurred his horse, he pulled out the blade and cast it down. He would not let any foe threw him out of this battle, even if he had to fight on held up by nothing more than his will.

* * *

   Arwen held fast to the pole of the major tent. She felt a strange force subduing her husband and the malice emitting from that force was so strong, she could hardly touch Aragorn's mind any more. She sensed his fear and his anguish, but when she tried to reach him, both feelings rose. He called out to her. Arwen closed her eyes. She had to concentrate to help him fend off that evil, but the moment she threw the strange voice back was the moment she lost contact.

* * *

   The prince panted heavily as he lowered his sword. The Gondorian soldiers next to him made sure he could stoop to the unconscious king. Faramir sighed. For only one moment Aragorn had looked straight into his eyes and had stopped the fight, but the same instant Faramir had knocked him out and had caught him when he fell. Now he ordered two men to carry the king back to the camp.

   “Bind his wrists and legs and do not listen to him! He is not himself!”

   The men looked at him in utter bewilderment, and he repeated his order harshly before he surveyed the battlefield to regroup his men. Beyond the fights he descried the banner of Rohan, and when he turned south there was the garrison from yonder southern Ithilien, who had come to aid. The trumpets rang, and the Easterlings, who thought they would outnumber their enemies, stared in shock. But it did not last long: From the northern part of Ithilien soldiers afoot, with the red and black banner with a serpent on it, marched onto the battlefield. The prince's stare turned fierce. The toll would be heavy, but the united armies held the strength to defeat the invaders. He glanced at the back of his men, who were accompanied by other soldiers clearing the way for the unconscious king. Faramir hoped they would obey his orders.

* * *

   Harishdane withdrew her influence from the king. She had seen him go down and that he was taken away by his men. For some time there would be joy among the Gondorians to have reclaimed their ruler, but she would use him for the destruction of his own army once he would have regained consciousness. By her guards she had been told that the high priestess had been with the king before his attempt to escape, but she would deal with that insubordinate woman later. She turned and watched Asentis' unrelenting force move through the ranks of their enemies. With the two-bladed polearm he was a master, and it showed in all his movements. He was unhurt, but defended his wounded fellows and attacked viciously Rohirrim and Gondorians. He could not be stopped, and she was content to watch him slay his enemies while her own vantage point was still defended by her best men. Again she called her warriors to order and to gather for a new onslaught when the Rohirrim concentrated their men in her direction.

* * *

   Ridasha had watched in stunned disbelief the king's return at Asentis' side, and now that the battle had begun, she feared for the healer's life and for her own. Though skilled in war, Ridasha would have wished to take Ithilien without force. There would be hard fights at hand ere the day would be over, and she was not sure to see its dusk.

* * *

   Faramir's gaze followed the men carrying the king one last time, when a man beside him cried:

   “My lord, watch out!”

   The prince pivoted and brought up his sword in one fluent motion. The tall and wiry built Easterling let his polearm fall on the blade forcefully, almost disarming Faramir, who had to step back to steady himself. For a second he thought to have looked into strange, intense yellow eyes, and he was irritated. His opponent used the moment to swivel the weapon and recharge. Faramir gasped at the strength the Easterling possessed. The steel vibrated in his hands. His arms hurt from the impact, and he flinched. The enemy sneered at him and rolled his shoulders as if preparing for an interesting match, of which the outcome was already known.

* * *

   Full of worry Arwen watched the arrival of her husband as he was laid down on a makeshift bed in the tent. She knelt beside him and with a wet cloth wiped blood and dirt out of his face. Arwen cried with fear and joy at the same time, before she realised that Lomac had entered. With him came Vlohiri, who had been the one able to ride. She was glad to see him too, and made way for the healer, who looked exhausted and grim from the unusual ride, as he knelt beside the king. He flinched at the shreds the ruler wore, and the many wounds he had received. Gently he pulled away the torn and drenched cloth to unveil the marking. The boy almost cried out in terror, and quickly put a hand over his mouth, while the queen sat aside her husband and took his marred hand into hers.

   “Can you help him?” she asked quietly, and only then turned to the soldiers still waiting.

   “Prince Faramir ordered him to be bound,” the first man uttered respectfully and cast down his eyes when he saw the disbelieving face of the queen. She was about to send him away, rejecting the proposal, but the healer lifted his head and, squinting like an owl, nodded, his bearded face blank of any expression.

   “He will know why. Have you got a rope ready? Good, then see the work done.” He sat aside, and not a moment too late. Aragorn stirred and moaned when the men bound him. Opening his eyes, he tore at the bonds immediately.

   “Untie me!” he demanded loudly, straining his muscles to break the rope, for a moment unaware of his wife holding his hand. With a brief nod the healer dismissed the puzzled soldiers and ordered them to stay on guard. Lomac sat down again, and, grimacing, the king turned his head to glare at him. “Cut that rope, Lomac! I've been a prisoner long enough!”

   “In good time, my lord,” the healer answered sternly. “Your imprisonment is not yet over. Go, Vlohiri, fetch water and a cup!” The boy left the tent, and Arwen renewed her grip.

   “You have to set me free!” Aragorn demanded. The pain in his shoulder and neck rose, and a wave of nausea hit him. He panted and closed his eyes.

   Quiet and unable to hide his worry Lomac added:

   “I will set you free, my lord, when my task is done.” He opened his sac with different herbs and spread some of them on a piece of cloth. A sharp smell rose. “Until then try to calm down and breathe evenly.”

   “My men…,” Aragorn mumbled through clenched teeth. Coldness crept through him, and shuddering, he remembered the night of the marking. All the evil of that hour seemed to culminate in his body. And with it came the malevolent voice he could still hear.

   “Your men defend themselves well, my love,” Arwen told him in her deep voice, soothing him. She caressed his hand, sad to see the weals on his wrists, and yet still she felt the malice that only waited to take possession of him again. She dreaded the thought of an unknown evil he could not defeat. “It is upon you to fend off the evil that's holding you captive.”

   “Let me…” The rest of the sentence went unheard past his lips. His breathing sped up, and again – unbeknown to him - he fought the bonds holding him. “No…, do not make me…” And there was no solace his wife could provide.

   Vlohiri returned with a bucket of water, and Lomac thanked him for it. Carefully he added some water to the herbs and drenched the cloth. Exhaling he turned to the queen.

   “Keep holding his hand, Queen Arwen, and do not let go. He will need your strength. And you, Vlohiri, put that twig from over there between his teeth and keep his head down by any means.” The boy gaped at him, and Aragorn immediately protested in a strange, accusing voice that frightened the boy to his core.

   “You will not do this to me!” but Lomac pretended to not have heard his command. He still addressed Vlohiri.

   “You will not loosen the rope, and you will not allow him to sit up. Is that understood?” Vlohiri's mouth was too dry to speak; he only nodded, irritated by the healer's fierceness and Aragorn's strange behaviour. “Good.”

   Trembling Vlohiri took the twig and glanced at the king's face full of anger, uncertain if he could carry out his task if the king himself objected. But behind the anger he saw fear, and the notion hit him hard. Quickly he pressed the twig between Aragorn's teeth and braced himself for the task given as the ruler shot him an angry glance.

   Lomac prayed silently that Tinungelen would be wrong with his apprehension as he applied the wet cloth with the herbs onto the still open wound. For a long moment nothing happened, and Lomac was about to thank the Valar for the stamina of the Gondorian ruler when he cried out under the gag and jerked up his head. Vlohiri pressed him down, but whimpered about using such force against the king. He almost let go when the resistance grew stronger.

   “Hold him!” Lomac insisted, and the boy pressed Aragorn's head back on the curled up sheet. “He must not move so much!” Determined the healer held the cloth on the wound, feeling its warmth underneath. Vlohiri parted his lips when he watched a thin rivulet of blood oozing from Aragorn's nose, but he could not say a word. He locked eyes with the king, and tried in vain to hold back the tears. All too vividly he remembered the day he had had to take away the soaked bandages on the king's back, and the cry the prisoner had let go then. He wished the king to get well again, but that day seemed far away. Outside the clamour from the battlefield could be heard; though the Gondorians had been able to send their reinforcements in time, the war was far from over.

   Aragorn closed his eyes. In his right shoulder a fierce battle of its own took place, and the vibrations made his hands tremble. Soon his whole body was shaking, and between shallow gasps he opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to see into Arwen’s face.

   “I am with you, beloved, you have to hold on.”

   Her voice was calming him, and he felt strength returning to his weakened body. Harishdane’s voice was faint now, only a whisper, and when he tried to clench his left hand into a fist, his muscles obeyed. Though he was still in pain, the abilities of his elven wife had outmatched the malice the Easterling leader had spread over him.

* * *

   Faramir retreated once again, avoiding a hit by mere luck. His opponent was both faster and stronger than he, and there was no hope to win for the prince. He evaded, parried, and launched, but could not hurt the warrior. The duel went on, pressing Faramir harder until he was too slow to bring up his blade. The polearm hit his shoulder, barely missing his head. The armour deflected the force of the impact and kept him from being maimed, but his right arm went limp. He quickly charged with his left hand, and was hit the same instant onto his left arm. Faramir cried out, almost dropping his sword. The warrior grinned behind his helmet, realising the defeat of the Gondorian, and already added the victory to the many he had collected during his life. He raised his polearm once again. Faramir held his sword, and ground his teeth against the pain. Horrified he watched the weapon come down on him. He knew he would not be able to defend himself one more time. Already his left hand was numb and he would lose his sword with the next attack. From out of nowhere a great black horse was between the opponents, and the polearm crashed on its saddle. Before the Easterling could recharge, Éomer thrust his sword into the enemy's neck, right beneath the helmet. The Easterling cried out in agony and went down. Blood spilled on the ground, and the fierce eyes of Asentis Henosina broke. Grimly Éomer pulled back the blade and turned to Faramir, checking Battleaxe with a word.

   “Are you unharmed?” the king shouted over the skirmish, while the white horsetail waved with the wind.

   “I am, and I thank you!” Faramir replied, catching his breath and trying to straighten. “I am in your debt!”

   The King of Rohan grinned, and his brown eyes blazed with a wild fire.

   “Well met, Prince of Ithilien! Keep your defence strong! We will meet again in due time!” With that he spurred his horse again.

* * *

   Aragorn sat up slowly. He breathed through deeply, and looked into worried faces.

   “Untie me,” he demanded from Lomac, his face as stern as his look, “for I feel my strength return.” The healer stroked his beard, and Aragorn knew the old man wanted him to stay behind. “There is a fight I cannot and will not avoid. I must return.”

   “I see you commanding your wits again,” Lomac said with a nod to Vlohiri, who quickly opened the ropes and held out his hand to help the Gondorian ruler stand. Lomac followed slowly, flinching at the pain in his old knees. “But the poison she used is strong, my lord,” he added, unable to remain silent for his ruler's sake. “There is no way to tell how far my herbs can help you recover. And how much time this will take.”

   “I see.” The king turned to Arwen. She did not speak, but kissed him slightly, a gesture telling him more than words could have. His right hand shook when he took her sword, and the reassuring touch of Arwen's hand caused him to flinch. “I must go,” he stressed, plainly reading her concern as he fumbled to girt the scabbard and the knife in a sheath she had handed him. “It is my task to lead the army,” he whispered and let another kiss follow. “I will return as soon as I can.”

   “And I will be with you,” she replied softly.

* * *

    Éomer rode on swiftly, pressing the heels into his horse’s flanks to spur him once more through the tight ranks of warriors. His gaze was directed at a young soldier, desperately defending himself against an Easterling, who had already wounded him.

    Presently a polearm stuck in his breast plate. The forceful hit threw him off the saddle, and he crashed on his back. All air was pressed out of his lungs, and Lomarin was above him before Éomer could bring up his sword. He reacted on instinct, rolled to his right side. Lomarin's polearm pierced the grass where he had lain before. Furiously the Easterling pulled out his weapon and charged again, but this time Éomer held his sword to deflect it. He got on his feet, evading Battleaxe's hindquarters, when the horse danced to one side, irritated, but not fearful, and obedient to his master's command as were all Rohan horses. The king stared at his opponent. From under the golden helmet, Lomarin's eyes flickered with malice. He had seen that Rohirrim bastard kill Asentis without a proper fight, and he would avenge him! Roaring with wrath, the Easterling thrust his polearm forward. Éomer side-stepped the wood, launching his sword at his enemy's right arm, hoping to maim him, but failed. Lomarin swivelled around, holding the polearm at its lower end and with unexpected speed cut through mail and cloth below the cuirass. Éomer cried out with pain. He felt blood ooze from the wound at his waist, but could not heed it. Lomarin was still in front of him, grinning malevolently, charging anew.

* * *

    Faramir caught his breath after defeating a warrior, who had got to him from behind. He could not tell if his backplate was cut, but the hurt was only dull. He spotted the Easterling woman on the plateau and heard her shout commands. He was convinced it had been she to control the king's actions. And it would be his task to end her doings. By his order three of his men accompanied him in direction of that elevated rock, fighting as they went.

* * *

    Lomarin circled his enemy, never taking the eyes of him, observing every move he made. Playfully he turned the polearm in his hands, only to aim at the king a moment later. Éomer bent backwards, evading the deadly thrust. He gripped the weapon with his right hand, and pulled it tightly. Lomarin was taken by surprise. He lost his weapon, yet not all of his defence. Quickly he drew his scimitar. Éomer threw the polearm on the ground. Now the fight was even, and with his movements, agile as before, he closed in on his adversary.

* * *

    Ridasha retreated from a Rohirrim, who closed in on her on his mighty horse. Full of fear she realised that there was no way back for her. She would either take up the fight or be killed without. Her polearm struck through the vambrace of his sword-arm, and with a yell the warrior let go of his weapon. With her next strike he fell off his horse. He hit the ground and did not move. Ridasha swallowed hard. It was her decision to kill or leave.

    She left him alone.

* * *

    The Gondorians fought ferociously, but had been unable yet to break the ring of defence around the plateau, where Harishdane still surveyed the battle. It was finally on Faramir to slay the warrior in front of him and, leaving the skirmishes to his men, climb up the small hill. He felt his strength in his right arm return, and his wrath was even stronger. With his raised sword he confronted the leader.

    “Lay down your weapon and order your men to surrender!” he shouted, but she only curled her dark lips. Her voice was dark and threatening when she answered:

    “You hold no power over me!” With that she rushed him, faster than he had thought her able to move. Narrow was his escape, and she let not catch him his breath. The two-bladed weapon in her hands was used with deadly precision. The surprising move cut Faramir's right vambrace. He flinched and evaded, but was hit a second time. The blade missed his throat by a hair's breadth. He heard the scraping on the leather as he stumbled back.

    Harishdane followed.

* * *

    Lomarin pushed forward, using a second of inattention to hurt his foe. The scimitar slipped from the cuirass to slice the left sleeve. Éomer ignored the sudden pain in his arm, but could no longer keep himself upright when the anguish of the wound at his waist increased. He knew the more he moved the more he was losing blood. There was no chance to keep the enemy at bay and - with a yell of pain - he fell on his knees. The Easterling sneered with delight, believing his adversary bested. He rushed him with a cry of war, but with his face grim Éomer brought up his sword in the last moment, spiking the enemy's captain by his own rashness. Lomarin stared at him with wide-open eyes, dismayed and suddenly fearful, realising he had fallen an easy prey to the vigilant and determined Rohirrim King.

* * *

    Faramir received the next, fiendish cut, opening a gash above his knee, and still Harishdane stood her ground. The prince had fallen for her tactic like many enemies before, considering her weak because she was a woman. She concentrated fully on him now, increasing her speed and the waves of attack. Faramir evaded, parried, and evaded again, knowing painfully well that with the wounds received earlier his actions were slow. There was no way for him to gain an advantage until he jumped sideways and brought down the sword on the lance at the same time. The topmost piece of the polearm clanked on the ground, and the prince swivelled around to assault Harishdane. The shock lasted only shortly. She raised the remaining staff to deflect the blow. Faramir sensed his chance, and in a flash swung the sword again, this time scratching her breast plate. Exhaling, she stepped backwards, dropping the polearm, and drawing the sword she had robbed. Faramir gasped at the sight. The long blade gleamed in the sun as if the Elves themselves had put a light into it. Harishdane possessed the skill to wield it, and the prince parried the first hit, still disbelieving his eyes. But then he saw the chain around her slender neck and on it the Evenstar, and the Ring of Barahir. Hatred flared when Faramir attacked anew. In his heart he felt as if avenging his friend, whom he had found battered and controlled by that evil woman. He had to best her! Recklessly he stepped forward, and pushed her back, using every trick he knew to maim her. She retreated, thrown into defence. From the corner of her eyes she saw the king approach. It was time to reclaim her territory.

    Aragorn heard Harishdane's short command, but on his forward move did not heed it. Only briefly he looked up. He gripped the hilt tighter, pushing aside another Easterling, who tried to defend his leader. Then he realised that she was not alone. Presently the Prince of Ithilien challenged her and almost threw her back. There was no time for joy yet reserved for the King of Gondor, because in the same second pain assaulted him, and he heard the shrieking voice in his head again.

* * *

    Lomarin fell to the ground as the King of Rohan pulled out his blood-stained sword and slowly stood. Lord Elfhelm came up to his side, steadying his friend when he swayed.

    “I take you out of here!” he shouted over the clamour. “Bring you to the Gondorian camp!”

    Éomer shook his head, and with an effort, mounted Battleaxe again, needing a moment to fight the increasing pain.

    “No! Not yet!” he cried. “Where is Aragorn? Did you see him?”

    “Aye, my lord, he was carried from the field some time ago!”

    “Carried? By the Valar, these are bad tidings! But-“ He turned in the saddle, and a sudden smile through the exhaustion brightened his face. “No, he has returned! Look!” For a moment they watched, mesmerised, then he shook his head. “No, it cannot be…”

* * *

   Harishdane had never experienced such a disturbance of her power. Once marked the prisoners had usually followed her command without delay. Now she sensed a strange, and unwelcome influence on her valuable prisoner. At the same time her opponent charged again, but now she retreated. She lowered her chin and squinted, using her power to its full intensity.

* * *

   Faramir held the sword ready, but did not use it. He suddenly saw ranks of his army slain and their mutilated bodies cast upon the soil. His heart raced, and his lungs seemed too tight to let him breathe. He wiped his forehead with his gauntleted hand, but still fear spread. He blinked and looked again: Easterlings were fighting Gondorians, Rohirrim were attacking Easterlings. The battle was still fierce and gruesome, and none could predict the outcome yet, but… the sight he had had the moment before was not true. It had been an image set in his mind like a nightmare. Faramir shook his head, forcing the pictures away. He turned to his right in time and had his sword ready to deflect the weapon aiming for his chest. Harishdane's grin he did not see.

* * *

   Ridasha fended off a Rohirrim by mere luck. She was bathed in sweat and weak in her knees. The battle went on, and she dug for cover when yet another rider came up to her, roaring, and aiming his lance at her. The horse tramped that the earth shook, and she prayed to Úshemor to let her live to see the end of the onslaught. The promise Harishdane had given was worthless, and all of her people, whom she had spotted within the skirmishes, shared her opinion. The King of Gondor had only once – and she doubted even that – proved as a shield. When she watched him approach now on a dark grey steed, he looked grim and determined, and she knew he had come to kill. Relentlessly he forced the attackers back, heeding no thought to a longer fight, only willing to get to the hill where the Easterling leader was already entangled in a fight.

* * *

   Harishdane watched her enemy as he raised his sword again, threatening, finally closing in on her. Then she lifted her gaze and found King Elessar, and her terror turned to bliss when she commanded him to get to her, and he obediently steered his horse to the small elevation. Now she could welcome the Prince of Ithilien the way he deserved it.

* * *

   Aragorn felt the strange and cold voice in his head again, and the pain in his shoulder increased to an intolerable level. Hardly able to breathe he grabbed with his left hand under the tunic to pull away the cloth, which had covered the scar. Spurring his horse again, he threw the drenched cloth on the ground, easing the anguish a little. He moved on, grimacing, but willing to reach his destination nevertheless. He could still see the woman.

   And his friend fighting her.

* * *

   The leader from Rhûn brandished with the stolen sword, retreating two steps to let Faramir come to her. He accepted the invitation. Their blades met, and with strength that no one would have thought possible Harishdane pushed him back. Faramir frowned when suddenly a yellow light shone in the leader's eyes. He had seen that before… like he had seen the image of his men dying on the field. But it was not true. Nothing was true. He charged again, only to be blocked by the long blade again. Grudgingly the prince had to admit that the woman knew how to use the weapon, but his wrath was stronger. He attacked her once more, and drove her back to the rim of the small plateau, joyous to see her dismay. It was but one more strike to leave her dying on these rocks.

   “She is mine to kill!” Aragorn suddenly shouted behind him.

   Faramir panted. He pressed down hard on the Easterling, sensing her malice; knowing he had to end this now. But within the very second of hesitation, Harishdane summoned her strength and threw him back. The Prince of Ithilien made two steps to regain his balance. His eyes never left his enemy when he shouted:

   “She must be killed now! May it be you or I doing this!”

   Aragorn had his wife's sword ready, and upon seeing the Evenstar around the woman's neck and Andúril in her hands, his fury flared. He stepped forward, but was stopped in his movement. The sword in his hands vibrated. Desperately Aragorn looked from Harishdane to Faramir. His friend frowned, and terrified he realised that the Gondorian could not fight the evil woman. Not even now he had the strength to finish his enemy. Quickly Faramir turned to fulfil the task himself when Aragorn intercepted his blade.

   “No!” Faramir cried. “No, do not do this!” He looked into his friend's face to find only terror and… fear. “Aragorn! You must not give in!” The King of Gondor crossed blades with him again, pushing the prince further away from the Easterling leader.

   Harishdane saw her influence restored, and through the exhaustion the skirmish with that Gondorian prince had caused, she smiled and urged the Gondorian King forward, making him her puppet once again.

* * *

   Éomer brandished with his sword left and right, shoving off his foes, but gaining little ground among the tight ranks. Elfhelm had been commanded to stay behind with the third éored and Lord Erkenbrand, who had arrived on the field shortly, was in front of him on the western side of the plain. The Easterlings were outnumbered, but still defended themselves, driven by the strong will of their last leader. Éomer sensed their determination to stand against their enemies, even though there would be no victory to gain. It appeared they could not stop themselves to surrender, and yet another died upon the blade of the Rohirrim King. But Éomer knew, too, that he would not be able to reach his friend in time to lend help, and with his vision blurring, he realised he would no longer hold his ground. He doubled over in the next wave of anguish, and when a strong hand steadied him on his steed, he knew Elfhelm had left his post, but the king was too weak to even curse.

* * *

   “Aragorn, hear me! She has taken command over you! Do not serve her!” But Faramir's words were useless, and in despair he deflected the blow and retreated. Aragorn followed, panting, raising his arms with the sword held fast. There was no more room to evade. In his head the king heard the hissing again. The sword in his hands seemed to have a life of its own, and it hit again, shattering Faramir's defence.

    Faramir could see only terror in the eyes of his friend as he struck the sword down on him. From within Aragorn seemed to shout at him, but no words passed his lips. The fight went on, and the prince, already wounded and on the verge of his strength, knew he would not hold the king back much longer. Still he looked into his face, searching for a sign of wakening from the spell.

    “You are an heir of Numenór!” he cried when, again, Argorn's sword collided with his. “Fight off that evil!”

   The prince fell on his knees. His right shoulder and chest hurt as if Grond had hit him with full force, and when the earth did not slow down turning, he knew he was done for. He raised his head a little, and the sight before his eyes was still covered by the tall frame of his friend, who stood about him, his face a mask of grimness. Faramir panted, his vision blurred, but there was no one at his side to aid him. Swallowing, he grabbed the hilt of his sword again, and, evading the next onslaught by instinct, he shored himself on his left hand.

   “Aragorn! Listen to me! You must not follow her command!” but his voice was thin. He looked up, only to realise that the blade was already raised for the deadly strike.

   The King of Gondor saw blood drench the leather of his friend's armour and was dismayed. Weakened like that the prince was already beaten. Again Aragorn tried to resist Harishdane's influence, and there, suddenly, was the voice in his head again. It spoke to him in Sindarin, and he clung to it, breathing heavily, renewing his own strength to force the evil out of his mind. Once more the king tore apart Faramir's defence, and deflecting from the cuirass the blade ripped open the mail-shirt of his upper arm. Blinded by anguish, the prince now was unable to fend him off anymore. He was too weak to bring up the sword in time. Blood oozed from the wound, trickling down his arm warm and wet.

    “Aragorn, no! Fight that spell!”

    He knew Faramir was talking to him, but he did not understand the words. Malice emitted from a source, encumbering him like thick molasses nothing else would penetrate. Yet from a distance, uncounted for, another voice tried to break through, soothing and deep, encouraging and with rising strength, a counterpoint to the shrieking evil, and Aragorn heeded it. Though his body still would not follow his commands, his mind sought hope to escape from the threat holding him captive. He twisted the blade, taking off the hard impact on Faramir's armour, and for the first time he found his muscles working on his command. The moment was short but precious. His breathing sped up, and again he strained his senses to hear and follow the voice, which spoke to him somewhere in his mind, and which was defending him with growing vigour against the malice from the Easterling. Faramir cried out in pain in front of his eyes, already down on his right knee, unable to push himself up again. His face under the helmet bore a grimace of pure agony, and Aragorn hated the thought alone to be forced to kill his friend in the wake of this unbidden fight. The king's right shoulder seemed to burn like fire, but his hope to be disabled by it was not fulfilled. He raised the sword again.

   Harishdane pushed the king relentlessly, ceaselessly. She did not care for his weakness, his wounds or his dismay. She only wanted to see him kill his own man. Then his mind would shatter, and she would win. She would order him to end the fights and surrender himself to her. Finally Ithilien would belong to her.

* * *

    Éomer hung over Battleaxe's withers, easing the pain on his waist a little. He was barely aware of Lord Elfhelm on one side, and the soldiers on the other, shielding him against the enemies. He saw that the skirmishes were diminishing. Here and there the Gondorian forces had already beaten the Easterlings and hurried forward to aid their companions. Éomer's wish to aid them was hindered by his still bleeding wound. His strength was fading, and Lord Elfhelm had to steady him. He snapped out of the warm embrace of unconsciousness, and again a wave of nauseating pain hit him. He clenched his teeth, but needed all of his concentration to hold on to the steed's mane.

    “You should ride in front of me,” Elfhelm muttered as they proceeded southward. Éomer but shook his head. “You might…”

    “I ride,” Éomer replied obstinately, and the older warrior knew too well that no further argument would lead to another decision. He pursed his lips. If the king wanted to fall off his horse unconsciously, he could do so. As if Éomer had heard him, he turned his head. “And I will not fall.”

* * *

    The Rohirrim had sliced her cuirass with his sword, and without remembering it, Ridasha had hit the ground, clinging with both hands to the bleeding wound. She did not know how bad the wound was or if there would be another attack, for her eyes were closed, and she did no longer bother to open them. She would neither raise her polearm nor her sword to fend the man off. If he killed her - and that was a depressing thought - she would never again see her daughter. She would have died in the pursuit of new land to live on, and, maybe, all of these fights would have been led in vain since the Gondorians had been strengthened by the Riders from Rohan and more men from the south. The plan of her leader had led to the final destruction of the Easterling people, and she wept from the pain and the hopelessness that gripped her. Unable to move she finally looked up to see only sky above her. The rider had left her, supposed her to be dead. ‘I will die in vain,’ she thought before the pain subdued her.

* * *

    Harishdane swivelled around. The ring of defence she had established around the elevation broke away, and there was not much time left until all of her men would be beaten. She must fulfil her plan now or seek safety in the distance. She already knew that Lomarin and Asentis had fallen, and that it would be on her alone to command her kin hitherto. She sensed the insubordination of her captive though, and with renewed effort tried to restore her command. The king held his sword ready to murder the prince. The blade was vibrating in his hands; he changed the grip on the hilt and, all of a sudden, turned around to face her. Harishdane watched in shock as he swung the sword around, rushing her. Fierceness and wrath shone in his grey eyes, and he attacked her with a force unstoppable. The shining blade came down on her so strong and quick she could neither evade nor raise her weapon.

    Aragorn had held the weapon high in the air, and with all speed he could muster, brought it down on his enemy. In that very moment Harishdane's shape changed, quicker than his eyes could follow. Where his blade would have hit her neck, there was thin air suddenly. The king could not stop his movement though. He turned halfway, but saved his life by that. The beast bared its fangs and jumped at him, missing him by a hair's breadth. It landed on its paws, swivelling around to attack once more. But the king anticipated the move and raised the sword to stab it into its breast in mid-air. He lost grip on the wooden hilt when the beast fell to the ground, deadly wounded. Its maw still open it spent its last breath.