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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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