Chapter 9 ~ To War
Narion, at the head of the column, lifted his hand and all pulled their mounts to a prancing, snorting halt, awaiting orders. Belecthor watched as his father trotted to the top of the rise before them, the sun glinting off his helmet. After a moment, he descended, cantering back down to them.
"Men of Ithilien," he called loudly, "on the horizon, a war rages. Prepare yourselves for battle!" Commotion ensued as soldiers tightened straps, checked weapons and entered formation.
Once all was ready, Narion and his brother Celvandil leading them, the soldiers of Ithilien moved slowly forward; their lines stretched over the plain in an impressive display of power. Nothing could defeat them this day.
As they neared the fighting, their speed increased and they were soon at a full gallop, the margin between them and their enemy quickly shrinking until they were upon them.
The dark faces of the Haradrim flashed passed the riders, their expressions grim, fearless and yet despairing as they were cut down in the prime of life, torn from all they had ever known.
Belecthor and his men made a sweeping ride along the opposing lines, pushing their right wing back as Celvandil and his company did the same on the left. Narion led his men valiantly, straight into the middle of the enemy forces, his sword flashing in the sunlight, his battle cry ringing through the air.
The men of the South were soon pressed back into their own camp, where they resisted fiercely, slaying a good many of Gondor’s forces. Still the men of Ithilien fought, their cries echoing across the plain, the sound of metal against metal resounding throughout the field. They would not be turned from their goal until Narion at last called to them, pulling them back from the field. Nothing had been gained, men had been lost, but the battle was won for the day.
The surprise had been too great, for an army to have suddenly come rushing down upon them had frightened the men of Harad. Tomorrow, the battle would not be won by surprise, for they now knew that reinforcements had arrived and they would be ready for them. They might even call for more of their own; and so close to their own land, they would get them.
Belecthor rode to where his father mingled among his men. Narion was offering encouragement and advice, finding those that needed care for their wounds and directing the healers to them. He himself had a long scrape along his cheek from which blood welled in great red drops which were trailing down the side of his face.
"Father?" Belecthor ventured as he reached his side, offering him a handkerchief.
Narion took the cloth and pressed it to his face. "Yes, my son?"
"You did not heed Grandfather’s advice."
"I realize this, Belecthor; but it was necessary to the success of the charge. Had I not been out front, leading my men, their courage would not have reached the fore as fully as it has today. Do you not see? If their leader remains behind yet orders them ahead, they will believe he is afraid to charge with them, that there is no hope. What chance is there of success then? What chance of survival? But if he be at their head, leading them to the victory, then they take heart, knowing that there is at least a small margin of hope.
"In the future I shall be more careful."
Belecthor grinned mischievously, "I shall remember that, Father," he warned. "Obey your parents only should their advice fit your needs."
Narion glanced over at his son, a smile slowly spreading across his own face. "Now, this does not give you free rein, young man, you must still obey your mother and father. Just be cautious."
The commander of the Gondorian forces rode over to meet them. "Hail, my Lord," he called. "Will you not dismount and have a bite to eat?"
"It would be my pleasure," Narion answered as they clasped wrists. "How do your men fare of late?"
"Today was the first victory in several days. Their hope has been waning and things were looking dark indeed. Therefore, I thank you for your timely appearance. Gondor needs your help."
"And we are here to give it," Narion answered forcefully. "I am Narion, son of Faramir. The young man on my left is Belecthor, my son and one of my Captains. This," he said, gesturing as Celvandil rode up, "is my brother Lord Celvandil, also one of my Captains."
"I am Elendur, commander of the forces here assembled as of the untimely death of our captain, Hurin."
"My sympathy, Elendur," Narion replied, as he bowed his head, his hand covering his heart. "I trust the men under your command have not given you trouble."
"Nay, my Lord, they have followed my commands just as well as they had our captain’s. But come, let us find you and your men something."
As they rode into camp, Narion noted the lack of tents. These men have been living with none of the comforts of home, he thought grimly, taking notice of the faces of those he passed, and yet in their eyes I see not discontent and frustration, but hope, reborn of our arrival, and the intention of remaining and finishing what they have begun. Elendur is correct. There should be no fear of mutiny or desertion from these men. I can only hope my own command is as selfless and hardy.
They dismounted near the fire as three soldiers approached and took their horses. "We will care for your mounts, my Lords," one said, bowing slightly before them.
Belecthor cautiously handed Celebros’ reins to them. "Watch him," he warned the young soldier, "he has a temper worthy of the Dark Lord himself." To Celebros he turned and spoke softly in the tongue of the Elves before following his companions to where meat sizzled tantalizingly over the fire.
As the food was served to them, Narion discussed the battle with Elendur; questioning the commander on the tactics the men of Harad had been using, how they had countered them, and the details of all recent engagements.
Celvandil, after finishing his portion of meat, joined them in their discourse while gently tending to Narion’s small wound, adding in his own comments about what he had seen and how he felt his men would react to certain savage acts of war Elendur claimed the enemy was capable of committing.
Belecthor listened for awhile, but his young mind soon began to take other paths of more interest. He let his gaze wander across the camp. Men of all ages were moving about, pitching tents, starting fires, some even sang softly. He wondered how things were at home. Had Ithilien been attacked? If so, had anyone in his family been killed or wounded?
He banished this nagging worry from his mind and again turned his attention to his food. It was far from the best he had ever had, having lived with the Elves from time to time, but it was much better than the fare on the recent journey. One thing the army of Ithilien lacked was a good cook.
Belecthor noted Ostoher a short distance away. The young man had pitched his tent and placed his blankets inside, but he was offering it to one of Elendur’s men who did not have a tent of his own. Belecthor shook his head in amazement. Men like Ostoher were few, he decided.
"What say you, Belecthor?" Narion asked suddenly.
Belecthor, startled, quickly turned his attention back to his father, spilling his cup in the process. "Pardon, Father?"
"I asked you what you thought about the fighting ability of our men in the morning. After all, they have just finished a long ride and then a battle. Do you believe they will be up to another battle on the morn?"
Belecthor remembered the eager cries of his men as they rode into battle and the suppressed energy so obvious on their faces once they had been called back. "Yes," Belecthor answered, glancing over to where several of his men were sparing with one another, their young faces lit by the crackling fires around them as they played, almost as small boys with wooden swords. "Yes, I believe they will be ready."
Elendur nodded grimly. "Let us hope so. For if they are not, Gondor may yet lose this war. Battle will come swiftly on the morrow."
~*~*~*~
Belecthor slowly made his way down the line, watching warily, lest he fall victim to one of the shafts that plagued his men. The battle was slow that day and it was mostly sitting behind the defenses, dodging arrows and sending back a few whenever possible. He paused in his journey, "How are you, Ostoher?" he asked the young man standing beside him.
"I am well, my Captain," he replied with an encouraging smile, fingering his bowstring lightly.
"No injuries yet?"
"No, my Lord. How do you fare?"
"Still holding strong. I was warned before leaving home, you see, and I am trying my very hardest to remain out of harm’s way and still have a place in this fight."
"The Lady Morwen?" Ostoher questioned amiably.
"Yes, but also the Lord Faramir, and my mother, the Lady Annariel, and my Grandmother, Lady Éowyn, and my Aunts and my Father among others. It would seem that all of Gondor wishes me to return unharmed." The two men laughed for a moment, a strange sound on the battlefield and those around them glanced curiously their way. "Tell me, Ostoher," Belecthor continued after a pause, "have you no one to return home to?"
"No, my Captain. When I was orphaned as a child, I went to live with my widowed aunt, for she had no children. She died only a few years ago, and I am left with no one. I decided to join the forces of Ithilien, for I felt that it might save the life of someone with family if I was killed in his stead. That is one reason I seem so fearless in battle to those around me. I have nothing to lose, and so, nothing to fear."
Belecthor looked sympathetically and yet wonderingly into the bright, youthful eyes before him. What could life be like with no mother, father or family of any kind? Having grown up around so many relatives, Belecthor could not imagine such a life. And yet Ostoher seemed content with nothing.
An arrow whizzed suddenly between them, coming so close to Ostoher that its mangled feathers scraped across his face, disrupting the perfect flight of the arrow and sending it tumbling end over end to the ground a short distance away. Belecthor stared down at it in shock. It seemed to him that it showed just how close to the edge Ostoher lived, risking his life in every battle for the good of another, to save the life of someone with a wife and children or loving parents.
When he looked back at Ostoher, the young man stood, his gaze fastened across the plain, a slight smile gracing his features as he lowered his bow. "He will not bother us again," he said softly.
"Who will not?" Belecthor asked curiously, for Ostoher had spoken as though he had just rid himself of a bothersome insect which had buzzed incessantly about his ear.
"The Southron who fired that arrow, just now," he answered calmly, turning his gaze back to Belecthor. "Should you not continue on to wherever it was you were going, my Captain?"
"Yes, of course, Ostoher. I enjoyed my time with you. Farewell."
"Farewell, my Captain," Ostoher replied calmly, pulling another arrow and firing as he spoke. Belecthor took note of the fact that his arrow had found its mark even though only half his attention had been centered upon it. Legolas himself could not but have admired Ostoher’s marksmanship, he thought as he continued down the line in search of his father.
~*~*~*~
Celebros pranced nervously, his ears erect, his breath forming small clouds as he snorted his displeasure. The cold air of early dawn added to his energy and Belecthor was hard put to it to hold him in.
All along the lines, men held the reins with iron fists, their faces, young and old alike, showing the wear and tear of battle, and the grim determination that had carried them through thus far. They were pale from exhaustion and cold, their armor coated with the dew of morning as they sat upon their horses, preparing for yet another charge.
Even after two months of fighting, Belecthor could still feel hope throbbing through his men. They clung tenaciously to their ray of light in the darkness, their precious drop of water in the desert; the small chance of victory in this war. That they could win, forcing the Haradrim back into their own land and out of Gondor.
Celebros tossed his head and took a step forward; Belecthor pulled back on the reins, halting his mount and bringing him back a step, his mount’s long silver tail thrashing behind him. Whispering softly and soothingly in Sindarin, he patted the damp, silver-grey shoulder as the restive mount beneath him stamped and blew loudly. Celebros had seen his master safely through many charges in his three years as a war horse, and Belecthor hoped the record would stand unmarred at the end of the day.
The sun broke over the eastern horizon, bathing all in the bright orange light of early morning, dispelling the grey tinting and transforming all with its radiance, its splendor, and yet the men of Minas Tirith and Ithilien took no note, for they had seen the sun rise often enough for it to become common place and of no interest to them. They concentrated on their leaders, who had moved to the front, their mighty steeds prancing about, crushing the dewy grass under hoof and calling to their fellow horses in the lines.
Belecthor shifted his weight in his saddle as Celebros tossed his head, fighting once more against Belecthor’s hold. Belecthor waited for his father to give the command. Narion raised himself up in his stirrups, shading his eyes against the glaring light of the rising sun and peering across the plain to where the men of Harad were camped, his stallion standing as a rock beneath him, his attention also on the far camp.
Stirring in the encampment was seen as the men of Harad rose and prepared themselves for the day and Narion settled himself into his saddle once more, unsheathing his sword and holding it high. "Charge!" he called loudly, breaking the stillness as he spurred his destrier into a full gallop, his men doing the same behind him.
Belecthor urged Celebros to his fastest, his command following him; and the hooves of Gondor churned the wet earth, throwing it back into the faces of those behind as all charged bravely, their battle cries ringing through the still morning air as they rode through the light mist toward their adversaries.
~*~*~*~
Narion fell to the ground, an arrow protruding from his shoulder, his stallion galloping back to camp. The pain in his arm was terrible and any use of his left side caused excruciating jolts of agony to shoot through his entire body. The charge continued on around him, sweeping the enemy back, back, away from Gondor, but he was left behind to simply watch from his kneeling position on the ground.
He felt someone’s hand gently pull him down from his knees and onto his back. He looked up into the grim young face of Ostoher, one of Belecthor’s men, whose horse had fallen a short distance away. "Come, my Lord," he said, lifting Narion up in his arms with little difficulty. The strength in the young man’s arms amazed Narion. Never had he been lifted from a battle field with less trouble.
Ostoher bore him back to camp, stumbling a few times over the fallen around them. "Do you need to rest, lad?" Narion asked. "I could probably walk if I need to."
"No, my Lord," he answered, his breath coming easily. "It would only worsen your condition. I am fine."
When the young soldier at last lay him down near a fire, Narion allowed his muscles to relax, mindful of his throbbing shoulder.
Ostoher removed his helm, his gauntlets and his vambraces to free his movement. Narion noted the large hands and the forearms corded with muscle. The boy had large bones and, undoubtedly, they were covered over with muscle, hardened by honest toil in the service of his country. Narion doubted the young man had an ounce of fat on his tall, lean body.
Ah! To be young again! he thought as darkness slowly overtook him, blocking all thought from his wearied mind.
~*~*~*~
Sorry this chapter was so long, but thanks for sitting through it. I just hope your on-line provider doesn’t yell at you and charge you a blue-million because you were on so long. :)
Dr_seuss, I hope Ostoher meets your approval. I wasn’t even going to put him in, really, but it gave me some good material, so thanks. ;) I just hope everyone was able to last through all the talking. I’m not very good at battles, and I didn’t want this one to be exactly like the one in WHWB (even though there is another charge at dawn and Narion got himself wounded again :) ). Thanks for your patience, everybody!
And Éomer, thanks for your help again. Like I say, I can’t spell very well and Coriel gets rather fed up with the strange places I stick commas. :)