Where her father's pace had been slow, Myrhil's was frantic. She drove her dappled mare relentlessly, avoiding the depressions and gullies that pocked the weary land from eons of growth and use. Nineteen years of childish explorings and curious wanderings had imprinted the landscape indelibly in her mind and, using only the waning silvery lunar glow from above, she navigated a safe path despite her reckless speed. Reins firmly gripped between frozen fingers, she cursed the haste that made her forget her gauntlets. The desperate chill clung to her body as if seeking warmth, unknowing that it stole every heated throb as soon as it quivered with life.
An exhausted gasp sucked the rapacious cold into lungs already convulsed with spasms that made breathing a labor. Her chest burned with an unseen fire. Doubling over at the shock, Myrhil brought the mare to an abrupt halt and bent over the sweaty neck, coughing violently. Her face ached, the searing rush of air against her cheeks making them feel as though split with the tip of a red-hot knife. She shivered from the icy heat that worked its way through every extremity and unprotected area of skin.
With a numb hand, she reached up to rub her cheeks and felt her fingers freeze even more as they came away damp. Crying! she thought. I did not even know. . . Grasping the edge of her cloak, she wiped away the tears and scrubbed her face vigorously, hoping that it would restore some wisp of sensation.
She remained motionless for a while, her hands resting against the pommel of the saddle, head bent against the light breeze. Her lungs tentatively accepted more air with only a brief spasm when they rebelled at a deep inhalation. So cold. . .so cold. . .she thought, her mind unable to grasp anything beyond the elements that surrounded her. On the gentle currents that swirled about her came the scent of snow and she lifted her head, aware that she was nearing the eternally snowcapped mountains. She glanced at the sky and located the one star she knew, the trusty guide of all travelers. She was indeed heading north and directly ahead were those mountains, the bane of her mother's dreams. In their shadows, her father now stood with their herd.
The desire to see him -- to tell him that she had been foolish, but that Larhend's death had not been in vain -- tugged at her. Yet, at the same time, the prospect made her shrink into her cloak, dreading another confrontation this eve. She felt like a prisoner, trapped in a windowless room, flailing about in search of sunlight, a direction in which to escape, but desiring the comfort of returning to the shadows.
Then why did you leave? she asked herself. Why did you leave, if not to mend all that you have broken in your ignorance? You took Larhend's sword and left in a fury. Why? She pounded a clenched fist into her thigh at every question, as though trying to force an answer from herself.
She laid a hand on the plain hilt of her brother's sword, the scuffed metal frigid despite its position against her waist. Gripping it tightly, the unfeeling steel burned into her flesh as she recalled words spoken to her not so long ago, words that seemed like a memory from the distant past. . .the type of memory that did not have a place or a time, but rather a meaning of such importance that it forever lingered in the mind, a point to which one always returned for an answer.
"I think it a tragedy that Larhend's death should make your life a struggle."
Belaród. Those words coming from his lips, speaking that which she had long felt. . .they had started all this.
What a day that had been! She was practicing with her brother's sword, a gift from her father on the day she reached her sixteenth year, Larhend's age when he last drew breath.
The significance was not lost upon her. She knew not the real reason why her father had bestowed such a gift upon her and she would not curse her fortune by asking. Gorhend's grief had been tangible and deep, his glances at the surviving child veiled with reproach and regret. She had seen them, willed herself to not believe the doubts that lingered in her mind. But they persisted, through the days and through the nights, for what seemed like countless years.
She received the sword with proper solemnity and when Gorhend announced that he would instruct her in swordsmanship, she wondered if her labors to prove a worthy heir had bore fruit. If she could connive to do anything that Larhend had done or would have done, she campaigned to win for herself: the ledgers, the forge, even assisting in the supply route undertaken every other month.
But the final acceptance would not come. Her attempts to completely replace Larhend, to do that which necessity demanded, fell on deaf ears and a reluctant heart. And then that day, in the middle of her drills behind the blacksmith shed, she heard another voice echo her thoughts, those angry and outraged thoughts that pounded in her head with each strike of the hammer on a glowing shoe, every tap of the nail into a soft and yielding hoof, every scrape of the quill against the ledger parchment.
And now someone else shared these sentiments of the injustice done her.
Pride reinforced by this new courage, she sought for more, much more than was being offered. Thus began the strife that would have robbed her of all she had if her mother had not opened her eyes this night.
She gripped the hilt again and thought of Belaród, the urge to drive the blade through his throat playing at the fringes of her mind. He had known what he was doing. . .he must have! she thought. He knew I was proud and used it to set daughter against father, carving out a place for himself when the old man, his one obstacle, passed from the scene. My weakness is my impatience, she thought miserably. I wanted what I felt was mine before I had the right to claim it. It would have come to me, just as Mother said.
Angrily, she realized her cheeks were again awash and had just dragged her sleeve across her eyes when she heard a scream from the mountains, crystalline and horrific. Her mount jumped in alarm. Dread and panic seized her every fiber, but she spurred her mare into a canter due north.
"Mount up!" Gorhend bellowed.
Without hesitation, Boromir turned from Belaród and ran over to Cirien who had only just finished hobbling the horses and was now frantically undoing his efforts. "How many men are ahead?" he asked the chief herdsman.
"Only three," Cirien replied. "If it is as I fear, we may be too late. . ."
His horse unimpeded, Boromir sprang into the saddle and gathered up the reins. Gorhend and the others followed suit and Boromir was pleased to see that Belaród was showing no signs of lingering behind. Of course he would not, he told himself. Should anything happen to that herd, he has lost his longed-for prize.
No further sound came forth from the plains and, in one motion, the four men surged from the ring of rosy firelight and entered the darkness beyond. The moonlight reached their eyes after a several prolonged moments and their pace quickened. The distance passed swiftly beneath the thundering hooves and Boromir gauged that Cirien's guess had been correct as to how much further ahead the others had traveled. One mile. . .two miles. . .and a half-mile more. . . The horses had been rested so they reveled in the free rein that their riders were willing -- and eager -- to give them.
Gorhend felt his stomach lurch with a measureless fear when he began to hear the frantic and terrified screams and whinnies of many horses. "They have come, Cirien!" he cried. "They are setting upon my horses like sheep to be slaughtered!"
A sickening dread enveloped Cirien as he remembered looking upon the mountains only hours earlier, wondering if he could see the threat Gorhend had spoken of. He had not seen it. But it had come all the same. No amount of preparation was enough for the actual moment itself. It felt like a fist slammed into one's chest, followed by other blows less painful but no less vicious as the numbing horror killed one's ability to fully feel each strike.
The sounds of carnage grew louder. A steady tattoo of hoof beats came towards them and on either side of the riders passed three horses with eyes rolling nearly white in stark terror. Black as night they were, and they faded into the darkness that enclosed the plains.
"Black. . ." Gorhend shook his head angrily. "They have come for the black ones. Those have escaped, but the others. . ." Such had been the practice in other raids he had heard about. In Rohan, the black steeds, suiting the dark demeanor of the Enemy, were often culled from the herd and the remaining unfortunates were mercilessly slaughtered.
A crimson glow appeared ahead, an aura around one of the outreaching foothills. Gorhend felt his chest receive a blow of such force that he almost lost control of his mount. Fire. They had fire. An acrid cloud masked the scarlet aura with a fell stench and Gorhend nearly wept at its dreadful portent.
The riders wheeled around and drew their swords. The two battle-hardened soldiers surveyed the scene, weighing the best course of action and tallying the opposition. The silhouettes against an already blazing pyre of equine carcasses were those of orcs, the bent and sneaking postures going about their cruelty with bloodthirsty delight. No figures of Men could be seen in the firelight, on horse or afoot. Those three worthy Men had all fallen. Gorhend felt the first stirrings of old battle-rage burn deep within his breast.
"There is over a score of the foul beasts," Boromir said. "Belaród, you go to the right. Cirien, the left. We shall attack the middle. Strike hard and do not let your strength fail you!" With a Gondorian battle cry, they bolted forward and charged into the midst of the Enemy.
Belaród felt a moment's hesitation, but he could do little as his mount followed the others into the fray. He had said he did not wish to die with an orc blade in his gut, yet that fate was before him should his fortune and courage fail. He gripped the hilt of his sword and drew it from the scabbard, swinging it over his head. Before him, to the right as Boromir had commanded, stood his opponents, his potential murderers. They had heard the battle cry and were ready, six bloody blades drawn and dripping with evidence of their foul deeds. They had been guarding the ebony prizes of their raid but with the impending assault, they set them loose for later collection. I am only one man, Belaród thought, disheartened. Their booty will not have run far by the time they have finished with me.
This desperation lent him strength he did not know he possessed, for he leapt into their small ranks and set upon them with his sword. He accepted the danger, knowing there was no alternative at such a pass. His gelding proved stalwart as well, taking blows on its neck and flanks while pivoting at his command in order to rain blows on all those gathered around him.
He cried out in anger as he felt a blow delivered to his leg at the knee, bone crunching and twisting in the harsh bite of the blade. Bloody rage came upon him and he hacked with renewed vigor, knowing neither pain nor fear. He fought for the herd; he fought for Myrhil. For surely if these creatures were not stilled here, the small home to the south would suffer attack.
He crowed at the soft crunch of bone beneath his enraged strokes, at the spray of coal-black blood that clung to him, each drop of the stinking liquid a trophy. One orc, then two, fell beneath his mount's wheeling hooves. Three. . .four. . . The hideous faces were cloven in two as his sword cut through flesh, bone and brain. Then leathery hands, tipped with black claws, grasped at his legs, dragging him down to the ground where his mangled limb would do him little service. A blinding white pain clouded his vision as fingers dug maliciously into the wound, spreading the misery throughout his body. His sword fell from his hand, unable to hold it while being assailed by such agony, and the two remaining orcs pulled him down into their fell company.
Boromir and Gorhend charged into the center wedge where the slaughter continued, as though in defiance. There were ten orcs for them to vanquish and half had already begun to advance while the others dispatched the few remaining horses that had not evaded capture. At the scream of another throat being cut, Gorhend dug his heels into the side of his mount and flew past the battle-ready orcs. He would tend to the deaths of the murderers.
Boromir drew his stallion up short and dismounted. With a slap, he sent his steed away to a safe distance. He preferred to fight on foot and, with his long sword in hand; he also drew forth a shorter blade. He swung them in his hand with a flick of the wrists in invitation, and then charged at them with a roar.
Blocking blows and dodging assaults, Boromir twisted and turned as he let no opening pass to inflict a wound on the screeching beasts. He sunk his swords into necks and groins, guts and backs. As the short sword rang and scraped, parrying thrusts from the dusky blades of Mordor, the long sword slipped past armor and leather to plunge into the stinking bodies. He felt enormous satisfaction when he hacked off a limb and gave the still- twitching refuse a contemptuous kick before advancing to the next opponent. As experienced as these orcs were, their prowess was outclassed by the Captain of Gondor. After long minutes of relentless battle, all five lay dead or bleeding at his feet and he finished off the writhing survivors with an unforgiving stab through the throat.
His work done, he turned toward where Gorhend had charged and gave a strangled cry when he saw the old man arch in agony as an orc brought his sword down across his back.
The cacophony of battle reached Myrhil's ears, despite the numbing effect of the cold air against her face on her rapid ride north. She saw the ominous glow coming from the foot of the mountains, the dark cloud billowing into the sky. For several long seconds, she debated whether to advance. Danger waited ahead and the instinct of self-preservation reared. But was there really any other path she could take? The scream. . .someone was injured, dying. . .this was where her father and Boromir had been traveling. This was where the herd was grazing, and something had fallen upon them.
If Father had let me take his watch, I would be here anyway, she told herself. And now I have come despite his refusal. I have only one choice -- the right one.
She drew Larhend's sword and cautiously advanced, rounding her path to approach the fray directly from the west. A pyre of belching flames and smoke was positioned at the back of a V formed by the mountain walls. The poor beasts had been herded into this fatal juncture, penned in a stony prison. Those that did not escape had fallen beneath the crushing hand of Mordor. Mares she had raised since foals, stallions that her father had broken with his sure and steady hand, yearlings who had not yet felt a saddle and bit. . .
Against the canvas of crimson and disintegrating carcasses under the conflagration's voracious appetite, Myrhil saw orcs and Men fighting. She could not distinguish who the Men were -- Boromir, her father, or any of the others who worked for them. But some yet lived, and they were valiantly pressing on.
The hesitation she thought she would always feel should impending battle come before her gripped her little. "All raw recruits think they will turn and run," she remembered her father once saying, "yet when they see what has to be done, most will do what they must. Naturally they are afraid, but duty will prevail."
Whispering encouraging words to the uneasy equine beneath her, she lurched forward. Her throat clenched until she thought it would strangle her. But the sword felt right in her hand, her target was chosen. A man was being set upon by two orcs to the right and she would do what she could to turn the tide.
Cirien fended off several rapid downward blows from the orc before him, gritting his teeth in pain at the searing vibrations that shattered his arms and almost defeated what remaining strength he possessed. Blood from a superficial wound coursed down his face into his eyes and the tang of red and black blood seeped into his mouth, making his gorge rise. He wondered if all was lost. There were still two others that he had yet to face. His berserker rage had taken them aback as the madness fueled his fury, but it was waning with each expenditure of his life force.
He began to bend beneath another attack and the orc seized the advantage. Swinging his sword up over his head to deliver the killing strike, the orc squealed in alarm and outrage as Cirien summoned his brawn to slice his blade across the creature's middle. Guts spilled forth and the putrid odor met Cirien's nostrils. Gods above, they smelled like rotten corpses even when alive!
The orc pitched forward at his feet and Cirien looked up, squinting through the haze of blood that was increasingly clouding his vision. He expected to see another orc take his place but what he saw was even more alarming. In the light from the fire he saw another figure advancing on horseback, finer-featured than any of the herders and riding a dappled mare. . .
"Myrhil!" he cried, followed by an agonized groan as a blade cut into his upper arm. He bent and, willing himself to move onwards, he scurried out from under further attack and made his way across the narrow juncture.
With horror, Myrhil saw that the man she had decided to assist was none other than Belaród. He was being yanked brutally from his saddle and she frantically spurred her mare. The distance suddenly seemed too great to close before she could save him. One orc held him tightly, pinning his arms behind his back while the other flashed his sword. A hoarse cry rose up in her throat when the blade thrust through Belaród's tunic.
The orcs were not expecting another foe to enter the fight and she managed to swing her sword down with as much force she could muster on the one who held the wilting Belaród. Both crumpled to the ground and Myrhil wheeled to make another pass, sword at the ready.
The other orc was more prepared after the shock of the unexpected attack. With a snarl, he grabbed her leg at the ankle and jerked her from her mount before she could strike away the offending arm. She landed on her back with a thud, though the corpse of an orc somewhat cushioned the impact. Her sword flew from her hand and she gasped as her lungs labored to recover. The metal of the armor beneath her bit through her cloak and she rolled to one side, kicking out defensively with her legs when she felt the hand refuse to relinquish its grip on her boot.
A well-delivered kick connected with an unguarded shin and the orc, a slighter creature than his fellow fighters, fell to his knees. He glared at her with bald hatred and before she could scuttle away, he flew at her, sending her backwards once more. They tangled in an unfettered battle of kicks and blows and Myrhil's head rang as her face received stinging punches from a metal-encrusted gauntlet.
She tried to drive her knees up into his stomach and groin and she had the satisfaction of hearing him grunt several times as his internals absorbed the brunt. But her sense of victory was short-lived when fetid breath scoured her cheek and she felt spiked fire bury into her neck. The jagged teeth sank into the flesh of her neck and shoulder and she screamed in panic.
Belaród flailed about in the arms of the groaning orc that lay partly across him. Each movement of his leg sent the white fire through his entire body and left him nearly paralyzed from the agony. His gut was ablaze. He had seen Myrhil thundering towards him and almost could not believe the sight. Now she was fighting hand-to-hand with one of the vile monsters. Should the beast ever discover who it was opposite him, Myrhil's peril would increase doubly. She would have more to fear than a cold blade to the heart.
With her fists, Myrhil battered on the orc's helm, hoping that it would disarm him briefly enough so she could slip away and to her feet. Her right arm began to throb from the damage the orc inflicted upon it. She knew she would lose all use of it if she could not escape. Placing trembling hands on either side of the creature's head, she tried to twist it with all her might. If she could not break his neck, perhaps he would leap away from the maneuver. But the helm only twisted in her hands and grasping it at the edge, she yanked it off from his head. Gripping it by the nose guard, she slammed it against the greasy and hairless skull with a resurgence of strength.
A screech of alarm and pain pierced her ears as the orc fell backwards onto his haunches and scrabbling to her feet, Myrhil took up the nearest sword and swung it at the creature's neck. His head sprang from the gushing stump and rolled in the beaten and bloody grass. Her strength utterly spent, she collapsed to her knees, using the sword to hold herself up. She looked over at Belaród who had managed to disentangle himself from his captor. One hand clenching his stomach, he was straddled across the chest of the pinned orc, and had just drawn a long knife across the ashen gullet.
Sinking off the corpse and falling onto his side, he looked up at Myrhil. "Thank you," he gasped, an exhausted smile on his lips.
Cirien watched the struggle on the far side of the battle, saw Myrhil unhorsed and disappear from his view. He staggered onwards and chanced to look to the left just as Gorhend took a savage blow. He blinked through the blood in disbelief and saw Boromir cry out as the sight met his eyes as well. The Captain of Gondor rushed towards the pyre, swords encased in gore but still thirsty.
There were still two orcs behind him that needed to feel the sting of a blade and he could not lead them to where Myrhil and Belaród undoubtedly were struggling for their lives, if they still breathed. The agony this decision caused him nearly split him in two, but with desperation driving him on, he stumbled towards the raging fire. Perhaps he and Boromir could defeat the remaining brutes together. His legs felt like they no longer belonged to him for he knew that he could not take another step in any direction, but he continued to move onward, closer to the conclusion of this battle, whether to victory or defeat.
Gorhend was still on his feet, but his figure was folded over as the wound on his back pressed him down. He would fall soon. Cirien drew up to him and intercepted a blow that was aimed at the old soldier's skull. He shoved Gorhend to the ground so his blade could swing wildly and the orc soon joined his dead companions at the base of the pyre. The heat blistered Cirien's skin and baked the blood onto his face. He stumbled away from it and with a quick swipe of his hand removed any damp remnants from his eyes.
Boromir heard screams from behind and Cirien saw his two pursuers running towards them, swords above their heads and faces twisted in fury. Another orc remained from Gorhend's share and Boromir knew he could not withstand an assault from all three. His arms bore gashes, the tunics slashed and ripped, soaking up the blood that flowed from the wounds. Cirien looked at Boromir with a dejected air. He knew he could not fend off much more himself, but he lifted his own blade with what strength remained and send it slicing through the air into the first creature that met him, cleaving into his waist.
The orc bent to the side in the direction of the blow and Cirien delivered another swing of the sword across the beast's lower back. He knew he could not kill it with such a move, but it did launch the orc towards the fire. Cirien shoved a foot against its backside, sending it the final distance into the pyre itself where the skin began to sizzle and burst into flames. Screeching and screaming, claws digging at his melting face, the orc writhed on the ground until death claimed him. Boromir hacked the leg off the orc that advanced on him and taking a cue from Cirien, kicked the creature's stomach to send him into the fire alongside his companion.
Only one orc remained and they could now face him together, but a piercing scream, high and feminine, burst forth. Boromir turned to Cirien in alarm.
"It is Myrhil!" Cirien shouted. "Let us finish this. We cannot leave this one!"
It took Boromir bare moments to recover. He and Cirien rushed at the orc, who had resigned himself to suicide and met their blades with all that he could summon to defend himself. He blocked many lethal blows and managed to graze Boromir's side, but it was not enough. Cirien's sword crunched into neck and shoulder and Boromir delivered a killing thrust through its vitals. Without pausing, they ran to Gorhend and dragged the unconscious man a safe distance from the shimmering heat of the blazing pyre.
"Does he live?" Cirien asked.
"It is in his hands, for I can do nothing now to help him," Boromir said, the words catching in his throat as he spoke them. He gripped Cirien by the arm and hauled him to his feet. "Come!"
Cirien followed Boromir at a bobbing run towards the far side of the juncture, dread hanging about him. There had been no other scream, no other sound from Myrhil. Belaród's and Myrhil's horses still stood, shielding the scene that lay behind them. As the bloodied men rounded the nervous steeds, they met the tear-filled eyes of Gorhend's daughter as she cradled Belaród's fading body against her bloody chest.