The vast crawling black mass of Angmar's host covered the land. Sweeping before them were trotting packs of wargs feeling the way ahead of the host. Formations of horsemen rode on the flanks of a great crescent while the center was made up of phalanxes of northern tribesmen in their clan livery. Corset laced with them were dense legions of orcs from Gundabad marching in battle order under black banners emblazoned with the silver crown of Angmar. The whole mass ground south west under an unseasonably bleak sky in a crescent formation. In the center could be seen a thicket of lumbering trolls carrying a litter shrouded in tattered black. All knew who rode upon that couch.
Arahen observed the progress of the enemy host beside her lord, Cirdan, and the captains of Gondor's cavalry, which had arrived ahead of the main force to bolster the army that Cirdan had mustered to save Arthedain from ruin once more. Grim visaged elf warriors of Lindon and rock sturdy dwarves of the Ered Luin marched alongside the weary army of the Dunedain, battered by defeat and famine.
Cirdan, ancient and noble stood half a head taller than any of the others, clad in bright mail forged in Valinor. A light emanated from him and all who attended his words felt the echoes of might of the West welling up within their breasts. It seemed that with such a captain, defeat was utterly impossible.
“Our enemy sends a reek of sorcery from the sulpherous pits of the Ered Engrin,” intoned Cirdan.
“Have we no power to turn back these clouds?” asked Prince Eärnur impatiently.
“All things in due course. Have you seen to the dispositions of our horse?” the elf lord asked, still gazing over the plain.
“Aye. All are arrayed as the council of war agreed. I hope your assumptions are correct,” replied the Prince. “I had thought it the wiser course to await the remainder of my army at Mithlond before setting out to offer battle.”
Cirdan only smiled and stroked his beard. “It is only sufficient to look at them to reassure yourself in that regard, Highness. Our enemy is a wily strategist who has brought the northern kingdoms low one at a time. As a tactician, however, he is a nimble fencer with a blunt and clumsy weapon. His orcs and men make for a mass capable of winning sieges as we have seen. But they have been defeated in the open field when their numbers are not as limitless as they seem to us now. I espy they have brought their fullest armament. Fornost must be nearly emptied.”
Eärnur, youthful and confident nonetheless drew his features into a frown as he contemplated the sheer size of the enemy army. “United, we could smash them, of this I am confident. Piecemeal, however...”
Arahen, resplendent in her gleaming scale hauberk and gold-trimmed crimson gambeson ran a hand through her short cropped silvery hair and drew on her tall helm, interrupting quietly. “My Lords, the time draws nigh. We lieutenants should see to our regiments? Our dispositions are set and everyone knows their part in the plans agreed.”
Cirdan started from his reverie at her melodic voice. “Indeed. There has been no word from Glorfindel?”
Arahen shook her head and swung up onto her great armored steed. “Nay, Lord. Not in four days' time.”
“See to the others, friend,” Cirdan said. “The Prince and I shall follow when battle is joined.”
The alliance's army was arrayed on the side of a low rise in the plain, with a ford in the Baranduin to their backs. The countryside was dotted with stands of scrub pines and a scattering of farm buildings and low stone walls dividing sheepfolds which had been hastily abandoned as the storm of war approached. In front, the ranks of Arthedain's foot, weary men-at-arms interleaved with ranks of archers. On the flanks were set phalanxes of heavily armored dwarves.
The remnant of Arthedain's chivalry, hard bitten veterans of endless war against Angmar and its satraps waited in a wedge behind the line alongside their brethren from Gondor.
In front of all was a screen of light horse archers made up of elves of the Havens who were known in those days as fearsome and agile.
Cirdan's trump card was the Gondorian cavalry under the leadership of their prince. It was assumed that the enemy knew something of the appearance of the first group of ships off the Lune estuary.
More than one spy had been apprehended lurking on the rocky promontories that overlooked that broad waterway and the mass of white sails could hardly have been missed. The elves knew that however great their vigilance, they could not prevent word from reaching the Witch King. This, then was the presumed reason that the dread legions of the north had mustered with such speed instead of waiting for them in Fornost.
The disparity between Arthedain's remnant horsemen clad in mail battered by endless campaigning and the proud vigor of Gondor's heavy cataphracts was clear enough, yet the men of both the successor kingdoms treated one another as brethren and Prince Eärnur showed his wisdom in saluting their banners and greeting their captains.
The elves were for the most part on foot, squares of heavily armored infantry that occupied the very center of the line of battle. A steady pivot that could be counted upon not to waver, come what may. Just behind the dwarves on the right were placed a group of a peculiar small folk. A troop of archers from the rolling hill country that lay astride the great road. They called themselves Hobbits, but no one knew much about them and it was thought by the elves and men alike that they were akin to the dwarves, only beardless for the most part. Though the dwarves for their part denied this could be so, everyone found them agreeable and skilled at archery if entirely unencumbered by any armor.
Arahen joined the horsemen of Arthedain, taking command of one regiment whose leader had been lost a fortnight before. The men were much cheered and encouraged by the presence of the tall elf maid who displayed an easy familiarity with command and was arrayed with her lance with glittering tip, and with broadsword, war-axe and poniard.
Riding down the ranks of her knights, she took up her pulled her mount round to face them. Worn out horses. Battered kit and notched steel. Baleful horns sounded doom laden notes from across the broad plains where the legions of Angmar marched under a charcoal gray sky. Soon the distant din grew as the engagement of light horse and the deadly play of archery began. Arahen's breath caught as she saw the green banners raised and the triple horn call as Cirdan signaled Prince Eärnur. The horn call was duly answered. It was time.
Arahen spoke to her men as cries from the front ranks announced that the enemy was nearing the light cavalry screen. “I look upon you as the faithful shield of the West. Like the strongest steel you endure blow upon blow without breaking. Like the great oak, you endure the storm unmoved. Most of you have lost everything and everyone dear to you. Many have given up hope you shall see your wives, young ones or the old who join the numberless who have passed under the great shadow, or flee behind us, hoping to find some shelter in the forests of Breeland.” She paused dramatically and raised her broadsword high. The gloom seemed to part somehow and the light of an unseen sun glittered on the blade, quickening the spirits of those who attended her words.
“If I had not shared every burden, suffered every loss, born every hurt of body and spirit that you yourselves have, I would not ask you today to follow me. I would not have the right. But I say to you now, follow me into the lungs of hell over the bodies of our oppressor. We ride now not for the West. Not for the elves. Or for the last line of Kings of Men. Nor even the Valar themselves. No. We ride for revenge!”
A great tumult arose and as one, her knights lifted lances and screamed aloud “Revenge!” And Arahen wheeled the great black steed Narfaloth round. The lines had undertaken the hastily planned separation they had practiced but once, leaving a sudden five hundred yard gap on the right. Within minutes, could all see the land ahead, a tide of orcs heedlessly running forward under a hailstorm of missiles.
Under the gargoyle masked helm of the Lord of Angmar, an ancient and tortured mind felt a first pang of uncertainty. The pattern had hitherto always been the same. The sledgehammer of orcs absorbed and then sapped the vigor of his enemies. Then the scythe of his Angmarim clansmen and Cardolan turncoats delivered the death blow. Three armies had been broken by these means. That the rebel elves and their dupes had raised a new army to delay the inevitable investiture of Mithlond was not a surprise. He welcomed the chance to crush them all in the open field rather than waste time besieging the strong walls of the elf haven. But he could see as he mounted his warhorse that his enemies were employing some trick of war. The die were now cast though. The orcs had been sent forward to busy the elves in the center and the wings of his crescent would in due course embrace the rest. He bade his heralds signal his own horsemen to ride together from the wings. They would cut down any of the pathetic horsemen of Arthedain who managed to make it through his uruks.
But the cavalrymen of Angmar and Cardolan were indifferent horsemen. Their purpose had always been to ride down survivors and screen the movement of the infantry and hordes of orcs. All the same, they were disciplined and well armored. They should be more than a match for what should be Arthedain's last desperate charge.
As the black captain of Sauron gazed on in sudden dismay, the pivot in his enemy's line continued to yawn wider. The wedge of rapidly approaching horse growing greater until it was clear at least seven thousands or more were approaching. The three thousand glittering lances of the front rank lowered like the sudden smile of a hungry shark. The Witch King, dread warlord of the North, breaker of kings had fallen into a trap.
The charge hammered the earth like the fall of a mountain. Thousands of iron shod hooves bore iron clad riders hurtling inexorably over the grass, churning land to a cloud of dust and pulped vegetation.
The blood frenzy of the orcs, fueled by harsh liquors, a surety of victory and its attendant rapine and slaughter was almost at once extinguished. The front ranks, suddenly confronted with an onrushing tide of steel quailed and slowed. The ranks behind crashed into them. Big uruks with lashes came on behind, screaming curses at the sluggards ahead, unaware of the sudden danger.
The armies were but a dozen paces apart now. Two jaws of a primal monster propelled by unimaginable fury and power. Time seemed to Arahen to hang and stream into an eerie eternity that dwarfed her long life. Nothing now mattered but the line of wavering spears ahead.
Spinters of sensation. The faces before her froze, gimlet eyed, swarthy, twisted in fury and sudden fear. The smell of Narfaloth's sweat filling her nostrils. Awareness of her tongue pressed against the roof of her dry mouth. The lance fixed ahead. The vague oppression of the sorcerous clouds above.
Sinew and bone, steel and stone. The moment of collision rings like the mightiest hammer in Aule's forge. A ringing, splintering roar like a volcano blown utterly apart.
The spears of the orcs were all but useless against the heavy barding of the cataphracts of Gondor, though here and there a knight of Arthedain was claimed, their horses being vulnerable to desperate thrusts. But few there were among the orcs that day that faced that onrushing wall with weapons held resolutely.
It was slaughter as the lances of the first line slashed into the shrieking, fleeing orcs. The momentum of Arahen's horse carried her over dozens. Her lance, couched expertly at the critical moment swerved and caught one before her by the shield, punching through it and the terror struck creature behind it. The shaft splintered as the point rammed through yet a second, bowling over any number of others. She dropped the lance, grabbing the reins with both hands, smashing over fleeing orcs. This was no battle, but a slaughter, like a trampling of rancid grapes. She suddenly found herself through the tide of orcs, who had lost any sort of battle formation, being reduced to a gibbering, howling mob of individuals seeking any shelter from the wrath of the alliance.
Right and left, her men closed ranks again, conditioned by long practice. Lances lost in their first charge, they as one drew steel. Axes, maces and swords swept into angry hands. Arahen raised her hand and her herald sounded the charge again. Before them, the Angmarim cavalry were forming for their own charge. Too late. The rapidity with which the orcs had been swept aside had given them no time. The knights of Arthedain, granted pride of place, urged their mounts forward yet again across the dozen paces, hurling themselves on their bitter enemies. Orcs were one thing, but these were treacherous men who had heeded the promises of the Witch King and helped bring low the realms of Arnor and the men of Arthedain set on them like demons.
Arahen unlashed the great war axe from her saddle. At the head of her regiment as the lines came together, she made an imposing figure clad in blood red crimson over bright scales, her massive war horse rearing as she came upon the first Cardolanish knight. Her opponent attempted to bring his lance to bear but the elf was past him in a rush, her axe swinging a gory trail through the man's shoulder, smashing bone and sinew, cutting through the arm as she passed heedless of the man's agonized scream. She caught a lance hard on the boss of her shield, the foeman struck down in the next instant by one of her comrades. Careering into the third rank of stunned enemy, she brought her shield up to ward off a sword stroke while relieving another Cardolan rider of his head. On the back stroke, the spike on the back of the axe head caught another enemy, puncturing his mail, turning his chest into a crushed ruin. The enemy pressed her as their ranks began to break up, but her men were with her in the melee, which now roared and clanged all around.
She took a moment to assess the course of battle as her men plunged past her into the confused thicket of fighting.
Cirdan's gambit had succeeded beyond expectation. They had anticipated Angmar's cavalry would have time to mount its own charge, but the victory over the orcs had been too quick for them to manage even that. She could see the banners of the foot squares moving toward them.
Arahen rode back into the battle as it swirled, axe carving a gory trail through the densely packed and ennervated enemy. The disintegration of the Angmarim cavalry charge before it had had a chance to begin had carried the fight into the Witch King's infantry line as horsemen of both sides trampled and crushed confused clansmen of the front ranks. Remnants of the orcs sewed more panic as they hewed at friend and foe alike in their desperate attempt to flee the battlefield.
Arahen's senses elated as the ancient killing lust arose once again. Right and left she hacked and hewed her way into the foe until she was surrounded by them. Like a pack of vengeful jackals, the enemy horsemen sought to bring down the lioness, sensing that with the captain of their foe down, there was yet some hope to avoid the anger of their master. She smashed them down with relentless fury, eyes bright with battle madness. To an untrained eye, she might appear a berserk fury swinging wildly, but every motion was the product of millennia of experience and a mind and body trained for the purpose of killing.
Covered head to foot in gore and blood and infused with wrath, the elf looked like a dread goddess of war stalking a killing ground of her own creation on a horse that seemed fit to carry the Dark Lord himself into battle.
Arahen screamed to her sergeants to reform the regiment. The Angmarim line was wavering in several places. A determined charge now could decide the day. Eärnur was at hand now, grinning at her from behind his voluminous black beard. The Prince's blue eyes flashed in triumph. “We think alike, friend. I have signaled the other regiments to rally as well. Have you lost very many?”
Arahen took up a flask of brandy offered by an aide. “Not very many it seems. Though for the folk of Arthedain, any are too many. But we will ride with you again, Prince,” she said. She tossed off the flask, feeling the harsh liquor favored by the Dunedain wash away the dust of battle.
The enemy was desperately trying to mend his line as the alliance reformed its cavalry. The issue hung in the balance. The Witch King's troop of mountain trolls lumbered forward behind the Angmarim line, great clubs held aloft, stiffening the resolve of the enemy front as only a fear of being crushed to death in an instant could do.
At that moment, the dull murmur of preparations for another clash gave way to a great tumult from the northeast. The shrill silver horns of the elves sounded and the echo rang loudly over the field.
“It is Glorfindel!” shouted Prince Eärnur. All those at hand at once gave up a great cheer.
And then there was a sudden wind from the west. Clean and heavy with the scent of the ocean, it blew hard over the field and the men of Angmar looked round in wonder. The dark curtain above them wavered, boiling round as black turned to gray and a sulpherous brown and then began to dissipate. It seemed that the battle below was being echoed by that above. Two mighty wills strove against one another in the heavens. But though one was animated by unalloyed hate, the other was far more ancient and in league with a power more potent than the sorcery of the wraith lord. Rays of sunlight sliced like golden spears down on the field. The monstrous trolls, who might yet have turned things in the favor of Angmar stiffened, dull and black eyes bulging with sudden dismay. And then the dim light within them went out. The great hulks spasmed and twisted briefly and went rigid, petrified hulks of chalky stone.
There was little need for a last charge then. Angmarim and orc alike melted away and fled northward, casting weapons and harness aside in their haste as Glorfindel and Eärnur met together under an azure sky, reaving as they went.
Surrounded at the last by his paladins, grim knights of the black Numenorean breed, the Witch King turned at bay and challenged the Prince of Gondor. It is told elsewhere the prophecy made there, when Glorfindel pronounced the strange doom of Angmar. The host of the West was victorious but the successor realms of Arnor were as broken as was the Iron Crown of the Witch King.
Arahen dwelt long after in Lothlorien, forgotten by the descendents of those she had fought with until at last she answered the call of Cirdan once more.
