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The Warden of the Tower II
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Orodreth rushed outside, past the stairs and to the tower's pinnacle, to find Sarad already there with cane in hand, a few watchmen by his side. He saw Tandir too and Tirinde too, but Gwindor was not present. He must be in the field already. Anar was descending to the west, and the hour of twilight was swiftly approaching. Below them, the sound of horns and war-drums and stirring feet convulsed the tower whole. Without a word, Orodreth moved past the captain, to the edge of the balcony and peered to the north.
South of the fen of Serech, and marching down the north-road, Orodreth gazed at thousands upon thousands of orcs approaching. From Minas Tirith's tower, they seemed like a dark mass of insects creeping from the north, a myriad encroaching feet covering the ground they trod upon. To their east was the river, and to the furthest west the steepest part of the pass, shadowed by the leaves of tall pines and fir trees in their thousands.
He looked closer. Over the years, small groups of raiders, little better than brigands might have slipped past the leaguer around Angband, to prey upon what they could before they were ridden down. But these orcs were no rabble. At the head of every battalion in the host there were banners, flying high upon tall spears. But these were unlike the bright colors of the Ñoldor. They were pure black with no mark or ensign, like the starless night sky from when Ëa was yet young, and that Morgoth Bauglir still remembered. Below each banner were hundreds of orcs. Orodreth looked closer upon them. They carried spears and swords and cruel axes. Many wore simple armor, hides, leather and sewn iron scales, yet others were covered in iron. Among their numbers were large canopies of hide and thick cloth, almost like walking tents. And there were yet more to come.
Besides the foot battalions were orcs mounted upon wolves and other creatures, beasts of horn and hideous hide. The orc riders were lighter and weaker than Gwindor's troop of cavalry, yet there were many of them. Then there were others - wolves, but unlike the ones that the orcs mounted. Those were even larger, and more ill-tempered, with iron claws and fangs like swords. Above the host there flew a cloud of winged creatures like bats, heralding the army's approach. Gwindor's scouts were right - the host arrayed against them numbered well over twenty thousand strong.
"Look there, Warden." came Sarad's voice, almost a hiss. He pointed to the center of the host, and a flurry of banners. Below the largest of the black flags there flew a smaller ensign. It was that of a snarling wolf, its teeth red with blood. "I know that banner. It was at Dorthonion, and the Bragollach." he then turned to one of the men, who bore the colors of Aegnor. "Go down, and tell the men who the Enemy has sent at us."
Orodreth frowned. "I command here," he said. "What is this banner you're speaking of?"
"That is the banner of Gorthaur." he spoke in answer. "One of Morgoth's lieutenants, and the same one that now holds Prince Angrod's land." Orodreth had heard the name before, spoken by those who had escaped from Angband - or had been let out. Sauron. A shadow that trailed close behind the Dark Lord, a spirit of will and malice that ruled the pits of Angband as the Balrogs commanded Morgoth's armies. But he had never heard of him leading orcs into battle before.
More and more orcs streamed in from the north, until finally Orodreth could see the trailing tail of the host. He saw yet more beasts, of a kind he did not recognize - taller than a horse and twice as wide. They were covered in heavy, shaggy fur, and their heads were crowned with horns like those of oxen, yet wider, and there were many whereas oxen had only two. Behind them they dragged large carts and wains, driven forward by orcs with lashes. Orodreth had seen creatures like that before - once, as he pursued the retreating orc hosts before the Dagor Aglareb. They had slain many of those pack-beasts, on the road north. The Enemy had thought to take Dorthonion then, and had sent many hundreds of wains to follow in his armies' train.
Now, Morgoth had achieved the victory he sought four hundred years ago, and his servants marched further south than they ever had before.
"Too many." Sarad muttered. Was it the orcs? They were as many as the scouts had said, and Orodreth doubted that a man who talked so often of his knowledge of war could not see it.
"The enemy are as Prince Gwindor expected." Orodreth said.
"Your Prince was right, Warden. But I was not looking at the orcs. These are not half the number of the host that seized Dorthonion. Yet the train of wagons behind them is greater than a host this size would need."
"They aim to encircle and starve us out then." Tandir raised his voice. Truly, we should have heeded your wisdom, great captain. Orodreth thought to himself. Then we would wait long enough to give the orcs hungry men to fight.
"Perhaps." Sarad replied flatly. He did not seem to regard Tandir's opinion much higher than he did that of his commander. Or I his. "Regardless, the Captain of Cavalry risks his men. If the battle goes ill, he'll find himself stranded beyond the Sirion.
For all of Sarad's baseness, if Gwindor fails, it will be a siege. Orodreth thought, and his hand wandered down to the hilt of the sword that hung from his belt. It has been long since I had to wield a brand.
Anar disappeared behind the Ered Wethrin to the west, the orc-host continuing its advance while the last rays of light gave way to darkening sky. As they closed in upon Minas Tirith, the sound of the army began to reach Orodreth's ears. Marching feet and hooves stamping on the ground, while the screech of the orc horns carried across the air, shrill and harsh. Then came the drums. Great drums the size of a man each, carried in the midst of the orc ranks, beating steadily, urging the vile mass forward. It came closer, ever closer, the booming drowning out all other sound.
But it was met by another call.
From the riverbank, the sound of the horns of the Ñoldor rose to meet the challenge of Morgoth's minions. Gwindor's pale blue banner flew high, its four speartips woven in cloth-of-gold glistening in the day's last light. Next to it stood King Finrod's emerald banners, and those of his father's House. The guard of Minas Tirith was gathered around them, as Gwindor had placed the vanguard on an upraised hill, just beyond the riverbank of the Sirion. He spotted Gonodor there, in his silvered armor and sea-green scales. Around the hill, the ground was set with stakes and carved with trenches, the sides guarded by a short wooden stockade. Atop the hill he had formed a line of archers, three hundred strong. Half their number wore the colors of Minas Tirith, but the rest were of a different kind.
The bore the insignia of the Annûnfen Gwaith, and the pure white cloaks of that company. They were of the host of the West-Gate, one of the few battalions from Nargothrond that King Finrod could spare. Their helms were decorated with dark blue feathers, and they wore lacquered corslets of dark yellow iron above their sturdy mail and scale, with long swords at their belts. In front of their line they had placed down the tall shields they before carried on their backs, and readied their warbows with calm precision, undaunted by the cacophony of sound that raged around them.
Orodreth remembered long ago, when his father talked to him of the bows the Teleri and Doriathrim favored - he had forgotten most of what he heard, remembering only that they were taller, simpler than the bows of horn and sinew that the Ñoldor crafted. From what he knew, these were more like the former than the latter.
Behind and around them stood the foot of the vanguard, arrayed in ranks, shields tightly interlocked with one another, tall spears jutting outwards. They were some eight hundred in total, and with the archers together formed almost a hedge. At the rear and on the opposite side of the river stood Prince Gwindor's cavalry. Orodreth could not help but wonder if this was a mistake - how could they take part in the battle from there?
Then further back, beyond the Sirion lay the bulk of the host, though still small when compared to the army bearing down upon them. Companies of spears and archers formed up in their ranks, as well as the Edain. Though there were lanterns with each battalion, the Men needed many more, and one man in five carried a torch. The Secondborn fear the night, Orodreth remembered hearing after his uncle first discovered them in the East. The orcs have no such fear.
Now with the shroud of night covering them, the orcs finally were beginning their assault. In the distance, running towards Gwindor's fort, were thousands of eyes, glittering in the dark. The shadowy shapes of the orcs marched forward like ants, and Orodreth could see their spears and axes. They first marched at a steady pace, before finally pausing. Then the great drums began their sonorous beat again, faster than before, and a great roar erupted from the battalions behind.
"These are merely the lesser orcs, their slaves and weaklings." Sarad said. "They will not commit their shock troops yet. Not until they see your prince's intent." Looking more closely, Orodreth saw he was right. Though they had helms, they wore little armor, and shields would be little protection from the marksmen of the Annunfên, who could hit as surely in utter darkness as in broad daylight. Did they then want to weaken and tire out Gwindor's men? "The greater orcs will miss their absence even less than we will." Sarad said, contempt in his voice.
The first of the orcs then began their charge, beginning to run as they entered the range of bowshot. Horns came again from the vanguard, and in the light of lanterns Orodreth saw the first arrows let loose.
They found their mark, and orcs dropped as they were hit. Some that carried bows with them tried in vain to loose their own arrows in return, but the fort was well beyond their range. Those with shields cowered beneath them, hoping for protection from the pitiless hail that scythed through their fellows. If orcs indeed have those.
The arrows continued, the archers slaying and wounding as they wished, and leaving those they spared with every missed shot in terror. The few larger, stronger orcs among this rabble tried to cajole their lessers onward, with threats and barked commands - only few obeyed, and many of those that stood taller were cut down in turn. Others threw down their arms, and were killed as they fled. Orodreth tried not to look too closely, and clenched his hands. Even with orcs, this was an ugly sight.
But then the horns blew, and the arrows ceased. Gwindor had given the command. The remainder of the orcs that yet stood and had not turned pressed forward once more. Another horn sounded - this time signaling the infantry. Their ranks parted and then closed once more, revealing troops clad in lighter armor, carrying smaller shields, and bearing swords and short spears and axes. Emerging from the fortifications onto the open field, they let out a loud cry, and yelled as they charged. Another flight of arrows was let loose into the air before, and just after the arrows descended onto the enemy, the foot collided at them with a mighty crash.
What followed was butchery. What little will was left to stand among the orcs was broken, and they fled. The troops of the vanguard cheered, and slammed down the butts of their spears in triumph as the forward troops returned back to their lines.
Atop the tower, Tirinde raised her first in joy, and cheered for the victory. Sarad meanwhile, remained unmoved, and raised his hand. "Don't be quick to triumph." he said. "Now comes the true battle."
Not a true battle, but a victory nonetheless. And more than you've been able to claim.
Not long after, the drums began their beat once more. Boom-boom-boom. Upon three beats of the drum, the enemy host began to move again. Almost like a bird, it began to extend its wings as it could, in the confines of the river valley. Battalions of fresh orcs were still ready for battle. These stood taller than the rabble that came before, still shorter than the Firstborn, but large and strong all the same. They carried halberds and others bore wielded spears. Their feet were shod in iron, and many wore mail hauberks reaching to their knees - others thick iron scales sewn together. Among their numbers were the torog - massive beings of muscle and hide like stone, larger than any Eldar, armed with hammers and with large clubs of wood and iron. The largest ones had plates of steel and iron, to guard their weak spots from any foe that dared approach. And moving by the flank, the wolves made ready for battle as well.
"They're letting their shock troops loose now." Tirinde commented gravely.
Sarad was as impassive as ever. "Let us see how your Prince handles true fighting, then."
Orodreth felt his stomach lurch. He thought of Gwindor, and the men across that river that would have to face these beasts. Surely, the fort of wood and packed soil could not stand against all this. Gwindor needed to see that. He needed to turn back, and fast.
Yet whatever Orodreth believed, it was clear that Guilin's son thought otherwise. His forces did not retreat, only returning to their prepared positions as the orcs made their approach. The phalanx tightened its ranks, as the archers of Minas Tirith began to loose their arrows once more. Some found their mark, but at this range, many more were little use against the shields and thick armor of the orcs. All except the Annunfên Gwaith. They had still not loosed their flights, but prepared in silence, nocking their tall warbows.
What are they doing? The enemy is approaching! Orodreth thought, desperate. But then he heard. The sound of spears raised high, then butted against the ground by the hundreds, and voices crying.
"Alagos! ALAGOS!" Storm, STORM!
The first of the orcs came closer than any had before - and fell over in an instant. From so close, even their armour was little protection against the withering hail of heavy arrows.
"Alagos! ALAGOS!" Storm, STORM! The cry went up again and another volley of arrows alongside it. This time, Orodreth saw not only orcs, but also larger, darker shapes falling down. Yet they kept on coming closer and closer, striving through the darts. Behind the first battalions came orcs with bows, numbering in the hundreds. As the orcs in front made for the fort, they instead aimed their bows upwards, letting loose against Gwindor's men. The darts climbed upwards and fell down like rain upon the defenders. The Annunfên took cover behind their tall shields, while others sought shelter among the spearmen. Though some were wounded, most of the darts fell short, or clattered uselessly against the shields and armor of the spearmen.
Yet the shock troops of the orc-host now were at the foot of the hill, the boldest among their number already starting to climb through the trenches and trying to unearth the stakes from the ground. Above them, Gwindor's troops pelted them with rocks and darts, while others used their long spears to deter the approach of the orcs. The ground was already soiled with blood and corpses, yet many more approached the hill, enough to replace the routed and the slain. And on the flank, the wolves awaited, with howling jaws of fanged teeth.
It cannot last forever. They have to retreat. Orodreth thought, as the foot in the fort continued fighting against the orcs. Many of the torog now had abandoned their weapons, and instead used their large fists to move aside earth and stakes alike, while their large bulk shielded the orcs laboring behind. In response, the defenders used their spears to present the torog with a wall of steel, to stab at eyes and even the thick hide while the archers still loosed arrows. Some of the creatures flinched in the face of the spears and darts, while others fell over dead, struck in the eyes.
With a blood-chilling howl, the wolves of Angband finally moved, running to the flank of the hill, that was unprotected by the river, as the assault continued. They were followed by a battalion of eight hundred orcs clad in heavy mail, and carrying axes. Horns sounded from the fort, as a battalion of spearmen began to march down the slopes and outside of it, archers loosing arrows in support as they could.
Orodreth watched the phalanx move and come to a halt, a beast of tightly interlocked shields and bristling spearpoints. Yet they were outnumbered - for every four orcs, there was only one of the Eldar to match them, and the wolves were a greater terror than any orc. As the first line of orc warriors crashed into the wall of spears like a wave upon the shore, the wolves dove between the clashing lines, biting and dragging those unfortunate enough to be caught by their jaws out into the open, to be butchered by the axes of the waiting orcs. Slowly but surely, the phalanx began to fall apart, the tight formation breaking as bolder orcs forced their way into its ranks, and began to attack it upon the flank. Even the fire of the archers from high atop the fort was little aid, as many more were focused against the attack to their front.
"Northo! Northo! Batha i goth!" A loud voice cried out. It came from the west, by the river, and it was accompanied by the blowing of horns and the neighing of horses. It was Gwindor and his cavalry, finally joining the fray. Knights clad in steel, even the horses, and close behind them lighter horse. As fast as the gale in a storm, they sped across the plain and charged the orc flank. Gwindor rode at their head, his lance already bloodied, and banner flying tall. At the face of his charge, the orc lines crumbled, and even the wolves fled.
The faltering phalanx rallied, and with a loud cry charged. What had been a winning engagement for the orcs, seeming ready to take the flank and assault the fort by the rear turned into a rout, with hundreds fleeing, only to be ridden down, trampled beneath the hooves of the onrushing horses. Orodreth saw that the orcs assaulting the fortress faltered, their captains shouting and beating drums, to ready the spears to turn about.
They never had the chance.
Gwindor shouted commands, and the horsemen behind him split, half following behind him, and another half circling around the flank. A line of orcs readied their long spears, but as the cry of "Northo!" came once more and the knights charged with lowered lances they scattered, the wedge of horsemen driving through them like a ship's prow cutting through the waves. The orcs found themselves trapped, facing the hill while Gwindor pressed them ever closer to the defenders. More footmen came down to join the battle, shouting "Dago in yrch! Slay the orcs!"
Orodreth saw Gwindor drive his lance through one of the orc captains, and found himself feeling glee inside. This was working. They had slain many and the orcs fled. Slaying is not victory, he had to remind himself, while Tirinde and Suilor's cheers rang in his ears.
"Run them down!" said Suilor, with a grin, before chastening his expression as Orodreth turned to look. "Lord, this is a victory worthy of song already. Hundreds of orcs slain, and they have not even reached the river."
"Lord, perhaps it is time to signal our reserves to cross." offered Tandir. "The enemy are in disarray. With a decisive strike, we could rout them all."
Sarad raised his voice. "It would be a decisive strike, but for the enemy, not us. You'd be offering them lambs ready for slaughter. Prince Gwindor might hold a narrow crossing, but if he took the fight to the enemy, he'd be enveloped and crushed before dawn."
"Enough." Orodreth said. "We hold to our plans." Though not without grumbling, the others swiftly stopped.
The orcs retreated, with Gwindor's cavalry pursuing behind them. But they did not chase them too far north - it seemed that he had no intention of provoking the larger host. Instead, the horsemen returned to their lines, and once more drums and horns sounded, giving orders. At a steady pace, many of the foot began to march, departing the fort, and turning westward. But this was no disorganized flight - they kept formation as they left, and while crossing the Sirion. First, the most weakened men left, and the wounded, with the strongest and best-equipped still arrayed for battle. Yet more soon followed, until less than a third of the men and women that Gwindor had stationed across the Sirion were left.
However with the pounding of drums, the reprieve came to an end, and the enemy host returned to the offensive.
In the darkness, Orodreth could see more orcs than even before, moving ahead. At the head of their formation were the wolf-riders, followed by many more beasts out of Angband's pits, leaving the orcs trailing behind. But Gwindor did not stand to give them battle, or hold his fort. He rode alongside his horsemen, following the last of the retreating infantry, banners fluttering in the wind as they made to cross the Sirion. Now closer and closer approached a troop of beasts and their riders, howling for blood. They numbered more than twice Gwindor's men, who were now caught mid-river. "Form up!" Gwindor cried out, his cavalry gathering about him, but the infantry struggled to find their footing even in the shallowest part of the Sirion, the cold dark waters raging all around them. From the western side of the river, he heard calls and cries, and a company began to rush to Gwindor's aid, their many lanterns standing above them like banners in the dark.
The beasts reached the banks of the eastern shore, and came to a pause. The main host was yet behind them however. Wolves lowered their heads, sniffing at the cold river water and shrunk back. The smaller animals were struggling under the reins of their riders, twitching and buckling in fear. With great struggle, and the crack of whips did the wolves obey the command of their riders, entering the raging river.
"Northo!" Gwindor cried out, the infantry behind him now formed into a line, their spears facing the east bank. As the foe hesitated on the rivershore, the young Prince lowered his visor and lance, springing forth like a wild cat that found its prey. The tall steeds of his knights proved the faster, the shorter wolves of the north struggling to move as the water splashed and foamed. But there was something more.
When the knights galloped forward, the waters parted slightly beneath the horses' hooves, instead flowing towards the eastern bank, enveloping the wolves. Their riders struggled to make them obey, much less face against the charge of the horsemen.
Though the air may choke and the land lies poisoned, the waters run true. Trust in them. That was what the voice in his dream had said. The Lord of Waters had spoken! "You have not forgotten us, o Dweller of the Deeps!" Orodreth whispered in awe.
With an echoing crash, Gwindor's lancers collided into the panicking beasts. His lance shattered, its point buried deep with the skull of a wolf, and swift as a striking snake he drew his sword from its scabbard, striking down the rider in one stroke, cleaving from the mail down to the bone. In as many blows, he struck down three more foes. Another wolf leapt towards Gwindor's mount, trying to bite at the horse's neck, but the thick barding of scales that hung down to the hock turned its teeth aside. Striking with his sword, he slew the wolf, almost hacking off its head in that one blow. From the west bank came reinforcements, a company of infantry five hundred strong. They rushed into battle, while the last remaining of the vanguard's foot crossed the river. Seeing their approach, the wolves finally retreated, giving up the fight.
Gwindor did not pursue, but instead withdrew his cavalry, joining the rest of the host. He was welcomed with many cheers from the troops, who had seen the fighting across the river. The five hundred that had come to reinforce Gwindor now retreated as well, with their shields raised to protect them from the arrows of the orcs, who had come within range too late to stop the routing of their beasts. On the western bank, more companies formed up for battle, both infantry and archers, ready for the orc host to make the crossing of the river.
But no onslaught came. Instead, the orcs pulled back, leaving troops to watch the river fords. For a moment, Orodreth wondered if that meant they retreated - but he soon saw otherwise. They had begun to erect tents and stockades, setting towers and sentinels. They cannot take both banks, so they'll settle for making camp on one.
"They will be back later." Sarad said. "This setback will delay them, but it's not yet enough to rout them." Yet, Orodreth caught the word from his father's adjutant. Could it be that the battle had impressed even him, and he was loath to admit it? Orodreth found that amusing, if it were true. And if we succeed, then it will be all the quicker that he can be punished for his transgressions.
With the battle seeming finished for now, Gwindor took a small retinue of five, leaving the rest of his cavalry on the field, and galloped back towards Minas Tirith. Orodreth went inside, to welcome him.
"Tûr ernil Gwindor! TÛR ERNIL GWINDOR! TÛR ERNIL GWINDOR!"
The halls of Minas Tirith were filled with shouts and cheers. Though Gwindor's escort was small and many were still afield, the welcome was warm indeed. The guardsmen lining the hall butted their spears against the floor with every cheer. Just behind him, Suilor was silent, but his eyes full of admiration as he stared at the knights, fresh from the battlefield.
"Tûr ernil Gwindor! TÛR ERNIL GWINDOR! TÛR ERNIL GWINDOR!"
Victory, Prince Gwindor!
And when Orodreth stepped down the stairs, the cheers rang once more. "Hail Prince Warden! Hail Prince Warden!" Was this really a victory to merit such cheers? He let himself smile nonetheless. It was no time to be grim. How long had it been since they had seen a celebration unmarred by sorrow?
Gwindor smiled as well, curtly nodding at any who saluted him as he walked up the steps to Orodreth. "Hail, Prince Orodreth!" Gwindor shouted, his voice carrying above the clamour, striding ahead with an easy confidence, his azure cloak stained with black blood trailing behind him.
"Hail to you too, Gwindor, son of Guilin. Nargothrond and the King shall rejoice to hear of your valor, and that of your men." Once more, cheers rang through the hall, so loudly that one would think they had already routed the orcs back to Angband.
From so close, Orodreth could smell the acrid odor of blood and sweat on Gwindor and his knights. At the corner of his eye, he caught Suilor twitching his nose, looking downwards in embarrassment.
Gwindor followed behind Orodreth, as they entered the old dining chamber once more. The remaining officers in the tower were already seated. Tandir greeted Gwindor eagerly, saluting the younger man, as did Tirinde. Sarad did not stand up, merely leaning on his walking staff. Unsurprising. Gwindor showed no signs of displeasure, however, and took his place at Orodreth's right hand.
"Though I am grateful for your praise friends," he spoke easily. "I have not truly earned it until our foes have been driven back north. They will be upon us again soon. Though they took losses, the opposite bank is now theirs. Our battle has only begun." Gwindor then turned to Orodreth.
"Sire, I have come to ask for your command once more." My command? You've done well enough without it, and know it as much as I do.
Orodreth nodded all the same. "When do you believe the next attack will come, Prince Gwindor?" he asked.
"Before the dawn, perhaps, or the next night. Most likely the second, and not the same ford." Gwindor replied.
Tandir spoke in agreement. "They must be weary from their march, and setting camp, as well as the battle. How many were slain, Prince Gwindor?" he asked.
There was a scratching metallic sound as Gwindor crossed his armored arms, and laid them on the table, and his steel-shod feet touched the marbled floor. "A thousand, maybe. And many more wounded. Our own dead are less than fifty." In truth, Orodreth had expected more. A thousand were barely a fraction of the host across the river. Tandir seemed to share that disappointment, as his features turned downcast. But it was a worthwhile trade, so many of theirs dead, for so few of ours, he tried to remind himself. To Orodreth's surprise, the next to raise his voice was Sarad.
"Tell the host it was four thousand slain." he said simply. "It will encourage them to fight all the harder if they think victory that much closer and their captains so valiant." the older Captain then turned towards Tandir. "The enemy did not commit his full force, and the Captain of Cavalry was wise enough not to pursue them."
Immediately, Orodreth turned towards him with a glare, Tirinde and Tandir both appearing to be against this too. "You are saying to lie to our own soldiers?" Yet, while he had come to expect baseness from Sarad, the knight had only ever spoken against Gwindor before. Had the battle indeed changed his mind? It couldn't be to win Gwindor's favor.
"Truth and falsehood are both weapons to be used, Prince Warden." he told Orodreth. "And a man that thinks victory is in his grasp swings his blade all the harder."
"It is not unwise." said Gwindor, sounding more reserved. "This is the first victory these men have seen in a long time. You remember how they were when we first arrived." Orodreth had no need to be reminded of that - soldiers fighting one another over the scraps of their fallen companions, or the destruction of the saintost. But he could also not forget who it was that commanded then, and that he still stood next to them.
Yet Gwindor knew the ways of war better than him. Perhaps he is right, no matter how ill it sits with me. "If you deem it necessary, then do so." Orodreth finally spoke, with a heavy heart. Already, any cheer from before had faded.
First I spare Sarad, now we follow his counsel. How long before we steal from our people because it is 'wise'? Came the bitter thought unbidden.
"When the next attack comes, it will be at the south crossings." said Tirinde. "After tonight, I don't think the orcs will want to bleed here again. And soldiers from the third company saw scouts prowling there, with bats flying above them." There was more than one place where the Sirion was shallow enough to be forded, and though all had been fortified, the northern crossing where Gwindor had fought tonight was the largest and least dangerous. The south crossing was narrower, fraught with sharp rocks, and the river currents flowed fiercer there. If the orcs were to attack in force, it would be easy to throw them back.
"The third company? There are many Edain in their ranks." stated Gwindor. "Send the second to reinforce them, and have the Aftercomers moved to the rear."
"The Edain are strong enough to hold the fords, lord." Tirinde replied. "Why move them?"
Gwindor did not seem much bothered by the question. "Because the orcs attack at night - and the Aftercomers fear it. I will not have our flanks fall if they are ambushed while asleep. The Edain may be stronger than orcs - and the strongest among them might perhaps match one of us - but our best will leave them trailing behind."
Those words reminded Orodreth of another debate, years ago. It was not long after his uncle had returned from the East, where he had found the Secondborn - the second race that so much had been whispered of in Valinor, and those whispers were instantly reignited like a flame watered with oil. In so many ways, the Secondborn had been unlike what they expected. Short, and weak. Most of them plain, or ugly, even. Few in number, the first tribe that his uncle had found was not even a fraction of those that dwelled in Nargothrond alone. They had tools, and even weapons, but nothing like the Eldar. Even the Laiquendi, who had no cities or walls of stone had more lore. The Edain seemed to know so little of the world - of its beginnings, of the Valar, or Ilúvatar. They feared the night, and loved Anar too well. And they were so prone to hurt, to weariness and sickness.
In Valinor, many - like Fëanor himself - had feared the Second Children. They had talked of a second race that the Valar would bring. To take our place, and all that we love in the world. But Fëanor died before the Edain ever walked Arda. And now that they did, it was hard to see what he might have been so fearful of.
But yet, his uncle Finrod thought elsewise. The King truly believed that the Aftercomers had some great part to play in the Music, that they were meant to succeed the Firstborn in Arda. In truth, Orodreth nursed doubts about that. His uncle was wise. But even the most wise could not see all ends. Guilin was no lesser a scholar, and he had not agreed with the King.
"It may be that our place is to teach and guide the Secondborn. But to inherit from us, friend? If Ilúvatar so wished, why were we given our knowledge by the Valar and not the Edain instead? Why not make the fëar and hröar of the Aftercomers stronger than our own? They are visitors in the world, while we are eternal. Our kingdoms are mighty, and they have none." Guilin had said.
"Fëanor believed the Valar evil, that was why he thought they would have the Aftercomers take our place."
If it was that the Secondborn were to inherit from the Firstborn, then why need the Firstborn be at all? Merely to pave the way for them? Whatever part the Edain had, surely it was something else.
Now centuries had passed, and many generations of the Aftercomers born and left the world. They were many now, though still not nearly as numerous as the Ñoldor alone. They had proven themselves brave, and in the eyes of many Orodreth knew, that was enough. And for Aegnor, it was more than that. His uncle had loved an Edain woman, though he never took her to wife. It was for the best that he did not. Father and I agreed it would bring him only sorrow. And how often was it that Angrod Ironhand saw eye to eye with his son?
The sound of Gwindor's voice brought Orodreth back from his reminiscing. "The orcs have not pressed us yet, but there is no reason to let them be. When the sun is highest," he turned to Tirinde. "take the men you picked, and the vessels. When you are signalled, attack their camps."
"In the noon, we'll be easy to spot." retorted Tirinde. "And if we are, then we lose all surprise, lord."
"The orcs fear the daylight, and their sentries will be more like to try and shield themselves from it than watch. But you are right, lieutenant." Gwindor admitted. "I will lead an attack on the opposite bank. Harry the orcs, and distract them from your force."
Satisfied by Gwindor's answer, Tirinde did not raise another objection. "As you command, lord." she answered. Two years ago,Orodreth would scarcely have thought heavy-handed Tirinde would be in a position to sit in council alongside him, or argue with any princes. Glamren had commanded the guards of Minas Tirith ever since its foundations were laid down, and he showed no signs of ever wishing to stop. Orodreth wished that if he had, it had been of his will, not in battle - and he would choose the replacement, not his father. He was a good man, strong, yet wise enough to know strength is not everything. And with a wit as sharp as a blade. Tirinde was a different sort. She was younger - Glamren was of an age with him, but Tirinde had been born in Beleriand. A strong warrior but disorderly, and it was rare to see her out of duty without a drink in hand. But now, he saw that the past year had changed her, like it has all of us.
"Do you give us leave, sire?" Gwindor said to him. Orodreth nodded in answer, sinking into his seat. It felt narrower around him. This is a courtesy. He knows full well what his plans are.
"Proceed as you have planned, Prince Gwindor." With a slight smile, Guilin's son turned to the others.
"I thank you for your time, friends." he spoke. "The battle has only begun, but we can already see the fair end. We persevere, and we win. We persevere, and send news that will shake Angband's deepest pits. We hold, until we smash down Morgoth's gates!"
It had all gone as Gwindor planned. On the midday when Anar reached its highest point, Gwindor led a force from the southern crossings, while Aeramath and his Dorthonion men advanced on the north. Though they did not advance far beyond the river, they overwhelmed the enemy sentries quickly. As the orcs roused themselves from their camps, Tirinde set from behind Tol Sirion with a company of picked troops. By afternoon, flames had engulfed one of the orc encampments, setting tents and towers alike ablaze, black pillars of smoke rising high above the plains like battling serpents.
Three more days of fighting followed the assault on the orc camps. Night after night, Orodreth watched from the isle as the enemy host tried to force its way across the Sirion, only to be thrown back to the eastern bank, diminished every time. But the battle did not take its toll on the enemy alone. Every day, more men and women would be returned to the island wounded, and others would never return at all. Yet despite the enemy's numbers, Gwindor and his men held.
On the dawn of the third day, a rider came galloping from the south-road. He was one of the Secondborn, tawny-skinned and auburn haired, wearing a green cloak and an iron cap on his head. The badge on his cloak was that of the Haladin of Brethil. As Orodreth looked at him, he judged he could not have been old, even by the measure of the Edain judging by his lack of a beard. Bowing before Orodreth and his council, the rider introduced himself as Ebor of Brethil, in the heavy, mangled accent that was typical of the Haladin when they tried to speak Sindarin. "I've news from Lord Halmir!" he announced loudly.
"Be calm." Orodreth said, and motioned for Suilor to give the man a cup of water. "There's time enough to relay your master's news calmly." Though now it fell upon Brethil to defend Nargothrond's eastern flank, the Haladin were no subjects of King Finrod, and the lords of Brethil were closer to Doriath, as far as they were close to anyone at all. They left the East for good reason. The word of Fëanor's sons is worth less than the breath it takes to speak it. Yet even after their arrival west, the Haladin had little eagerness to extend their service to any lord of the Eldar, even Orodreth's uncle, who had arranged for their settlement in Brethil.
Ebor grasped the goblet Suilor offered him, and drank eagerly. Orodreth braced himself for the Man's next words, whether good or ill. His words were slurred, and the messenger stammered with the longer words. "Lord, a great host, thousands strong came outside Brethil's bounds a few days ago. They had the banners of the lords of the East, and asked for passage through our land. They wanted to fight alongside their lords' kin of Nargothrond, and my lord let them pass, before sending me here to inform you."
Orodreth was taken aback, feeling like he'd been hit in the stomach, and a chill spread through his limbs. Once again, the words returned to him, bubbling like sea-foam from his mind's recesses.
Beware the East.
He looked around him at the table. This time, it was almost full, only Gonodor and a few others of Gwindor's company missing as well as Tirinde, all of them occupied in the camps and sentries. The news had left the others surprised as well. How could the Sons of Fëanor have gotten an army to Brethil? They could not have passed through Nan Dungortheb - that is suicide.
Aeramath was the first to break the silence. "Their banners, what was on them?" he asked, leaning forward, his eyes peering straight into Ebor. "Did you see their troops?"
"A star over red." Ebor responded. "I did not see them myself, I was ordered here by Lord Halmir before they passed through. What I give you are my lord's words. If you doubt them, be that on your own honor, not his."
A silver star on a field of red. That was indeed the device used by the Sons of Fëanor and their armies. In Valinor, it was a different one that they painted on their shields and carved upon their swords.
Bameldir was the one to speak up next. "How were they equipped?" The knight had taken a wound to his arm the day before, and was forced to stay within Minas Tirith until it healed. "Is it an army, or are the Fëanorians sending their dregs to us?"
"I was told they were Men, like my people, but many did not speak our tongue. But they did bear long spears, and had many horses."
That was a surprise to Orodreth. There were Edain in the service of the Sons of Fëanor, but not so numerous as to be a host themselves, from what he knew. But horses and long spears were both well-used by the soldiers of the East. Had the Fëanorians found another tribe of Secondborn and pressed them to their armies? Or perhaps it is the Edain that dwell in Estolad? Whatever it was, it made Orodreth feel uneasy.
"You have our thanks, Ebor of Brethil." said Orodreth, struggling not to glower at the Aftercomer. This is no fault of his, he had to remind himself. "You may return to Brethil tomorrow. For now, you'll be provided quarters here, as we can give them."
"Aye lord, you have my thanks, and that of Lord Halmir." Ebor replied. Seeming grateful enough he departed the chamber, leaving Orodreth and his council alone.
"Then the battle is won." announced Tandir. "The orcs must retreat, or find themselves outmatched. They cannot hope to lay siege if more men join us. We need only hold, and wait." There were nods of agreement around the table, many by Gwindor's retinue.
"The soldiers of the east are hardy." agreed Aeramath. "A few thousand more, and we can hold not just now, but next year." Sarad said nothing yet, but Orodreth saw a cold, hateful flash in his eyes, and the twist of his lips.
"They may be of use." he told Aeramath. "But kinslayers are not to be trusted." Were it any other situation, Orodreth would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. It was only Gwindor that had held him from punishing Sarad for his deeds, but now his father's aide was the only man in the chamber to agree with him.
Sarad was one of very few in there that understood what the House of Fëanor were, who had seen their treachery firsthand. Tandir was too young, much less Gwindor and his knights, and Aeramath a Sindar of the north. How many clans of Aeramath's people had joined the Sons of Fëanor eastwards?
"Whatever their masters did was long ago, captain." Aeramath argued. "I wouldn't turn down men for that, not when we need them."
"Long ago? You were not there, Aeramath. You would not speak these words if you were." Sarad retorted, like a fire had been lit inside him. Orodreth had never seen the man react like that. Sarad always spoke more by implication than he did directly, rarely showing emotion. "The Teleri were kin to your people. To us, they were once friends. Never forget that. We should do as Prince Angrod. Fight by them if need be, but do not trust easily."
Orodreth remembered how his father would fight by the Sons of Fëanor, but was never pleased to do so. 'If it were not for the needs of war, I would leave them as they left us.' father had once told Finrod. Angrod - Orodreth too, lied to cover their crimes, when they first came to Beleriand. They had called it 'reconciliation'.'The House of Fëanor slay, and we lie to hide the shame.'
It was his father that found the courage to reveal the truth of what they'd done. Not Orodreth. It was after the Sons of Fëanor scorned Angrod once more, despite all his sacrifices, that he went to Thingol of Doriath.
"The Teleri were kin, yes, though as distant to me as Thingol of Doriath." Aeramath said. "But I also remember the orcs ravaging Mithrim, when you Ñoldor first came across the sea. And we both remember Dorthonion." the Sindar's voice was heavier now, and lower. "It was the orcs that took our homes, that slew Prince Aegnor and Angrod Ironhand. Captain Sarad, you always take the surest course, even if it is hard. As our Prince did. So now, I say we take the help offered to us, even if we don't like the hand that does it. For our homes. And for those that were taken from us."
Just as he had never seen Sarad, son of Alimo show anger before, Orodreth had never seen him smile. His father's man nodded at Aeramath, silently.
"Finely spoken, Aeramath." Gwindor spoke up, like a lord himself. "And I agree. Whatever the House of Fëanor may plan, their troops will give us an easy victory. What happens after is for our Warden, and for King Finrod to decide."
"If they now came to Brethil through Dimbar, it will take them two days, maybe more to arrive here." Tandir said. "They must have passed through Nan Dungortheb. I doubt they would press too hard, not if they are still recovering from losses."
If they were too slow to come, then Orodreth had no reason to be unhappy. Gwindor was doing well repelling the orcs - even better, perhaps the orcs would hear of the approaching host and retreat, seeing the odds against them. Perhaps the House of Fëanor wanted to win his uncle's gratitude by coming to the rescue of Minas Tirith. But another thought niggled at Orodreth's mind. Or they think the East lost, and want to claim the West instead.
No matter what it was, if they had no part in the victory over the orcs, then it would be all for the best. A victory unmarred by kinslayers, and whatever plans they had thwarted.
He said none of that, when he raised his voice. "No matter when these Men come, the orcs are here, and they are not. Focus on them first." With a nod, Gwindor agreed. Hours passed by, spent in discussion and argument. But at the noon, the sound of trumpets and alarms shook the tower.
"Telir yrch! Telir yrch!" The orcs were seen moving across the river, readying for an attack. They must have heard of the reinforcements coming! Orodreth realized. They needed only send their bats south and find out. Gwindor and his retinue rose, to prepare for battle. Orodreth himself motioned to Suilor, and headed for the door.
Only Aeramath remained for longer, and Orodreth saw him speak to Sarad as he left.
"Today, we avenge them. All of them." he said. "I only wish you were there to fight with me one more time." Aeramath said, a smile on his face. "I'll make sure to mark some orcs for you, old friend."
Sarad laid back. On his ruined face, it was difficult to tell what his expression was. But his voice left no doubt about it. "Go, and honor our memory."
Orodreth made his way up the tower. A day that had started off bright had now become dreary and grey, Anar giving way to heavy, brooding clouds. To the south, a thick fog had risen from the river downstream - unusual, Orodreth judged. It was the fading season, and neither fog nor grey days were unheard of. But for fog to only cover the part downstream? But that is why the orcs are attacking now.
It was day still, but with Anar hidden by the clouds, the orcs must have grown bolder. "They must truly be desperate." Orodreth said, more to himself than any others.
"The desperate are oft the most dangerous." Came the reply from Sarad, unasked for. Orodreth thought of torches, and a starlit bay by the ocean. He shook himself, hearing the beating of drums.
Looking down, he saw the orcs already crossing the river. A sight that had become familiar in the night, but did lost none of its menace in the daylight. Beneath black banners, over six thousand orcs were approaching, with yet more behind them. At the vanguard was a force of wolves and beasts. Already they had taken the defenders at the fords by surprise. The garrison had little time to prepare, and before long they were pushed to retreat behind the stockades. Behind the wolves followed the first lines of orcs. The archers hastily arrayed by the riverside loosed their arrows, hoping to stem the advance. But more and more orcs came from the river, swarming the western bank like another wave. These were the largest and strongest of the orcs - the Enemy clearly hoped to overwhelm the shore, sending his finest first. Orodreth saw that some among them had abandoned their heavy armor, settling only for their helms and shields, rushing towards the archers at great speed as the wolf-riders moved to sweep them from behind.
Surrounded and outnumbered, the first defenders fled, chased down by the victorious orcs, the great wolves howling. But from the forts and the island, reinforcements joined the fray. Gwindor galloped ahead, joined by two score knights, the gilded steel of his armor visible from afar. More horsemen came, ready to confront Angband's wolves.
But they did not give chase. Abandoning the few survivors from the river, they returned to the riverbank. Over four thousand of the orcs had already made it across, foot and archers. But more battalions sat on the same hill where Gwindor made his stand on the first day of battle. They bore the standard of the snarling wolf.
"It is him." Sarad said, his voice cold. Orodreth looked, and saw it. A great wolf, larger than any of the rest. It was accompanied by many orcs, set about it like a bodyguard.
"Their leader?" Orodreth asked, and Sarad affirmed.
"In Dorthonion last year, he came in the form of a fell wolf. And that beast now sits under that banner, in their final assault. It could be nothing else." It is a bodyguard, it dawned on him, as the wolf turned his head towards the tower, eyes filled with malice. Sauron. The master of the enemy had come to face them at last.
On Gwindor's command, the guard of Tol Sirion gathered to give battle. His trumpets blew, and troops gathered around the forts. Archers formed up around the foot, gathering behind the earthworks. With little time for respite, the orcs fell upon them with all their strength, seeking to break all resistance. The lines of defenders buckled and struggled against the onslaught, and fell orcs with great axes strove into the ranks of the spearmen. Orodreth spotted the figure of Tirinde on the front ranks, spear in hand. Each of the defenders had to contend with many foes, even as reinforcements came from the flanks and rear - and there are more orcs across than we have troops at all.
Yet Sarad looked unfazed. "The enemy's troops are strung out from the crossing still." he pointed out. Many of their companies were indeed thinly spread. The front of the riverbank, further enclosed by camps and earthworks left their front ranks concentrated but their flank. "The Captain of Cavalry can see it."
At those words, banners were waved, and horns sounded. Another battalion came to join the battle.
Aeramath stood on foot, wearing his mail and plain helm, only a spike decorating it on the front. His cloak was blue and green, patterned with golden thread. The colors were a tribute to Princes Aegnor and Angrod. On one hand he held a tall shield, and on the other the banner of Orodreth's father. Behind him were the soldiers of Dorthonion, those frontier veterans of Orodreth's father and uncle who had held the highlands and the Siege of Angband for centuries. They stood by each other, all in heavy armor, javelins in one hand, shields on the other, fur-lined cloaks on their back. The finest soldiers in all Beleriand, his father had named them proudly. Once there were many, now all we have here is a mere eight hundred. All these days, they had been held back by Gwindor, but now the signal was given for them to engage.
In a loud voice, Aeramath roared to his company. "Not one orc in Dorthonion!"
With one cry that echoed all the way to the Tower of Guard they answered. "NOR IN THE WHOLE WORLD!"
At that, they charged onto the orc line, shouting all the while. "Angrod! Aegnor!" Though archers tried to let loose on them, arrows clattered harmlessly against their mail and shields. "Blood-stained earth and slaughter!" They drew closer and closer, still as undaunted as in the beginning.
They threw their javelins at the orcs in front of them, and with a mighty yell Aeramath threw the banner into the enemy's midst, taking upon his hand a heavy axe. "Acharn! Acharn! ACHARN!" Vengeance. Orodreth looked to the side, and saw Sarad faintly smile, but also the worry in his eyes.
With no hesitation nor delay, the fighting men of Dorthonion all drew their blades, rushing into the orc host, slamming into them with full force. With great fury they hacked and hewed. Heedless of fear or pain, they drove deeper and deeper into the enemy like a relentless wave, the orcs buckling at the face of their charge. Gwindor did not miss his chance. As the enemy reeled, he ordered the rest of his foot forward, to drive them back across the river.
Banners waved and over three thousand men advanced, abandoning their defensive positions. Sprinting towards the vanguard of the enemy, they forced them onto the backfoot, while Aeramath's men pierced deeper and deeper. Gwindor bid his cavalry split into two wedges, and from the flanks they swept around the orcs. The beasts of Angband rushed to meet them, and quickly Gwindor found himself in the midst of enemies. Orodreth looked on with worry, as one of the knights by Gwindor's side was dragged down from his horse and slain.
But his friend's son proved undaunted, and no foe could stop his charge. With his spear he slew, felling first one wolf, and then another - a savage horned beast the size of a wild boar came running towards him, but it also met its fate, impaled through the eye by the point of Gwindor's lance. The vengeful soldiers of Dorthonion were pressing forward through the chaos of the enemy lines, while Gwindor was heading east. East, straight towards the standard, and Sauron.
He wants to slay him. Part of Orodreth pressed him. Call to Suilor, he thought. Tell Gwindor to retreat from this madness.
But before Orodreth could say anything, the standard moved. Gorthaur and his guard were moving towards the battle, the lieutenant of Angband at the head. He had taken Gwindor's challenge. It is too late. Nothing could be done now, except to brace for what was to come. To the side, he heard Sarad wonder why the enemy commander took only a small guard for the fight - whatever it was he said, Orodreth did not listen. There were more important things at stake than the questions of captains.
With the sickening sound of steel on flesh, the forces collided at the middle of the Sirion, fighting raging all about them. With the beat of a drum, the orcs at the rear moved, surely to surround Gwindor's men and slay them. Retreat. Retreat! Damn your pride and live!
The great wolf leapt, unhorsing one of the cavalrymen, the fall breaking his neck in an instant. Man fell into the river, and his horse galloping off in terror. Chaos raged all around, waters stained black and red from the blood. Orodreth struggled to find Gwindor in the maddening flurry of the battle. But next he heard a loud howl, and saw the wolf facing against Guilin's son, who brandished his blood-soaked spear. Lord of Waters, aid him as you did before, he prayed silently. With a loud cry, Gwindor spurred his horse onward, lance lowered, aimed at the snarling wolf's head. He missed - but only the head. The lance found itself buried deep in the wolf's sides, and it let out an anguished howl. Orodreth heard his thumping heartbeat, and clenched his hands. Gwindor drew his long blade from its scabbard, not letting the beast recover. It shrunk back, trying to move to the side of Gwindor.
But it was too slow. Gwindor charged again, and the force of his horse hit the wolf full onto its wounded side.
With a cry of triumph, Gwindor struck at the wolf's neck, and found his mark, between its shoulders. Wildly, the evil creature buckled and struggled, fangs dripping blood. And then it stopped.
It fell to the ground, slain.The battle raged still, but as Gwindor dipped the fallen standard of the snarling wolf into the blood of the very creature it depicted, a cry of cheer went up from the ranks. The orcs on the western side began to break, and flee, the defenders giving chase. Those on the eastern bank started to run too, making for the camps.
"Chase them!" Gwindor roared. "The foe is broken! The foe is fleeing! Slay them all!" Followed by more than three thousand troops, cheering for victory, he began the chase.
"Send them screaming to the North!"
"Gwindor! Gwindor! Gwindor!"
Just like that, Gwindor had put an end to the Lieutenant of Angband, sending him screaming to his master. Against all thought, Orodreth found himself cheering alongside his men. The Warden of the Tower looked to the sky, in hope and thanks.
The fog began to recede from the south, rolling back like a torn veil. From deep within the shadows rang the echo of horns and trumpets blowing. First it was faint, but then the call resounded once again, louder, clearer, accompanied by the sound of thousands of feet, stamping the ground in unison. Orodreth turned his gaze south, and saw from the mist emerging first the shadows of crimson banners flowing, with a silver star of many points. Red waves beneath a starry sky, it taunted.
They were followed by companies of infantry in massed ranks, marching in lockstep. Their long spears pointed forward and above them, like the canopy of some great forest shadowing the phalanx as they advanced. Even from the tower, he could see that the infantrymen were all helmed and armor-clad in mail and scale or corslet, bearing small round shields strapped on their forearms as they held their spears with both hands. At the front ranks every man's helm was peaked with a tall crest, adorned with plumes and feathers or wrapped in colored cloth, and cloaks of gold and yellow. When he looked closer upon the soldiers, Orodreth saw that they were indeed Edain, as Ebor had said. But their faces were strange and foreign - he could not place them as any of the Edain he knew. Some were blonde like the folk of Hador that served the King of Hithlum, yet others dark like the Bëorians. Some were pale and others swarthy, bearded and beardless, younger Men and older ones, with rings of gold shining on their arms.
There were also bowmen, dressed in lighter armor, with tall bows like those of the Sindar, and others carrying in their hands odd instruments of wood and metal, quivers tied at their hip. Can these be bows of some strange make? Orodreth thought with worry. Fëanor had made many strange devices in his day. Perhaps this was another. The strangest among their number was however a small company of Men. They were tall, taller than many of their comrades, with skin darker than that of even the darkest Bëorians or the Sindar of southernmost Beleriand. They carried great bows taller than Orodreth had seen Edain use before, constructed out of golden wood. The scales they wore were also gilded like the tall helms on their heads, and they all wore cloaks with red, green, blue and many more feathers. The sight of them made Orodreth think of the birds that would fly in the gardens of Valimar.
On the flanks of the host, a cloud of dust and the sound of galloping hooves heralding its arrival came a great host of cavalry. Orodreth could count over a thousand already, and there were yet more coming. They were dressed strangely, all in golden livery, and in heavy armor. Some horses were lighter and unprotected, others barded in golden cloth or mail. He counted hundreds of heavy horsemen carried by tall barded steeds, with shield and lance in hand. The most richly clad were even more armored than Gwindor's knights. Over their mail, they wore heavy corslets at their chest and many more plates of steel, glimmering even in the shadow of the receding mist.
Another trumpet sounded, and he looked again. But this was no trumpet at all. Grey feet the size of logs pounded the earth, and Orodreth saw a sight he had not seen in centuries. Andamunda! Their long tusks had steel blades bound to them. Like the horses, they had been armored in gilded steel and bronze scale, and on their backs they carried wooden structures like small houses, where Edain troops stood. But they were andamunda like those in Yavanna's herds all the same.
How could the Sons of Fëanor have amassed such a host of Edain - such an army at all? Orodreth wondered as he looked at the dreadful splendor of the advancing host. Is this a secret they kept from all of us? Still that would not explain the andamunda - and worse, if they could gather such an army, why bring it here when their own lands were embattled?
But those around him did not see it that way. "Victory! Victory is ours!" Suilor cheered, and on the field below the troops let out cries of triumph when they saw the army and the banners flying above it. "Friends! Friends!" they called.
"Come join us!"
"Took you long enough, there are orcs to slay!" more cries and cheers sounded from the camps, and a party of riders headed towards the reinforcing army. The orcs were already in retreat, Gwindor and his men pursuing them deeper towards the north. We're winning. They had no need of reinforcements, even. But we need to deal with them all the same. The Sons of Fëanor had some greater plan at work.
Orodreth sighed, letting his hands rest against the stone of the battlements. Once more, his eyes were drawn to the banners. Red and silver, but the army under their shadow was golden like Anar. He remembered Fëanor, glowing gold and red, awash in the light of a hundred thousand torches at the heart of Tirion. There were no lights in Alqualondë, but when Fëanor and his sons returned, Fingon by their side with the stolen ships, they were washed red also.
And across the sea not long after, Fëanor lit the sky above Nevrast with his pyres. But there was no warmth there, not even in the memory of a distant fire. Only piercing cold and the sting of ice.
Beware the East.
From between the grey bulk of the andamunda there rode another company of horse, this one more richly dressed than all the others. All the riders wore golden cloaks and arm rings, and even the steel they wore was bossed and gilded. All except two, that rode at the head of the formation beneath a tall wooden pole. To Orodreth, it looked like an unfurled banner. The first was one of the Edain, tall and long-limbed. He looked older, the hair on his head and beard flecked with ashen grey, his face worn with deep lines. On his shoulders there was a fur pelt red as his hair - was it a fox, perhaps? His corslet was plain grey steel covered by a white and red coat, depicting two battling beasts, with the head and wings of an eagle but the body of a wild cat. The colors of the Prince of Himring, but the symbols of Edain. Whatever else, Orodreth could tell this was a proud man, even at a distance.
By his side galloped another rider, but the two could scarcely have looked less alike. Where the first rider was aged, this one was youthful and fair to look upon. He was clad all in black steel accented in deep red from head to toe, so wrought that it looked part of his body. A heavy crimson cloak fringed with golden thread flowed behind him in the wind, waving above the hind of his horse, a steed black like the armor he wore. On his neck was a necklace of blood-red rubies. When Orodreth saw his silver hair, he almost froze, before noticing that his skin was darker. He was taller than the other rider, but not tall enough, and his eyes not a storm grey, but perhaps blue? For a moment, he thought this could be one of the Eldar, but as Orodreth looked closer, he concluded it was not. Fair enough to be one of us, but the bearing of a young Aftercomer was plain to see.
They were now close to the southern crossing, close enough to reinforce it immediately. The lines of the cavalry parted and another rider came forth, on a plain brown horse. He was smaller than the other two, and wore a fine white garment that would not be out of place in the court of Orodreth's uncle. His long silver hair reached down below his neck, and he had a beard that was well-kempt on his face. Fair, for the Edain. But there was something off about his bearing, compared to the others. Orodreth could not help but be drawn to that figure, to look at him closer. The lightness and flowing ease of his manners, and the way he sat atop his horse. The lines worn into his face, like they had been carved there by a skilled sculptor. Everything else was drowned out by his presence, the sounds of the army from the south, or the din of battle across the river were now silent and mild. Years ago in Doriath, Orodreth had heard Daeron perform for King Thingol's court. When he sang and played music, the caverns of Menegroth grew dim and silent around him, plain before the glory of the images Daeron's voice conjured.
Then the rider gazed up into the distance. Immediately, Orodreth knew that he was looking at the Tower. At himself. "Artaresto, Angaráto's son. A long way have you come from Aman, scion of the Ñoldor." a voice spoke to him, soft as silk but with the strength of forged iron beneath it, in the perfect Quenya of the most eloquent loremasters.
This is no Aftercomer, Orodreth realized, a chill traveling through his limbs. The rider looked at him again. His eyes pierced straight into Orodreth's being, shining like distant stars. Orodreth saw the ice of the Helcaraxë, and the all-engulfing flames at Losgar, burning and freezing as if he were there himself. His naked body pierced by the blades of kin at Alqualondë, red blood flowing into the sea.
This was no son of Fëanor. Orodreth made to turn, to shout at Suilor, even Sarad. But his scream died in his throat. Transfixed, he saw the rider smile, and turn his eye to the heavens. With a single gesture of his hand the fog began to part.
The clouds burst, letting a single ray of golden light through. A cry issued from the ranks of the Edain host in a strange tongue, and the crimson banners went up in flames. Soon, the fire swallowed the silver star, and new standards were revealed. A tall spear with golden skulls was raised above the andamunda.
But the largest one was black as night, a monstrous winged wyrm in blood-red thread. It unfurled, and all hope went out.
