A “play by
e-mail” chronicle for The Lord of
the Rings Roleplaying Game,
Narrator: Scottomir
([email protected])
Dramatis Personae
Biárki Barrelheart, Biárlin’s son, one of the few survivors of Balin’s
expedition to Moria (Dwarf Warrior)
Elboron son of Faramir, the youthful son of Lady Éowyn and Prince
Faramir (Man Noble-Warrior)
Éogar son of Garbald, an exile from Rohan who has become a Knight
of Arnor (Man Warrior-Knight)
Gilavas Parmandil, one of the last of the Noldor remaining in
Middle-earth (Elf Magician)
Luládi Ovámu’s daughter, a Forodwaith woman once married to a Ranger
of the North (Lossoth Barbarian)
Rariadoc Brandybuck, kinsman of Meriadoc ‘the
Magnificent’ and a renowned archer (Hobbit Rogue-Archer)
SETTING BACKGROUND
The
chronicle takes place early in the Fourth Age, nearly two decades after the
destruction of the One Ring. Aragorn, now King Elessar, rules over the
Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor. For several years now Gimli has led
a Dwarf colony in the “
In
the 15th year of the Fourth Age, 1436 by Shire Reckoning, King Elessar
and a royal entourage traveled north from Minas Tirith to Rivendell.
There, in the house of the sons of Elrond, he held a Council of the
North. Emissaries representing the Free Peoples of Middle-earth attended
to discuss the necessary war against the Orcs of the North, strongest in Mount
Gundabad. When the king’s long-time friend Belemir, a wandering
Dúnadan loremaster, did not arrive as promised, a new Fellowship was assembled
to seek him out. Finbor Angbor’s son of Lamedon, Frolin the
Dwarf-loremaster from Aglarond, Éogar Garbald’s son of Rohan, and
Rariadoc Brandybuck of the Shire saw the quest to its end, and at different
times throughout they were joined by Prince Barion of Dale, Belegil the
Wood-elf, Herubrand of Framsburg, and Bergalad the Elf-minstrel of the realm of
Legolas. The Fellowship tracked Belemir to Dorwinion and the wilds of
Rhûn, where they found the once-noble loremaster twisted by the evil power of
the Angril, the “Iron Jewel” forged by Morgoth in the Elder
Days in imitation of the Silmaril taken from his Iron Crown by Beren and
Lúthien. The Angril had been long sundered and scattered across
Rhûn, but the possessed Belemir had gathered most of the pieces together.
The companions finally confronted Belemir in the Great Wood northeast of the
Sea of Rhûn, where they forcibly stripped the shards of the Angril from
him. Only Finbor, Frolin, Éogar, and Rariadoc remained in the Fellowship,
and they decided to divide: Éogar and Rard to take the dying Belemir back to
Rivendell, while Finbor and Frolin would bear the Angril to the Bay of
Belfalas and cast the shards into the depths of the Sundering Seas.
Belemir expired of his wounds on the journey but not before repenting of his
follies, and Éogar and Rard brought his remains to Rivendell for burial.
Éogar and Rard then made their way to Lake Evendim, where they reported
Belemir’s fate to King Elessar. They told the king much of the long
tale of their quest, though some secrets remained unspoken and were lost to the
lore of the West. Much to Éogar and Rard’s grief, the fate of
Finbor and Frolin was never learned. The only news of their movements
ever found in the West was a letter written by Frolin in the port of Pelargir,
from whence they chartered a boat to take them out to sea. The boat was
never seen again.
While
the Fellowship journeyed to Rhûn and back, events continued to unfold in the
West. The emissaries attending the Council of the North returned to their
lands to convey the king’s decisions. In the summer of the 15th
year, King Elessar was joined by Queen Arwen, and together they left Rivendell
for Lake Evendim. On the journey their entourage passed over Brandywine
Bridge, where the king and queen joyfully met with their friends Merry, Pippin,
and Sam. The royal party continued on to Arnor and dwelt for a time by
the ruins of Annúminas, the ancient royal capital. Éogar and Rariadoc
found them there at the end of September, and they spent the winter with the
royal entourage. In the spring of the 16th year, the Grand
Muster—thousands of troops from Gondor, Rohan, and Eriador—gathered
in Arnor for the war against the Orcs of Mount Gundabad. At the end of
May, the spring thaw opens the passes across the Misty Mountains, and the Grand
Muster of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth marches across Eriador to the
southwest slope of Mount Gundabad…
Scene 1: The Grand Muster
MAY,
IN THE 16TH YEAR OF THE FOURTH AGE… Thousands of troops gather
near the ruins of Fornost, called Norbury, by the North Downs in the lost realm
of Arnor. The ruins of the lost realm are being rebuilt, for it once
again is under the rule of the rightful king, Isildur’s heir.
Eriador, long barren of population since war and plague despoiled it over a
thousand years ago, is once more flourishing as Men with the blessing of the
king return to the emptied land . The troops
gathering near Fornost are not here to guard the land or rebuilt it, but rather
to wage war against the last great threat in the north of Middle-earth: the
Orcs of the North, strongest at Mount Gundabad. The army is the Grand
Muster of the Free Peoples, an effort by the King of the Reunited Realms and
his subjects and allies to crush the Orcs and end their tyranny in the
north. A mighty host of heavy infantry hails from Minas Tirith and its
environs, some 1,000 Men who bear in some measure the blood of the
Dúnedain. One host of light infantry comes from the fiefs of eastern
Gondor, some 1,000 Men of Lossarnach, Lebennin, Belfalas, and Dor-en-Ernil;
another host of light infantry comes from the fiefs of western Gondor, some
1,000 Men of Lamedon, Pinnath Gelin, Anfalas, and Andrast. From the
Riddermark have come ten éoreds of heavy cavalry—1,200 Riders of
Rohan deployed by King Éomer. From Lord Gimli’s colony in Aglarond
has come a stout company of 250 axe-wielding Dwarves. The growing
local population of Eriador has contributed what fighting men they may—a
company of 500 skirmishers with bow, sling, and javelin, mainly Bree-folk and
settlers in the open lands to the north, led by some few remaining Rangers from
the Angle of the Rivers Hoarwell and Loudwater. King Elessar Telcontar
himself has come to Fornost from Annúminas, where he dwelt the previous year in
peaceful contemplation with his Queen Arwen Undómiel. He oversees the
muster and receives the companies as they arrive, granting them his welcome and
blessing.
*
* *
Most
recently arrived was the last expected battalion, a troop of 500 sent by Prince
Faramir, Steward of Gondor, from Ithilien. The company consists of
skilled archers, mostly Men of the environs around Emyn Arnen who once had
served as Rangers of Ithilien, bolstered by some number of keen-eyed Elves from
the colony of Lord Legolas in North Ithilien. At the head of this
redoubtable company rides a noble youth who surely has seen less than twenty
summers, accoutered in mail and carrying both sword and bow. He is borne
by a glorious stallion that matches his own youth, a silver-coated steed worthy
of a king: indeed, to those who know well the animals of Middle-earth this
horse must be of the blood of the mearas, the lords of horses bred in
Rohan since their sire Felaróf was brought into the land by Eorl the
Young. The young lord was greeted warmly by King Elessar, who accorded
him the respect of his rank despite his lack of years.
“Hail,
King Elessar!” the young man proclaimed, descending from his steed to
kneel before the king at the head of his column. “I bring into your
service a company from Ithilien, in the name of my father, your steward Prince
Faramir.”
“You
and your men are most welcome, Elboron Faramir’s son,” the
king responded, his grey-eyes shining with visible pride. The sight of
this youth brought to his mind many fond memories of years past. Though
the passage of years has worn upon him, he retains the vigor of long life and
seems to all who look upon him to be as fit to command today as he did eighteen
years ago at Morannon. He said to Elboron, “How fares your mother
the lady Éowyn? And do you come to us with her blessing?”
“She
is well, my lord,” the youth responded. “I have her blessing,
and my father’s. I beg your blessing to join the
muster.” The noble king nods his head deeply in assent; young Elboron
responded with sword drawn in a proud salute, and he led his column into the
king’s camp.
*
* *
On
the 15th of May, a full year after the Council of the North at
Rivendell, where emissaries from the Free Peoples met to plan war against
the Orcs of the North, another company arrives at the muster point near
Norbury. This company is much smaller, in number and stature: two hobbits
riding atop a cart pulled by a long-suffering but obviously cherished and
well-tended mule (who is occasionally called by name, Barion). The hobbit
driving the cart is an elderly chap, his grey head covered from the bright sun
by a wide-brimmed hat. His companion is a fit and alert halfling in the
trim of his adult years, keeping watch with a masterfully crafted short-bow at
the ready. Admitted into the camp by the sentries, the hobbits ride
toward the royal pavilion and are greeted by the king and his counselors.
“Welcome
back, Masters Bracegirdle and Brandybuck,” King Elessar calls out to
them. The hobbits scramble down from the cart and offer the king a polite
bow. The king says to the former, “I had begun to fear that we
might have to march to war without my trusted hobbit mapmaker, Gamba
Bracegirdle.” He turns his gaze to the younger hobbit and adds,
“And you, Rariadoc, could you leave me to face an adventure without a
Brandybuck at my side?”
Rariadoc
Brandybuck answers cheerfully, “Never, my lord!”
Old
Gamba chuckles and says, “Forgive our delay, sir, but our kin had not
seen us for so many months that they insisted we stay with them at least a
fortnight. Yet we will not disappoint you, for we bring you news from the
Shire.” The elderly hobbit approaches the king and gives into his
hand a letter, which King Elessar opens and reads to his lords and advisors
assembled:
“Hail
to the King of the Reunited Realms of Arnor and Gondor, from his friends and
loyal servants the Thain of the Shire, the Master of Buckland, and the Mayor of
Hobbiton.
Greetings,
Lord Elessar Strider (that from Samwise)!
Your
messengers arrived to us safe and sound, thanks to the peace your rule has
brought to our land. Insomuch as you have tendered unto us hobbits the
Shire from the Brandywine River to the Tower Hills and forbidden Men to stray
unbidden into our land, we were happy to welcome home Rariadoc and Gamba as
your emissaries. We hobbits owe the safety of the Shire to the strength
of your realm, and want to do our part to help in the fight against the Orcs of
Mt. Gundabad. As you know, however, it has been a long while since
hobbits marched to war against Orcs, not since the days of Bullroarer Took, and
the Shire has never been full of fighting folk. But, what we lack in
swords we make up in plowshares, and we hobbits of the Shire pledge to fight
well the battle of the fields. Grain in plenty we pledge to harvest, and your army shall not want for bread while it
marches upon Gundabad. The Shire bounders will guards the lines of supply
and ensure the shipments reach your camp. Harvesting grain for thousands
of extra mouths will be a hardship for us hobbits but one we willingly
bear. Please accept this service from your loyal subjects in the
Shire.”
The
king looks up from the letter, a fond smile upon his lips. “This is
the hand of your cousin Merry, I do think,” he says looking to Rariadoc
Brandybuck. “The hobbits of the Shire will do us very good service
indeed if they can provide the army with bread through the winter. We
happily accept the offered service. This news brings us great cheer.”
Rard
Brandybuck flashes a bright smile to the king, and he and old Gamba bend as
best they can at the waist. “Thank you, Lord Elessar,” Gamba
answer proudly on behalf of his people. Though there are few hobbits
indeed among the Grand Muster, these two are received into the
king’s entourage.
*
* *
Other
heroes of renown have joined the Grand Muster during the passing days of
May…
Ever
present has been a tall, fell knight called Éogar Garbald’s son. It
is said that he was once known only as Vornmir, a veiled name given to
him by the king himself. Last year he ventured far to the east beyond
Wilderland in the company of Rariadoc Brandybuck and others at the behest of
King Elessar, and when he returned he reclaimed his true name and was
recognized by the king as a Knight of Arnor. In the months since he has
never departed from the royal entourage, his spear ever-ready to protect the
king. The golden-haired knight looks every bit a Rider of Rohan, for he
rides a swift mare of extraordinary breeding, but he is in the
king’s direct service and does not camp with the warriors of the
Riddermark.
The
Riders of Rohan are led by a lord of their country named Halcred. He
attended the Council of the North as representative of the Horse-lords, and now
rides among the éoreds dispatched to the Grand Muster. Halcred is
a stern, sly-glanced man some years older than Éogar but still in prime of life
to wield a sword in battle. Upon arriving at the Norbury camp Halcred set
eyes upon Éogar, whom he regarded coolly. He has avoided Éogar since, and
no words have been exchanged between them.
If
there are few hobbits among the Grand Muster, there are even fewer Elves.
One of them is a wise and fair High-elf named Gilavas Parmandil, a reputed
magician and sage, and one of the few remaining Noldor in all of
Middle-earth. It is said that he remembers the time before Arnor
was a lost realm, when the Kingdom of Arthedain stood against the
Witch-realm of Angmar. King Elessar asked him to come into the north,
though few can say for what purpose. Though Gilavas is renowned for
his lore, he possesses the nimbleness and vitality of his race, a mighty
people; he bears a longsword with skill, and rides upon a majestic Elven-steed
that looks ready for war.
In
addition to the Dwarves of Gimli’s colony has come a smaller party of
Dwarves, led by mattock-wielding warrior called Biárki Barrelheart.
Biárki's Dwarves have come to the Grand Muster from the Misty Mountains to
the south, where they claimed they were trying to free Moria from the grip of
the Orcs. It is said that Biárki is related to the line of Balin son of
Fundin, who was late the King of Khazad-dûm for a short span of years before
the War of the Ring. Having met no success at Moria, the Dwarves heard
that an army was mustering for war against
*
* *
At
dusk on the 15th of May, the order is spread among the camp that on
the morrow the army will march for Gundabad. The men are commanded to eat
well and rest well, to prepare their strength for the long march. The
lords of the hosts, the nobles, and the king’s counselors and advisors
are commanded to gather at the royal pavilion before sundown. Council
must be held to ready the order of the march. Among the assembly are
Éogar the Knight of Arnor; Elboron Faramir’s son; Rariadoc Brandybuck;
Gilavas Parmandil; and Biárki Barrelheart. Also present are the old
hobbit Gamba Bracegirdle, the haughty Rohirric lord Halcred, and old Ingold,
the king’s chamberlain and quartermaster of the Grand Muster.
Scene 2: The Order of Battle
At
dusk on the 15th day of May, the soldiers of the Grand Muster are
put to camp under orders to begin the march to
The
gathering is a chance for old friends to reunite and new friends to meet.
Éogar laconically greets his hobbit friend Rard Brandybuck, still disagreeing
with the name of their friend the noble Barion being given to the
hobbit’s mule. Elboron the son of Faramir and Éowyn eagerly
introduces himself to Rard, kin to his parents’ dear friend Merry.
Hearing talk of their travels across Middle-earth, the dwarf Biárki Barrelheart
makes himself known to the others. The most dramatic introduction comes
from the sagely High-elf called Gilavas Parmandil. "Elen síla
lúmenn' omentielvo,” he intones to the others as he introduces
himself, "a star shines upon the hour of our meeting." He then
passes his timeless gaze about each of the others, seeing into their hearts and
sharing in each mind a pronouncement of destiny:
Éogar:
"Truly you are a bright jewel among Men, may its light never
falter."
Rard: "Small
of stature, but great of heart, wielding a gift bow well-earned and
well-loved."
Elboron:
"A lord of Men, with the temper of a Meara-stallion, may you find
the renown you are searching for."
Biárki:
"I sense you bear a heavy burden, Naug, one you hope to lighten in
battle against the orcs of the North."
Of
all the recipients, only Biárki is unimpressed; the dwarf merely grunts in
response.
*
* *
King
Elessar Telcontar emerges from the tent of his royal pavilion. Tall and
grey-eyed, his long black-silver hair falls straight upon his strong
shoulders. Though the king is now well past his one-hundredth year of
life, he retains the great vigor of his race. Upon his head he wears a
crown of war, merging the styles of Arnor and Gondor, and at his side hangs
Andúril in the gift-scabbard from the lady Galadriel before she departed this
Middle-earth. “My lords,” he calls out to the assembled, who
swiftly fall silent and stand attentively to heed his words, “war is upon
us. Now is the time agreed upon at the Council of the North to assail the
Orcs of the North at
At
the king’s gesture, his servants roll out several large, wooden
casks. The barrels are cracked open, and rich red wine flows, and goblets
are filled for each lord, counselor, and commander in the assembly. The
king turns to face the western sky and lifts high his goblet; all in assembly
join him in the Standing Silence, to honor the West that was and the Uttermost
West that always shall be. The king drains his wine and, when the last
cup is drunk, a loud roar is throated by all, “To Gundabad!”
Rard
takes a deep drought and smiles happily. “I know this wine!”
he proclaims. “This is a Dorwinion vintage, or I’m an
addle-brained Bolger!”
The
king returns the hobbit’s smile and says, “Indeed, this is a
Dorwinion vintage, from Marsburg town.” Éogar looks up with
interest at the mention of the name, and Rard shares with him a knowing
look. “The Men of Marsburg did good service to your Fellowship a
year ago, Master Brandybuck, and they paid a heavy price for it. When you
returned to me and told your tale, I noted Finbor’s pledge to seek my aid
on their behalf. Before winter came, I sent a party of traders to Rhûn to
buy their stock of wine. It would not do well to reward their sacrifice
with charity, but I gave my traders a chest over-full of silver and gold to buy
wine from them at a generous price.”
Rard
smiles broadly and drinks heartily. "That is very generous of you King
Elessar." The hobbit turns to the wine-steward, "Now you be as
generous. This looks to be a long meeting, I better another mug to quench my
thirst."
Ingold
the chamberlain and quartermaster steps forward and bows his head low to the
king. “My lord,” he announces, “the army is ready to
receive your commandments.”
The
king calls out, “We march at dawn’s first light and march for nine
full hours each day, for the host must cover at least six leagues every
day. The distance to the western slopes of Gundabad is more than 120
leagues, a journey of at least twenty days. With fortune’s favor,
our host may be in place to assail the Orcs of the North by the 5th
of June, within the schedule agreed upon at the Council of the North. Our
route shall be northeast around the Downs and across the vast scrublands of
Eriador, then east through the barren sward between the mountains of old Angmar
and the Ettenmoors. The marching order for the infantry shall be the host
of Minas Tirith in the van, followed by the company of Aglarond, then the
company of Eriador, and then the hosts of the fiefs of Gonor; the rear shall be
guarded by the company of Ithilien. Of the cavalry, it shall be divided
into two wings each of five éoreds, one to screen the left flank of the
army and one to screen the right flank.”
At
this, the Rohirric lord Halcred steps forward and protests, “My lord, the
Riders of Rohan were dispatched by my king as one host under one deputed
leader, yet you ask to divide them without naming a commander!”
“The
army requires two wings of cavalry, my lord,” King Elessar answers
firmly, and the glowering Halcred steps back into his place.
“Indeed, it is time now to name battle captains for all the hosts and
companies. A great head has been gathered, and many worthies have
traveled among them. I call for volunteers who will risk the fortunes of
war to lead in battle.”
Halcred
immediately steps forward again and loudly states, “My lord, I claim
leadership of the Riders of Rohan, and since you have chosen to divide my
command I beg to be assigned the éoreds on the right.”
“They
are yours to lead, my lord Halcred,” the king responds coolly. He
then passes his grey eyes among the assembly and says, “Every other host
and company requires an appointed commander. The cavalry on the left
needs a deputed captain. The company of Aglarond is well-ordered but has
no dwarf-lord among them. The company of Eriador is reinforced by some
number of trusted Rangers, but requires a firm captain to keep the other men in
good order. I also must confirm captains for the hosts of Gondor: the
company of Ithilien, brave Rangers and Elves all, and the levies of the fiefs
of Gondor.” The king pauses and adds in a somber voice, “I
had hoped that Angbor the Fearless, Lord of Lamedon, would come with the levies
of Gondor, but his brave old heart is broken by the loss of his last son, and
he lies on his sickbed in Calembel. Without Angbor, I need captains to
lead the host of the western fiefs and the host of the eastern fiefs.”
Rard
says aloud, "Lord Finbor isn't lost, just absent!" He looks at
Master Bracegirdle starring at him and mutters, "Well, he
isn't..." He shrinks moodily into his cups as the conversations
continue around him with the War-leaders volunteering or being chosen.
Ingold
the chamberlain stands by his king’s side and holds in his hands the
battle-roster, ready to record the assigned captains. He announces,
“Who shall respond to the king’s call?”
When
the last of the units is assigned a captain, Ingold folds up the battle-roster
and steps away from the king with a bow. King Elessar says, “Now we
must turn to matters of strategy. It is the task of the Grand Muster to
assail the west gate of Gundabad itself. Our many allies have other roles
to play, according to what they can contribute. The Dwarves of Erebor and
the Bardings of Dale lay siege to the eastern slope of Gundabad, so that none of
the Orcs may escape by fleeing to the east. The Elf-king of the Woodland
Realm and the Lord of Lórien leaguer the Redhorn Pass and the eastern gate of
Moria, so that the Orcs of the Misty Mountains cannot mobilize to aid their
fellows in Gundabad. The Dwarves of the Blue Mountains leaguer Mount
Gram, so that the small host of Orcs there cannot assail the flanks of our
army. Those Grey-elves of Lindon who remain in Middle-earth have agreed
to ward Carn Dûm and prevent what lingering evil still dwells there from
disrupting our march or succoring the enemy. Last, but certainly not the
least, the fair-hearted folk of the Shire will provision our army with fresh
drink and foodstuffs.”
One
of the Gondorian counselors protests, “Few of the Elves of the West
contribute to our enterprise. What of Rivendell?”
An
Elvish counselor, one of the few from Rivendell, laughs lightly.
“My lord,” he counters, “there are hardly enough Elves left
in Imladris to fill out half a company, and only a portion of them are
the High-elven folk upon whom any obligation of service might fall. The
strength of Rivendell, you might well remember, has long been in its lore and
wisdom, not arms.”
Another
Gondorian complains, “The Northmen of Wilderland are not named, even though
some of them sent emissaries to the Council of the North. What of the Men
of the Anduin Vales, and their kin the Wood-men and the Beornings?”
“What
of the Dwarves of the Iron Hills?” a Ranger of Rhudaur asks.
“They had strength enough a century ago to commit a great company to the
Battle of Five Armies, yet now they are too few to contribute to our
cause?”
“Peace!”
King Elessar commands, raising his hand to call the attention of the
assembly. “Would you have me conscript the Ents of Fangorn or the
Great Eagles?” he quips. “The Men of Rhovanion are not great
in number or wealth, and they owe the Reunited Kingdom nothing more than
friendship. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills are subject to the
King-under-the-Mountain, who contributes mightily to our enterprise. Let
no-one begrudge our friends who cannot afford a part in our martial
deeds.”
The
assembly murmurs in assent, and the king returns to the matter at hand.
He says, “It remains for us to set the order of battle. The host of
Minas Tirith shall be the battle-royale and hold the center; the company of
Aglarond shall reinforce the center’s rear flank. The right shall
be held by the host of eastern Gondor, reinforced to the rear by the company of
Ithilien; the left shall be held by the host of western Gondor, reinforced to
the rear by the company of Eriador. Upon each flank shall be posted one
wing of cavalry of the Rohirrim. I shall command the army from the
center, at the head the battle-royale of Minas Tirith.”
The
start of a cheer for the brave king rumbles across the assembly, but it is
interrupted by Halcred, who shouts out a warning: “My lord, it is not
meet that the King of the Reunited Realms should expose himself in the fore of
battle! Were you to fall, is there any yet who might take your place on
the throne of Gondor and Arnor? Did the Riders of Rohan die upon Pelennor
Fields so that you might come into your right inheritance, only to perish in
the desolate north by some chance Orcish arrow? King Elessar, set your
royal pavilion behind the line of battle and watch over your hosts from a
distance; appoint a lieutentant-general to command the army from the front in
your place.”
The
assembly falls silent as they consider Halcred’s words—torn between
their apparent wisdom and the longing of their hearts to see their glorious
king command once more in battle. Finally, it is Ingold who breaks the
silence: “My lord, there is much truth in what this Lord of Rohan
says. For the love I bear for you, I beg you to consider it.”
The
king’s expression shows a wavering resolve, his gaze moving from Ingold
to the assembled counselors. Halcred says, “Will you consent, my
lord, to appoint a general in your place? The most numerous host after
your own Gondorian levies is the contingent of Rohan; as their leader, the
burden of generalship in the field should fall upon me.”
King
Elessar turns his grave gaze for many long moments upon Halcred, who would
tremble under its weight and so bows low while he awaits the royal
verdict. The king considers in silence for some time and then turns his
gaze upon the assembled counselors. “I say it should be the lords
in assembly who choose their general,” he proclaims. “My
lords and counselors, whom would you have command the line of battle? Do
you desire that I lead you but risk the life of the royal person, or is it your
will that Lord Halcred serve as general so that the royal person may shelter
behind the battle lines? What is your counsel?”
Scene 3: The Army Advances
On
the evening of the 15th of May, the lords and nobles and counselors
of the Grand Muster gather in the royal pavilion to appoint captains for the
various host and companies and to debate strategy. The Rohirric lord
Halcred is the first to volunteer, demanding of King Elessar and receiving from
him the leadership of the cavalry on the right. Ingold, the chamberlain
and quartermaster, calls for volunteers to command the other units. Rard
Brandybuck, who has no desire or expectation to lead, leans over to his hobbit friend
Gamba Bracegirdle and says loud enough to be overheard, "Some appointments
seem frightfully easy to assign. Of course, Faramir's son should lead
those from Ithilien.”
The old
hobbit beside him nods and, not wanting to be left out, adds, "Aye, you
are right. And that Dwarf there, if he doesn't lead the company of
Durin’s Folk, I'll eat my map; for he's the size of any two other
Dwarves I've ever seen!"
Rard
nods readily and concludes gleefully, “And what better horseman to
lead the other cavalry wing than Éogar?"
Éogar
leans down closer to his little friend and says in a low voice, “It is
not that simple, Rard. I left Rohan long ago…" He pauses
in thought for a moment. "And perhaps now it is time that I take the
next step in returning there," he concludes almost more to himself than to
Rard. Éogar strides forward, drawing himself up to his full height.
"I will lead the Riders of the left flank, if my lord will have
me," he says to King Elessar. "Long have I been away from
Rohan, but I cannot deny the blood in my veins. I know the ways of the
Rohirrim, and the ways of the Knights of Arnor." Elessar listens
quietly, though a gentle smile is observed upon his visage as Éogar speaks.
Halcred
levels his ice-blue gaze on Éogar and says, “My lord, I must
protest! This man is no a true son of Eorl, whatever his blood. He
long ago abandoned his people, and the Riders of Rohan will not abide him to be
their captain.”
"Do
you question the honor or skill of a Knight of Arnor within the pavilion of the
King?” Éogar says to him dismissively. “Let King Elessar be
the judge of my ability, for it is he to whom I swear fealty."
Halcred
answers in a strong voice, firm and clear: “It is not a question of honor
or skill acquired, but of dishonor never atoned. The House of Garbald
forsook the obligations of fealty during the dark days of the Treason of
Isengard. Éogar Garbald’s son deserted Rohan without the leave of
his lord. He has never atoned for the deeds of his House, and the Lord of
the Mark has not granted him pardon. Éogar chose exile of his own free
will, and an exile he remains. That you accept his fealty is your right,
King Elessar, but do usurp the law of the Lord of the Mark and foist this
banished renegade upon us.”
[opposed
Debate (Parley) tests; Éogar’s Dark Secret flaw activated; superior
success for Halcred (even Éogar’s Courage could not alter this because of
his flaw]
Halcred’s
words are harsh but chosen well, and Éogar, bearing the pain of this dark
secret for so long, cannot hide the truth of them in his long
expression. The whole assembly falls utterly silent, and a cool easterly
breeze suddenly kicks up and brings an evening chill upon the pavilion.
King Elessar pauses long before he responds, “The Riders of Rohan are my
allies, not my subjects to command. It is not in my authority to command
them to recognize an exile whose banishment has not yet been lifted by the Lord
of the Mark, no matter how worthy I know him to be. It is my dearest wish
that the Rohirrim will witness his great heart and beg King Éomer to welcome
him home forgiven.”
Seeing
the difficult position in which he has put his king, Éogar bows his head and
withdraws his original request for appointment. Instead he asks,
“My lord, I request to be stationed under Halcred with the cavalry on the
right. Hildwyn is as swift as the rest of the steeds in the wing, and I
have proven myself at least to serve among the host of Rohan.”
King
Elessar looks to Halcred and asks, “What say you, Lord Halcred? Is
one who is my knight worthy enough to serve under your command, as a private
horseman? Take him, and name whomever you will to command the left
wing.”
Halcred
narrows his cool gaze and regards Éogar carefully. “If he swears to
obey my orders, sir, he may muster under my banner as a private
horseman,” Halcred says. When the king vouches for Éogar’s
obedience, Halcred relents and accepts Éogar into the right wing; he names
Grimbold’s son to captain the left wing, to which the king assents.
Rard
snorts and says loudly enough for those nearby to hear him, "And
lucky he is to have Éogar. We fought off
more goblins in one day than most people here have seen in their life."
"Quiet,
Rard," Éogar scolds softly, "this is not your affair."
"I
do not know of which he speaks, but clearly you are hurt by his words. We must
talk after this, for I would know who Halcred is and why he hates you so,"
Rard says privately to Éogar after he has fallen back among the assembly.
"Halcred
does not hate me," Éogar says to his friend hobbit. "He
does fear a weakness in my blood, however. He knows little of me now, and so
must focus on my past." He sighs and continues, "It is I must
make amends to my people. Halcred will be a great challenge to win over for if
I reclaim my honor among the Rohirrim it will be he who will have been
short-sighted. His bloodline would have been stronger had he not forsaken my
sister..." He pauses and adds, "You have not visited Rohan,
have you? Had I a choice, I doubt I would have ever left -- so green the
valleys, so crisp the winds."
"It's
a deal," Rard replies. "After this battle, we will visit the
Shire and its green valleys and then Rohan, and compare them."
Éogar puts
his hand on the hobbit's hair and ruffles it. "Let us speak no more
of Halcred and my past; it pains me to tell such stories, but you are a true
friend and deserve to hear them."
Ingold
again calls for volunteers for the other battalions. Young Elboron steps
forward and addresses the king and council: "My Lord King, I know full
well that I am the youngest Man in this Council by a goodly margin. Some
might say that I am untested and thus not to be trusted with a position of
consequence. But the blood of Hurin and of Eorl runs in my veins. I
have been well trained by my lord-father, both for this day and for the day
when I serve as Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor.”
Two
notables of the Ithilien company in attendance rise to laud him.
“The company has marched with Lord Elboron at its head these past months,
and the Men will not grant their hearts so well to any other,” says a
Grey-elf. A Ranger of Emyn Aren says, “The Men have already found
their captain, and they will obey their young lord unto the death.”
Elboron
falls down upon bended knee and says, “I humbly beg that you grant me
command of the company of Ithilien." [Persuade (Oratory) test, Deference
ability, superior success]
Elessar
smiles at the courteous youth, well-pleased. “Take it, brave
Elboron,” he says.
The
young prince cannot restrain a triumphant yell when Elessar gives him the
command. "Thank you, my King! The company of Ithilien shall prove its
quality on the field."
Debate then turns
to the other hosts of Gondor, and Hirluin’s son is named to lead the
western levy and Forlong’s son is named to lead the eastern levy.
The company of Eriador is given to Halbarad’s son of the Northern
Dúnedain. At last Ingold says to his king, “And who is to lead the
Dwarves’ company? Few lords of Durin’s Folk have lived to see
this age of the world, and Lord Gimli cannot leave his work at Aglarond and the
walls of Minas Tirith to join our enterprise.”
The
small mountain of a Dwarf noted earlier by Gamba Bracegirdle stomps
forward. “Biárki Biárlin’s son I am,” he says.
“My blood relation to Gimli, Lord of Aglarond, is as strong as any Dwarf
in the company, and my arm is twice as strong! I'll give them your
orders, King Elessar, as long as they involve smashing orc skulls!
The dwarven-axe is a mighty weapon." [Persuade (Oratory) test,
complete success]
King
Elessar nods solemnly and answers, “The death of Balin Fundin’s son
and most of his relations in the halls of Moria has greatly shriven
Durin’s line. I witnessed his tomb with my own eyes, and my heart
still laments his passing. We are glad to have among us one who shares
the blood of Balin and Gimli, even a distant cousin. It is not in my
power to grant you lordship of Moria, Biárki Barrelheart, but it is in my power
to name you captain of that company of Durin’s Folk who have mustered
under my banner.” The burly Dwarf is silent but responds with an
awkward bow of his broad, scarred head.
The
king then addresses the others in the assembly who have not taken commands and
says, “To the others in this assembly, I bid you find a place in the
order to battle. Speak to the appointed captains and offer your service
to them.”
The
little hobbit Rard leaps forward and chirps cheerfully, “King Elessar,
you wouldn’t deny an old Shire bounder the chance to serve with the
army’s scouts, would you?”
The
king laughs in a happy voice and names Rard the chief scout of his host, and
requests that Halbarad’s son accept the hobbit amongst the Eriador
archers during battle. “I would be honored to have him!” the
Dúnadan captain replies.
Rard
exclaims in response, "Chief Scout? I am honored that you think me
capable of such a duty. I will do my best to bring us back the most current
information." He smiles and cannot help but add, "And I guess
that I will need to be the chief scout, for if I didn't lead the Rangers, I
surely could not see over them from the back!".
Then,
the tall High-elf of Rivendell approaches Elessar, bowing his head to the High
King. All fall silent to hear the words of this sagely Elf who has seen
nearly two-thousand summers upon Middle-earth. Gilavas Parmandil offers
fair speech worthy of his Kindred: “I am not as great a warrior as
Glorfindel, nor am I an accomplished hunter like Elladan and
Elrohir. Yet, with such a fair army gathered once again at Fornost
Erain under the banners of the North-kingdom, I cannot remain behind. If you
will, Lord Elessar, I will remain at your side as your herald, just as Elrond
Half-elven was herald to Gil-Galad three thousand years ago."
“I
am honored to have your service, Gilavas,” says the High King.
“You are among the last of your people remaining in Middle-earth.
It is a blessing that the voice of the Noldor will proclaim the words of the
King of the North one more time.”
*
* *
After
the captains are confirmed, matters of strategy are debated by the
assembly. Halcred proposes that King Elessar, who has not yet sired a son
to take the throne should he die, remain in the camp behind the line during the
battle; that he appoint a lieutenant-general to command the army from the front
in his place; and that the burden of command in the field should fall upon
himself, as leader of the second most numerous host in the Grand Muster.
The high king is uncertain, and turns the decision over to a vote of the
assembled lords and counselors.
“Nonsense!”
Rard barks as soon as Halcred finishes his proposal. He says it again
more loudly, "Nonsense, I say. Kings are meant to lead."
Noticing several people looking at him, he continues so that the whole assembly
may hear. He blathers on quickly, hoping that his fast-talking will tangle
the logic of Halcred’s words. "Would you have had the
Ranger Aragorn hide in Bree and not help the hobbits during the Fellowship of
the Ring? Should he have shrugged off responsibility and left Rohan to
defend itself? Should he have stood in the highest tower of the White
City as it lay besieged? No! Leaders lead, and you can't lead from
the back."
“Leaders
lead, but kings rule,” Halcred retorts. “Should the High King
fall before fathering a son to succeed him, the failing of the kingship would
again be upon the West, with no opportunity ever to return. Many a good
man died so that the Ranger Aragorn could come into his rightful
inheritance. We should not insult their sacrifice by exposing our king to
danger unnecessarily.”
[Rard’s
Persuade (Fast Talk) opposed by Halcred’s Debate (Parley), complete
success for Halcred] The assembly listens attentively to Rard’s
fast-flowing words, but most of them harken more carefully to the wisdom of
what Halcred says in response. “The War of the Ring is long past,
and those were desperate days. We must be more cautious now,” a
Gondorian lord says.
Elboron
pleads to Elessar, “My Lord King, your presence on the field will bolster
the hearts of our Men and strike fear in the hearts of our enemies. But
if you stay behind, our Men may become doubtful of victory and our foes will be
emboldened."
“And
our soldiers will be doubly doubtful of victory, and our foes thrice emboldened,
if the High King falls,” Halcred counters.
[Elboron’s
Debate (Parley) opposed by Halcred’s, tied outcome] The assembly
appears now to be torn, as some takes Elboron’s side and others
Halcred’s. “If naught is ventured, naught shall be
gained,” says one man. “It is a fool’s gamble to risk
the fruits of long work on the fortunes of war,” says another. Of
the assembly, only Biárki remains wholly silent, though he is seen to nod is
head in support of Elboron’s arguments. The night air rings with
the shouts and cheers of some two-dozen voices rife with debate. Taken
aback by the rancour, Rard leans to Master Bracegirdle and says, "I guess
this is why hobbits don't have war-parties."
Éogar
then raises his voice, his address aimed specifically at the king and the lords
of the White City. "The warriors of Minas Tirith know well what they
protect, whether the White Tower or the King himself,” he says.
“Do not let fear of chance wrest victory from our grasp."
Halcred
levels a cold gaze upon Éogar and responds, “The Guards may be the truest
of warriors, but they are not gods who dictate fate and chance. Some of
them will fall in battle, it is certain. Their shields cannot face
everywhere at once, and an envenomed orc-arrow may kill a king as readily as a
villain.”
[Éogar’s
Debate untrained opposed by Halcred’s Debate (Parley), superior success
for Halcred] The bulk of the assembly now seems swayed to Halcred’s
cause. “He speaks the truth,” says a Ranger of Rhudaur.
“Arathorn the king’s father perished by an orc-arrow in the
desolate north not far from here, and probably it was an orc from
Gundabad. Shall we tempt fate again?”
Gilavas
now speaks again, and once more the assembly falls silent to hear his fair
voice. "My lords, it has been a long-standing and well-honoured
tradition of the Line of Isildur to lead the army into battle. Whenever evil
gathered in force, the Heirs of Isildur, whether as crowned Kings or as
Chieftains, took it upon themselves to lead their people in war." He looks around the
assembly before his eyes rest on Halcred.
"I
do not doubt the courage or skill of the lords and captains gathered here, but
many from across Middle-earth have answered the summons to war called out by
the King, and many have laid their sword at the King's feet and pledged their
allegiance to him. It is no more than fitting that the King himself would
lead this army."
“The
allegiance of every Man in this army belongs to the High King,” says Halcred
in a subdued voice, apparently cowed by the ancient bearing of the
Noldo-elf. “If the king appoints a lieutenant-general in his place,
their allegiance nonetheless remains with the king. The king still leads
us all. Those who truly love the king and his peaceful realm should wish
to keep him safe from harm.”
[Gilavas’s
Debate (Parley), with Honey-tongued edge, opposed by Halcred’s, just
barely a complete success for Halcred] The fair speech of Gilavas raises doubt
in many of the counselors, and some few are persuaded to support his
position. Nonetheless, as the shouting is sorted out it becomes clear
that most of the assembly has been moved by the wisdom of Halcred’s words
and their love for their king. Without an heir, the king’s person
is too valuable to risk in the press, most of them seem to say.
Finally,
King Elessar silences the assembly and calls for a vote: “Who among you
would have me appoint Halcred as lieutenant-general, and consign the royal
person to the camp behind the line of battle?” Halcred, Ingold, and
some two-thirds of the assembled counselors step forward. Elboron and the
Ithilien counselors, some of the Eriador men, Gilavas, Biárki, and Rard vote
against the proposal; Éogar alone among the Men of Rohan votes against it.
“The council has spoken,” the king states, betraying little
emotion. “Halcred shall command in the field as lieutenant-general,
in the name of the king. I shall set the royal pavilion to the rear of
our battle line, and my herald Gilavas shall ride between us to convey
commandments and reports.”
Halcred
bows low to the High King and says, “I accept the charge, my lord, and
will not fail you.” The king nods but once and then dismisses the
assembly, instructing each man to return to his appointed battalion. As
the crowd disperses, Halcred stops Éogar by laying a hand upon his
shoulder. He says to him coldly, “And see that you do not fail me,
exile. Upon my last return to Rohan I brought word to your sister that at
our last parting you were alive, and she was much relieved. If you fail
me as you failed Erkenbrand, I swear that I will bring your cold body to her
upon your own shield, so that she may see how many or few marks the enemy left
in it.”
Éogar
shrugs his shoulder free from his captain, now the lieutenant-general of the
army. “I will not forget my duty, sir,” he says.
“Have you forgot the oath you swore to me at Rivendell, not to speak of
my past in the hearing of others?”
Halcred
says, “I have forgotten nothing.” He departs for the camp of
the Riders of Rohan, beckoning for Éogar to follow him.
Meanwhile,
Biárki has left to rejoin the Dwarves, and Elboron and his counselors have gone
off to the Ithilien camp rejoicing with news that their young lord has been
confirmed as their captain. Only Rard and Gilavas remain with the king,
whose eyes betray a faint glimmer of sorrow. Elessar invites them to dine
with him in his tent, though his companionship that night is poor and quiet.
*
* *
As
the eastern sky begins to show the first streaks of orange on the 16th
of May, the sounds of shuffling feet and readied armaments can be heard from
the varied bivouacs of the Grand Muster. The captains and their chiefs
move among the tents, calling for the men to strike camp and prepare to march.
By the time the sun rises over the horizon, all of the companies and hosts are
assembled in column, in the marching order decreed by the king. King
Elessar, mounted upon a white stallion, rides forth from his pavilion; Gilavas
Parmandil rides next to him upon a majestic Elven-steed, Pelethanor,
“Setting Sun” in the Sindarin tongue. Rariadoc Brandybuck,
chief scout of the army, receives a map from Gamba Bracegirdle and studies it
for a moment; he then offers a smile and a wave to his friends, and joins with
a pair of Eriador Rangers who go off with him into the wilderness ahead of the
army. With a silent gesture from the king, who draws Andúril and points
the blade toward Gundabad in the northeast, the army surges forward in column,
the silent dawn air rumbling with the marching of boots and the tromping of
many hooves. When the eyes of his army are off him, the king, still
silent, slowly lowers Andúril and gingerly slides in back into its scabbard.
For
many days the armed columns snake across the wilderness of northern Eriador,
lands so barren and desolate that no settlers have yet returned to cultivate
them. The land may be rugged and bleak, but the terrain is mostly wide
open and does not hinder the army; as predicted, the Grand Muster usually covers
six leagues in a day. After nine days of marching, the host finally
clears the upper escarpments of the North Downs. By the end of the month
the Grand Muster approaches the moorland heath that cuts like a bight between
the Ettenmoors and the western arm of the Grey Mountains. On the last day
of May the scouts encounter a party of Grey-elves from Lindon, an armed patrol
warding the wilderness around Carn Dûm. Rard Brandbuck stares upon them
in wonder, and sighs in his heart, for they remind him powerfully of his friend
Bergalad the Elf-minstrel, who was cruelly slain on the Angril quest by
the demon-beasts of Rhûn in Baldur’s service. The Grey-elves report
that the way past Carn Dûm has been kept clear for the army but that they sense
much evil awakening throughout the mountains. “Tell your king to
take care!” their leader says. “Rumor has reached the
mountains of his approach, and slumbering evil rouses to thwart
him.” The next day the army passes Mount Gram, encircled by an
impressive line of breastworks. The Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, some
few hundreds in number, hold the fortifications, which they have built swiftly
and well in their stone-crafty ingenuity. The Dwarves cheer the Grand
Muster as it passes, and the company of Durin’s Folk offers a loud hail
in return. The army continues up into the moors leading to Mount Gunabad,
confident that the hosts of Mount Gram are well besieged.
During
all the days of the march, too, the army constantly encounters rolling wagons
from the Shire, oversized carts pulled by big oxen with little drivers sitting
atop on the ledge; the wagons are over-full with flour and tack, hard cheeses,
and barrels filled with fresh water. Rard is there to greet the
Shire-folk when the wagons roll into camp. He asks, commands, and
pleads for them to bring comforts for him on their next visit. "After
all, I'm the King's Chief Scout, I need these things!" "I
know you have a small crock of mustard with you. A Proudfoot wouldn't
travel all this way without one, now hand it over." "Any more cherry
pastries stashed away? I'll need to have that."
By
dusk on the 5th of June, the western slopes of Mount Gundabad itself
are in sight, lying only a few more miles to the east. Rard and his
Rangers return to the camp before nightfall to report what lies ahead.
[Stealth (Surveil) test, superior success] “We spotted quite a few
goblins!” Rard gasps as he guzzles a skin of cool Shire water.
“Looks like they have scouts, too, and they know
we’re coming. My men,” he smiles at the Ranger friends with
him, “and I managed to shoot down a number of them, but we couldn’t
get them all. There aren’t any big groups blocking our advance onto
the western slope, but we can bet they’ll be ready for us once we’re
there.” King Elessar praises Rard for his skillful work, and orders
all bivouacs to build surrounding fences and sets a heavy watch upon the
camp. Throughout the night strange noises can be heard from the mountains
to the left and ahead, strange grunts and chilling howls, but nothing dares to
approach the strongly defended encampment.
At
sunrise on the 6th of June, the FA 16, the Grand Muster of the Free
Peoples rises for war! The fortified bivouacs from the night before are
struck, and the baggage train is drawn up in a defensive formation far to the
rear. Everyone knows that the army will achieve the slopes of Mount
Gundabad within a few hours, and by noon-time blood will surely be shed.
With fear in every breast yet courage in every heart, the Men and Dwarves, some
few Elves, and even one hobbit march at best speed toward the mountain mansion
long overrun by orcs and their dark partners, the wolves and trolls.
Despite
the fact that summer is nearly upon Middle-earth, the climate so far north is
cool and often grey, with chill winds normally howling from the north and
east. Yet the day is particularly overcast, and the sky grows darker as
the host draws closer to the western slope. “An orc-spell,”
Gilavas says as he regards the unnatural sky above. “Even after the
fall of Sauron some of them possess sorcery enough to gather heavy clouds to
blot out the sun.”
Yet
the sunlight is never wholly obscured, and the soldiers can see well
ahead. The moorland nestled between the two arms of mountains has grown increasingly
narrower until the defile is less than a thousand yards from side to side;
further up the slope the defile grows considerably narrower still. The
grade of the terrain also begins to increase sharply, and less than a mile
ahead lies the West Gate of Gundabad, a huge stone portal cut into the side of
the mountain long ago by the Fathers of the Dwarves. Now it is an
orc-door, swarming with their dark guards. The king gives the army the
order to halt and array for battle; the battalions swiftly redeploy into the
formation decreed by the king at the war council.
Suddenly,
Rard and his Rangers come running down the slope and rush over to the king, who
has set his pavilion behind the ranks of his infantry from Minas Tirith.
“Oh!” Rard cries in excitement, chattering rapidly: “The
enemy already has quite a force assembled on the slope.” One of the
Rangers of Rhudaur, more war-crafty than Rard, provides a detailed report:
“We counted three battalions of orc-spearmen each with 900 warriors;
echeloned on the right and left are two battalions of orc-skirmishers each with
900 warriors as well. Echeloned on each flank behind the skirmishers are
two hordes of evil wolves each numbering perhaps 600 beasts; I should think
these wolves function to the orcs as cavalry to us.” With a bow,
the hobbit and the Rangers withdraw to join the Eriador company of skirmishers.
King
Elessar moves his grey eyes northeast to rising slope. He then turns to
face Halcred and says, “My lord, are you prepared to take the army into
battle?”
“Aye,
lord,” Halcred answers, his voice firm and body held stiffly.
The
king nods once more and raises his mighty voice loudly, so that all can hear:
“Halcred Theogar's son, vassal of Éomer King of the Mark, I appoint you
lieutenant-general of the Grand Muster of the West in my name. Lead our
host into battle, and may the High Powers of Arda bless and keep
you.” Facing now the thousands of warriors arrayed in formation to
his right and left and all about him, the king cries out, “Go forward,
Men of the West, Durin’s Folk, my friends and allies all! Forward
to battle, forward to victory, on to Gundabad!”
“To
Gundabad! To victory! Forward!” shouts Halcred, a cry taken
up by the entire army, their voices shaking the very earth. As Halcred
draws his sword and thrusts the point toward the West Gate, the whole army
surges forward. The battle is nearly joined…
Scene 4: The Battle of
On
the 5th of June the Grand Muster of the West, after marching well
over a hundred leagues from the North Downs, camps in the shadow of Mount
Gundabad. Rariadoc Brandybuck readies himself for the great battle to
come in the morning, making sure his quiver is packed with arrows and a spare
bowstring is stowed in his pack. He lays out for the morning his Elvish garb, a gift from the fair folk of the Woodland
Realm; he hopes it will bring him luck and safety, since there is no armor in
the camp sized for a hobbit to wear. Before turning in for the night to
get what sleep he may under the cold stars of the north, Rard makes sure his
beloved mule is safely tethered. He pats Barion the mule on the nose and
whispers, "Tommorrow I go into battle, my friend. You need stay here
and watch my stuff." He stares at the sky and wonders about
absent friends. Frolin. Finbor.
Belegil and Bergalad. Barion.
Herubrand. And he looks over to the lights from
the fires in the camp of the Riders of Rohan, and wonders how his friend Éogar
is making out. "When this battle is over, we will go out and find Finbor and
Frolin," he promises his equine friend; Barion nuzzles Rards hand in
return.
As
the sun appears over the eastern ridges of the Grey Mountains the next morning,
the army rises, strikes camp, and advances in force to the western slope of
Mount Gundabad. Though the day proves to be dark and overcast, with a
northern wind cold for June even this far north, the spirit of the army is
high and excitement mounts as the West Gate of Gundabad appears in the
distance. All that separates the Grand Muster from its chief objective is
a defile sloping eastward up the mountain. King Elessar, bound by the
decision of his council of war that the royal person must remain safely behind
the line of battle, confirms Halcred Theogar’s son as lieutenant-general,
blesses him, and commands him to begin the assault.
Halcred
accepts the king’s charge and, from his position amidst the cavalry on
the right, urges the army to advance: “To Gundabad! To
victory! Forward!” The Grand Muster takes up the cry, and the
hosts and companies surge forward. King Elessar remains behind, standing
in front of the tent of his royal pavilion where the heavy infantry of Minas
Tirith previously stood, a couple hundred yards west of where the defile opens
up onto the slope to the West Gate. He stands impassive, solemn, his grey
eyes following after the warriors. Only his servants and royal
life-guard, perhaps a couple-dozen men in total, remain behind with him.
The King turns to the Gilavas the High-elf and says, “My heart longs to
join the men in battle, to share the dangers with them, and to lead by my
example. But, it would not do well for the army to divide its
command. I will not send you to the battalions to give them separate
orders. As my herald, I give you a free hand to ride about the
battlefield as you will, conveying whatever messages in my name you think
best.”
The
army closes in on the defile leading up onto the slope, where the enemy orcs
and wolves are arrayed in force. The surrounding mountain peaks jut
inward at the base of the slope, a narrow gap just a couple hundred yards wide
through which the whole army must pass. At the general’s bidding
swift-riding messengers from among his Rohirrim gallop to the other units to
deliver orders. Elboron’s Ithilien company is commanded to advance
in support of the infantry on the right, and to drive off the enemy skirmishers
with a barrage of arrows. Biárki’s company of Dwarves is instructed
to remain in reserve behind the center, to reinforce the heavy infantry.
One rider is spared to bring word to the king’s herald Gilavas Parmandil,
bidding him to keep back from the fray for Halcred does not wish the
Elf’s blood to be upon his head. Once the last of the messengers is
dispatched, Halcred turns his attention to Éogar. He says to him in a
cold voice: “Son of Garbald, in the name of the King, both the one whom
you serve and the one whom you abandoned, I order you to the head of the first éored.
You will fight at the heart of the press. If there is any salvation to be
found by you, you will find it there.”
"I
would fight nowhere else, Halcred," Éogar replies. "You will
see that one battle, long ago, does not strip all bravery or honor from a
man." The general then turns his horse away from him and rides to
the center of his cavalry wing.
Elboron
Faramir’s son rides at the head of the ranks from Ithilien. Atop
his mighty stallion Léofara, sword raised overhead, the prince’s heir
urges on his archers. "Forward Ithilien! The West Gate
awaits!" Léofara seems to be as excited as his lord, tossing his
silver mane as he prances impatiently.
Rard
Brandybuck marches with the Eriador skirmishers on the left. Like the
Ithilien company, their orders are to advance and support the infantry with
missile barrages. Most of the men in the Eriador company
are volunteer militia from Bree-land or newer settlements built along the
"Baruk
Khazâd!" Biárki raises his voice in a huge shout. Durin’s Folk
return the battle-cry, waiving their axes and war-hammers wildly over their
heads. He tactfully relays the orders to his fighters—to advance in
reserve, to reinforce the center when needed. Many of the Dwarves begin
to protest. It is they who have the longest quarrel with the Orcs of
Gundabad! They should be in the first line against the hated foes!
How dare the Men of the West keep them out of the battle! Biárki
intercedes to turn their anger way from the general’s orders and back to
the orcs: "When the fires of battle are hottest, the Dwarves will be
there! We shall pound these orcs, snap their bones, and crush their
skulls!" The harangue seems to work for now, and the Dwarves roar
heartily and march forward in good order. But, Biárki well knows it can
be hard to keep Dwarves out of a fight against orcs, and the longer they wait
the more their morale will suffer.
*
* *
The
Grand Muster approaches the defile leading up onto the slope to the West Gate,
and the battle is joined. Wolves howl, and orcs gnash their teeth or wave
spears in the air, shrieking like wild beasts. The wolves on the right
and left flanks of the enemy line race down the slope, stopping some
distance ahead of the orcs. Either through stratagem or out of fear, the
beasts do not rush into the defile to block the advance of the Grand
Muster. The Rohirric cavalry thunders forward, galloping ahead of the
infantry line and pouring into the defile. Moving uphill slows down their
advance, yet the horsemen still far outstrip the footmen; the cavalry wings
sweep through the gap and onto the slope, turning to face the wolf hordes.
With
the light units of the West kept behind the mainline infantry by order of
Halcred, they cannot advance until the infantry hosts in front of them
advance. But, the orc-skirmishers on the slope are positioned to act as
soon as the Rohirric cavalry gallops through the gap onto the slope. The
little goblins hurl darts and javelins, and shoot a cloud of arrows from small
bows. On the left the barrage is fairly ineffective; the Rohirrim slow
their headlong gallop toward the wolves and spread into a loose formation,
turning their shields against the falling projectiles. Indeed, the
cavalry on the right follows suit, and the other missile barrage fails to
inflict any noticeable losses. Yet, both of the cavalry wings now find
themselves engaged against the orc-skirmishers, who keep a steady pattering
hail of missiles falling on the riders to distract them.
Then,
the orc-infantry scurries to attack. While the center unit holds its
ground, bracing shields and holding spears at the ready, the orc-infantry
on the left and right charge a short distance down the slope to slam into the
flanks of the Rohirric cavalry wings. The wing on the left is ill-prepared
for this furious onslaught, caught in between the hail of missiles and the tide
of oncoming spears; as the fight rages across many minutes, a hundred of the
men are casualties. Halcred and Éogar’s wing on the right proves
more fortunate, as the riders circle around to hold off both the projectile
barrage and the onrushing spears slamming into their flank.
As
the Riders of Rohan find their advance halted and their flanks enveloped, the
infantry finally catches up. It is a difficult and slow march up the
slope, especially for the heavy infantry, weighted down by heavy armor, and the
Dwarves, both weighted by armor and limited by their stocky strides.
Worst of all, the narrow defile between the surrounding ridges leading onto the
slope bunches the infantry hosts close together, as the Men and Dwarves
in formation compete for space. “Bah!” Biárki mutters
loudly, “I could have told that general as much, that his foot companies
would bind up at the base of the slope.” As the faster-moving Men
rush ahead into the gap, the Biárki finds it impossible to keep his Dwarves
close behind the heavy infantry. The skirmishing companies from Eriador
and Ithilien jostle together in the gap, and the Dwarves are forced to march on
an oblique to the northeast. Alas, the advance of the infantry falters
due to the uncooperative terrain. Only the levied host of western
Gondor reaches the foe, closing with the orc-infantry on the
enemy’s right. The levied host of eastern Gondor is compelled to
wrap around the jutting rock forming the southern neck of the narrows and is
still a full hundred yards short of the orc-infantry on the enemy’s
left. The slow-moving Minas Tirith heavy infantry remains a full hundred
yards short of the orc-infantry defending the enemy’s center.
*
* *
As
the first hour of battle grows late, the wolf-hordes on the flanks rush upon
the Rohirric cavalry, whose men are already engaged with both the
orc-skirmishers and the orc-infantry. Normally flighty wolves are little
match for heavy cavalry, but now they pour into the turned flanks of the
vulnerable cavalry. On the left, another fifty horsemen fall as the
battles rages; on the right, the fifty riders fall as well, the first
casualties suffered by Éogar and Halcred’s host. The beleaguered cavalry
now turns to the task for which Halcred ordered them first into the defile: to
drive off the wolves. The cavalry turns attention away from the
skirmishers, with whom they previously had been engaged, provoking a volley in
response, but the counterattack proves ineffective. The left-wing
cavalry thunders into the wolves, battering the animals with spear, sword, and
hooves: in less than half an hour, nearly a third of their number are
slain! On the right Éogar fights at the heart of the press, and his
strength is worth many men; his host slays a full third of the wolves’
number.
Again,
the orc-skirmishers rain darts and arrows down upon the Rohirrim, but to little
effect as the riders open up their formation loosely and then regroup.
Nonetheless, the Riders of Rohan remain in great danger. Seeing Éogar and
Halcred’s formation on the right facing attack by three enemy hosts,
Elboron halts his Ithilien company and orders them to barrage the nearest orc
flanking force. Though the orc-infantry is a fair distance away, the
Ithilien Rangers and Elves strike true, and well over a hundred of the goblins
are pierced as wave after wave of missiles fall upon them. In the
meanwhile, Halbarad’s son leads the Eriador company, Rard among their number,
out of the defile; pressed so tightly for space, the captain orders the archers
to oblique to the left and fall in behind the left-wing cavalry and the western
Gondorians. “Won’t I ever get a chance to shoot at some
orcs?” Rard gasps, having spent much of the past hour jogging to keep up
with long-legged humans.
The
orc-infantry on the left and right of the enemy line continues to assail the
Riders of Rohan. The flanking charge is brutally effective, and
within half-an-hour the left-wing cavalry is reduced to only half of the men
with which it began the battle. On the right, it is a similar turn of
affairs: Halcred’s host is reduced to perhaps 400 effectives out of the
600 with which he began. The orc-infantry in the center holds its ground,
enticing the Free Peoples forward; the goblins beat their spears on their
clumsy wooden shields and snarl at the Men of Minas Tirith, who scoff at the
feeble attempt at intimidation and press onward.
On
the left of the Free Peoples, the western Gondorians finally close with the
orc-infantry: the host of the western fiefs is vast and strong compared to the
goblins, and by the end of the half-hour over half of the orcs lie slain!
Meanwhile, the eastern Gondorians round the jutting rock of the narrows and
redeploy behind Halcred’s Rohirrim opposite the orc-infantry on the
enemy’s left. Soon after come the Minas Tirith heavy footmen, who
march up the slope to square off against the shield-thumping goblins in the
enemy’s center. Biárki, finally seeing an opening in the tight press
in the narrows, orders his company to move past Elboron’s Ithilien
archers; the Dwarves shout balefully and advance close behind the Men of Minas
Tirith, though still out of reach of any of the orc hosts.
*
* *
After
one hour of battle, the two sides are closely pressed upon the western slope of
Gundabad. Already much blood has been spilt. Five hundred Rohirrim
have been killed or badly hurt thus far. The enemy has suffered even
worse: six hundred goblins lie dead, and nearly as many wolves littered the
sides of the defile. Of the lords who met in the war council at Fornost,
only Éogar, Halcred, and Grimbold’s son have faced peril at the hands of
the enemy. Éogar fights with spear and shield at the heart of the battle,
and throughout the hour he is called upon to parry many blows; only two lesser
strikes imperil him, and thanks to his Dwarf-made corslet they are but grazes
[4 damage total, Healthy]. None may see how Halcred and Grimbold’s
son fair, for they are lost amidst the swirl of combat.
The
chaos of battle also wears upon the companies and hosts. Of the enemy
battalions locked in combat, the wolf-hordes on both flanks waver and break, as
does the orc-infantry on the enemy’s right; gripped by panic, they fall
back in a headlong rout. Despite suffering terrible losses, the Rohirrim
on the left wing hold firm and do not break. So, too, do the cavalrymen
on the right wing hold their ground.
Yet
all is not well for the cause of the Grand Muster. While the hosts of the
Free Peoples battle orcs and wolves, pushing slowly up the slope, a second wave
of foes marches out of the West Gate of the mountain. Out front in a line
are more northern orcs—two hosts of spear-wielding infantry flanking
a host of skirmishers, each host some 900 strong. Behind them marches a
more fearsome enemy: a host of Uruk-hai heavy infantry, also 900 strong.
In the front rank an Uruk hoists high a tattered standard bearing the lidless
red eye of Sauron: it is an evil relic from the last age, a surviving Oriflamme
of Mordor. The sight of it gives great cheer to the enemy, and in the
next hour of battle they fight with greater morale…
Scene 5: The Trap Is Sprung
In
the first hour of battle upon the west slope of Mount Gundabad, blood flows on
both sides. Toward the end a new force of orcs emerges from the West
Gate,
The
enemy’s wolf-hordes are in a panic after the Riders of Rohan drove into
their ranks. The wolves on the left flank turn about and retreat wildly,
and Grimbold’s son is unable to mount an effective counterattack to take
advantage of the situation. On the right flank, however, Halcred manages
to organize a counterattack, with Éogar in the fore, to punish the fleeing
wolves; hundreds more of the beasts are cut down as the horde rushes back up
the slope. The Riders of Rohan, freed from engagement with the wolves,
turn to engage the nearest orc-infantry units, ignoring the orc-skirmishers
further up the slope. The badly mauled wing on the left looks poorly
captained, and fails to make an impression on the vast gaggle of fleeing
orcs. The wing on the right, with Éogar upon Hildwyn leading the charge,
drives hard into the ranks of orcs; hundreds of goblins are cut down in the
melee.
Soon
the orcs renew their assault on the line of the Free Peoples. The fresh
battalion of skirmishers rushes down the slope and takes up position behind the
spear-wielding orcs in the center. The other hosts of orc-skirmishers,
unscathed, engage at range with the Riders of Rohan on both flanks, pouring
volley after volley into their ranks. The Rohirrim on the left are spared
as most of the missiles veer off target and scatter upon the rocks.
Halcred and Éogar’s wing, now engaged with the orc-infantry, are struck
on the flank by the hail of missiles; perhaps fifty men fall under the constant
barrages. The orc-infantry on the enemy’s right, reeling from the
onslaught of the western Gondorian host, breaks into a route.
Unfortunately, both the western Gondorians and the left-wing Rohirrim fail to
mount a punishing counterattack, and the orcs falls back up the slope. At
the same time, the orc-infantry in the center engages with the Minas Tirith
infantry, but the screaming hordes of northern orcs fail to penetrate the front
ranks of the Men of the West. The orc-infantry on the enemy’s left
surges against the Riders of Rohan in the right wing, but they too cannot make
effect a direct assault upon the heavily armored men. The two fresh
battalions of orc-infantry arrive down the slope and rush into the gap left by
the wolves, and once again the Rohirric hosts find themselves facing the
possibility of attacks from multiple enemy forces. Halcred, the deputed
general of the army, is caught up in the chaos of battle; he seems oblivious to
the mounting danger, even though he can no longer get riders out to the
companies to issue further orders.
Éogar
looks behind him to see the general caught up in the press, as the Rohirric
wing is buffeted by falling arrows and orc spears. "Fall back,
Halcred! The army needs its general, just as it needs its king! I
will hold the line here!"
“I
will not fall back in the face of our enemy!” Halcred calls back.
“I think you over-estimate their chances.” The general is
then lost to Éogar’s sight, and his attention is pulled back to combat.
Far-sighted
Gilavas watches the turn of affairs and rides back to the royal pavilion to
report to the king. The king nods grimly. He says to the Elvish
magician, “The Rohirrim have squandered the chance to envelop the enemy
flanks and charge down the orc-skirmishers. Instead, those fell-handed
men have given in to the temptation to ride down broken or wavering infantry
better left to our own foot companies. Alas, the Rohirrim are bold and
war-like, but I fear they are poorly generaled…” King Elessar
bids his herald to turn to the battle front and observe further the turn of
events, and Gilavas rides back east upon Pelethanor.
The
young Lord Elboron, seeing the Rohirrim on the right holding their ground,
orders his Ithilien company to redeploy forward, taking up a new position
directly behind the riders; and so the last company of the West clears the
narrows and arrives on the slope of Gundabad. At the same time, the
Eriador company halts and prepares to barrage the enemy. Rard sighs in
relief, after catching his breath from the jogging to keep up with the
long-legged Men. “About time!” he thinks to himself.
“If we had kept up this march, I would have had to transfer to the
Dwarves’ company; after all, they move at about my speed.”
His eyes nonetheless move about, looking for a horseman who might be able
to bear him should the company advance again, but alas he fights alongside
footmen only, and the only horses to be found are bearing Riders of Rohan more
than a hundred yards ahead up the slope. Calling upon a portion of
his courage to shake off Weariness, Rard forgets that he was winded and readies
his bow [1 Courage spent, 2 remaining]. The Eriador company targets the
orc-skirmishers several hundred yards ahead who are barraging the Rohirrim on
the left, unleashing volley after volley upon the distracted orcs; Rard,
standing in the thick of his company, contributes to the effort, but most of
the arrows sail off-target and harmless break against the rocks of the slope.
Now
the Gondorian levies launch their assaults upon the enemy ranks. The
eastern Gondorian host drives into the orc-infantry engaged with
Halcred’s wing but are too weakly captained to make an organized
impression on the enemy. The western Gondorian host charges up the slope
and assails the flank of the orc-infantry engaged with the Minas Tirith host;
they, too, cannot order themselves effectively to inflict any noticeable
casualties. But then the Men of Minas Tirith cry, “For the
King!” and charge ahead into the orc-infantry; it is a brilliant assault,
and over the many minutes more than half of the orcs, some four hundred,
are felled! Meanwhile, Biárki halts his Dwarves’ company behind the
Men of Minas Tirith and instructs his fighters to make much noise at the
nearest orcs, those assailed by the eastern Gondorian levy; few things are more
fearsome to orcs than a band of Dwarves with axes and mattocks, and soon the
battered orc-infantry breaks into a panic and begins to quit the field.
At
the last, the Uruk-hai in front of the West Gate loose a loud howl, waiving the
Oriflamme of Mordor about wildly. The display is enough to halt the
fleeing wolves and the routed orc-infantry that fled from the Rohirrim on the
left; despite their grim losses, they are rallied by the Uruk chieftain and his
foul banner.
*
* *
The
wolf-hordes, rallied by the Uruk-hai blocking the West Gate, sweep back down
along the sides of the slope and close in once more upon the Rohirric
cavalry. The Rohirrim on the left turn their attention from the arrows
from the more distant orcs and charge into the onrushing wolves. The
Riders of Rohan ignore the counterattack of falling arrows as they turn to
engage with the wolves; however, once again the leadership fails the cavalry,
and their charge is quickly blunted to no effect. Halcred’s host,
too, turns on the returning wolves, hoping to scatter them before the fresh
orc-infantry charges into the cavalry ranks. Éogar fights bravely in the
heart of the press, contributing mightily to the assault. A hundred and
fifty wolves are cut down throughout the long minutes of charging and
trampling, leaving barely as many wolves left to fight.
Now
the orc-skirmishers unleash their volleys again. The skirmishers on the
enemy’s right are engaged with the Eriador archers, but they trade
barrages of missiles to no real effect. The orc-skirmishers in the center
commit themselves against the Men of Minas Tirith, but their arrows fail to
bring any notable harm to the heavy infantry; so, too, do the skirmishers on
the enemy’s left fail with their volleys to trouble Halcred’s wing
of heavy cavalry.
Elboron
observes the chaos ahead of him on the slope, and is determined to carry out
his orders—to drive the enemy skirmishers from the field. He orders
his Rangers and Elves to loose their shafts at the foe, and through an effort
of great courage he commands an effective barrage (2 Courage spent, 2
remaining); well over a hundred of the goblin archers are felled. The Eriador
company on the left continues to trade volleys with the orc-skirmishers
opposite them. Rard makes a mighty contribution to the effort, and his
example more than the leadership of Halbarad’s son guides the archers to
bury their shafts in many a goblin; a goodly hundred fall before the
hour’s end.
The
orc-infantry panicked by Biárki’s intimidation gambit bolts back up the
slope, shrugging off a haphazard counterattack by the eastern Gondorian
levy. At the same time, the rallied orcs who previously had fled now come
charging back down the slope and close upon the western Gondorian
levy. The bloodied orcs in the center try to push back against the Men of
Minas Tirith, but their paltry spears are no match for the armor of the heavy
infantry. But, on the flanks, the orc-infantry hosts assail the flanks of
the Rohirrim, who are engaged desperately with the wolves. The left-wing
cavalry manages to regroup and hold off the attack on their flank, but
Halcred’s host on the right is compromised; over many minutes of
desperate combat, a hundred more riders are struck down, leaving barely 250 of
the host’s original 600 men. Éogar is ever at the fore, and his
hand saves the life of many a comrade, but in the confusion he cannot keep
sight of Halcred. “Where is the general?” he calls out to
those around him, who are no more sure than he. “Halcred!” he
cries out, but there is no answer above the din of battle.
The
Gondorian infantry bravely holds the line. The eastern Gondorians charge
up the slope to engage with the goblins turning the flank of Halcred’s
cavalry; it is a poorly led charge that quickly disperses with little
effect. The western Gondorians, too, cannot make an impression upon the
orc-infantry in the center, even though the orcs are already hotly engaged
against the Gondorian heavy infantry. The Men of Minas Tirith
continue to push against the battered orc-host ahead of them, and once again
they inflict gruesome casualties; hundreds of more orcs are slain, until barely
50 are left standing of the original 900! Once more, too, the Dwarves
clang their axes and hammers upon their shields and raise up a great cry; the
only orcs close enough to observe the intimidating display are the survivors of
the assault by the Minas Tirith host, and they readily quake in terror and
break into a headlong rout.
*
* *
At
the end of the second hour of battle, a great slaughter is witnessed upon
the field. The hosts of Mount Gundabad have suffered badly: around 1,700
goblins have been felled, and 800 wolves have been hewn. The losses of
the Grand Muster have been far fewer, though the Riders of Rohan have suffered
grievously: more than 600 of the original 1,200 men have been struck
down. The battle remains closely joined upon the slope leading up to the
West Gate. As the Uruk-hai far ahead up the slope howl loud battle-cries
and wave the Mordor oriflamme, the morale of the Gundabad hosts swells.
Only the decimated wolves on the enemy’s left cannot hold their ground,
and the few surviving animals once again turn about to flee up the slope; two
orc-infantry units also are in rout, both of them panicked by coming too close
to the fierce cries of the Dwarves.
The
strain of battle proves too much for some units in the Grand Muster, too.
The Rohirrim on the left under Grimbold’s son lose resolve and, one by
one, fall back until they all find themselves in a rout. So, too, do
the Rohirrim on the right. As his comrades all around him waver and
break, Éogar desperately looks around the field for Halcred the general but
cannot find him; and in short order Éogar finds himself caught in amidst a
rout. The rest of the line of the Grand Muster, though, has not yet
suffered any palpable casualties and holds firm.
During
the hour of battle, Éogar, Rard, and Elboron all were engaged in combat and
faced enemy spears or arrows. Éogar, well defended by spear, shield, and
a stout corslet, suffered only two lesser strikes from the wolves (2 damage
each, 8 Health lost total, Healthy). Rard’s company of archers may
not have taken any serious losses, but he himself faced many falling arrows
that he was ill-prepared to dodge; the little hobbit stands in the thick of the
exchange and suffers two greater strikes that leave him sorely bloodied (11
damage each, 22 Health lost total, Wounded). Elboron, too, faces arrows
shot at his unit in return; standing at the heart of the exchange, he suffers a
lesser strike and a greater strike from falling arrows but is protected largely
by his bold courage (1 Courage spent, 1 remaining) and his corslet of chain
mail (1 damage + 6 damage, 7 Health lost total, Healthy).
*
* *
And
then, the trap is sprung: from far to the west, down the mountain slope and
beyond the mountain defile where the royal pavilion stands, comes a terrible
howl and wail. The Free Peoples spare a moment to look over their
shoulders for the source of the commotion, and see thundering across the
moorland heath toward the mountain defile two vast hosts of wolf-riders—small
orcs bearing spears and riding upon the backs of sturdy black-pelted
lupines. They are no more than 500 yards downhill from the rear of the
line of the Grand Muster, and all that stands between the wolf-riders and the
Grand Muster is the army’s baggage camp—including the virtually
defenseless royal pavilion. King Elessar, surrounded by only a couple
dozen servants and life-guards, stands in the field outside his tent and
watches the onrushing wolf-riders, nearly 2,000 strong.
Gilavas
Parmandil, who rides in the land between the royal pavilion and the line of
battle, watches in stunned disbelief as the orc wolf-riders appear at the base
of the defile leading onto the slope. “How can this be?” he
gasps aloud only to himself. “We passed across the moorland health
leading onto this slope, and we saw no enemy formations ahead of us or in the
mountains on our flanks. Our scouts found no passes or ravines in the
mountains that could hold in secret a host of this size. And Carn Dûm and
Mount Gram are under leaguer by the Elves of Lindon and the Dwarves of the Ered
Luin. From whence could these wolf-riders have come?” His
questions ring hollowly in his own ears, for he now sees that the path of the
wolf-riders will take them through the baggage camp and the royal
pavilion. The king is in grave danger!
Yet,
this is not the only trouble. From out of the West Gate emerge two more
formidable units: a band of some eighty cave-trolls, huge and hard-hided
creatures, stand to the right of the Uruk-hai host; a band of some hundred
Olog-hai, wicked black-trolls that have survived the fall of Sauron, take up a
position to the left. The units hold their ground, defending the position
against all who might try to pass. In sum, they form a fearsome line
blocking the West Gate—to keep out both the advancing Free Peoples as
well as their own craven retreating orcs.
Scene 6: The Retreat of the Grand Muster
As
the third hour of battle opens, Gilavas Parmandil observes the unfolding events
with grave distress. His wisdom tells him that the Grand Muster has
little hope of taking the West Gate of Mount Gundabad this day, and now all his
energies must be turned toward rallying the broken battalions and sallying
against the fresh enemy hosts that have cut off the army to the west. The
king’s herald rides upon his majestic steed through the ranks of the
Dwarves. He calls out in a stirring voice: "Biárki Barrelheart, the
cursed yrch have ambushed us! Fresh companies of foul Wolf-riders are
approaching the King's pavilion from the back! Bring your company to the right
and guard the flank. I will pull back our Rohirrim allies to the
King!" Gilavas then turns
his Elven-steed Pelethanor to the southeast and gallops swiftly towards the
army’s buckling right wing.
Biárki
stands at the front of his troops, his hair wet with sweat and bearing a deep
scowl that further twists his scarred visage. "No!" the dwarf
shouts in frustration. "Enough with foolish orders! We dwarves
will save the king, and the Rohirrim will finish the wolf-riders so we can
return and press an advance." Durin’s Folk look between their
captain and the line of orcs just a couple hundred yards up the slope, so close
that the blood of the Dwarves burns with lust for battle. Biárki points
down to the King's pavilion and shouts to his command, "There lies our
duty!" [Persuade (Oratory) test, TN 10: 8 roll + 1 modifier –
2 untrained + 3 for 1 Courage spent = 10, marginal success] Durin’s
Folk roar with anger, hurling curses at the orcs ahead up the slope, but the
battalion of Dwarves turns about on their captain’s command and prepares
to charge down the slope.
Meanwhile,
on the right wing of the Grand Muster the cavalry wavers, and the general
Halcred is nowhere to be found. Éogar grimly decides to do what he can to
rally the routed riders. He shouts desperately, "Eorlingas!
Darkness will not win this day. Let neither man nor orc question the
courage of Rohan!" Though he is a brave knight, he is no war-wise
captain and his tongue lacks inspirational eloquence. It seems to him
that his words are to be brushed aside by the fleeing men. The panicked
cavalrymen continue to pour back down the slope, and only their swiftness and
hardiness spares them from suffering a grave counterattack at the hands of the orcs.
Éogar rides back with the rout, fearful that the shattered battalion may be
doomed.
But,
then he sees a white light rushing into the broken ranks of his wing like a
beacon of hope. It is the king’s herald Gilavas Parmandil,
appearing as a Noldorin prince of the Elder Days. "Noro lim, Pelethanor, noro lim!” he says,
urging his noble Elven-steed Pelenthanor onward. Speaking words of magic,
a great shroud of majesty surrounds him. The fleeing Riders of Rohan are
roused at the sight of this Elvish lord upon his Elvish horse. He calls
out in his mighty voice, “Éogar, Halcred, alas, a trap has been sprung!
Fresh wolf-riders approach from the back, endangering the King's pavilion. Pull
back your men, the King needs you!" [Resist Fear, Inspire test: 5 roll + 3
modifier + 8 spell + 3 for 1 Courage spent = 19, complete success]
The
fleeing cavalrymen come to a halt before the High-elf magician, bolstered by
the power of his words. They gaze upon him with amazement, and their
hearts are cheered. No longer do they think of escape but now burn to
stay in the fight. But, without a captain the Riders of Rohan circle
about aimlessly.
“Where
is the lieutenant-general?” Gilavas asks sharply.
“He
is nowhere to be found,” Éogar reports.
“Is
he slain?” the Elf-sage asks.
“None
can say.”
“I
cannot tarry here! The Rohirrim must ride to the King’s aid.
Let the Dwarves take over on the right, and come with me!” Gilavas
turns his majestic steed about and gallops down the slope through the position
held by the Ithilien company.
The
Riders of Rohan are unsure what to do without a captain to lead them.
Éogar looks after Gilavas and decides his duty. He raises his spear
aloft and shouts, “Is the only Rider with valor left an exile?
Those who love Rohan and the West, follow me!” [8 roll – 2
modifier + 2 for Gilavas + 3 for 1 Courage spent = 11, complete success]
Impressed by his courage, the Riders of Rohan let raise a mighty shout and fall
in behind Éogar.
Gilavas
takes no pause, riding hard down the slope into the ranks of the Ithilien
archers. He calls out in a stirring voice: "Lord Elboron, your King
is in danger and in need of aid! Lead your men back, for new companies of
wolf-riders have entered the fray from the back!" As he rides away from the archers, the
magician takes stock of the situation. He notes that the right cavalry
wing looks to be regrouping—there is yet hope that they will rally and
reach the base of the slope in good order, to help defend the king from the
wolf-riders. He also espies that Biárki has disregarded his orders and is
readying the Dwarves to charge down the slope to engage the wolf-riders.
Gilavas looks warily over his shoulder to the right flank of the army, and he
realizes that now the infantry must hold the line. Though his heart
yearns to stand at King Elessar’s side, Gilavas decides that he must ride
to the remaining infantry hosts and command them to hold at all costs.
Pelethanor rushes up the slope toward the eastern Gondorians, whom he
finds readily engaged with the orc-infantry. The king’s herald
urges the men to fall back to a new line further down the slope, but it is
clear to him that the host will not disengage from this secure position on the
flank of the heavy infantry to take up an isolated and insecure position
further back. Their captain, Forlong’s son, assures Gilavas that he
will hold the line and not let his men pursue any routed enemies.
Appeased, Gilavas continues his ride along the rear flank of the infantry,
passing through the heavy infantry of Minas Tirith and the western Gondorian
host. He repeats his orders to hold the line, and the captains heartily
agree that they will drive back the orcs, hold their ground, and not pursue the
enemy.
The
Elf-magician finally makes it to the Eriador company, where he finds
Halbarad’s son and a bloodied Rariadoc Brandybuck distributing more
arrows to the men for another round of volleys. The breathless Noldo sage
cries out to them, "Ai, young Hobbit, Master Dúnadan, we have been
ambushed! Our general in the field is nowhere to be found, new companies
of wolf-riders approach from the back, and behind the enemy front still stands
their reserve of Uruks and Trolls. Other units have been sent to deal
with the threat at the rear, so I need you here to support our frontline.
Prepare yourself to cover a retreat toward the gap. Alas, I fear this field is
lost!"
“May
it not be so,” Halbarad’s son answers, “but the company of
Eriador will do as you ask.” Gilavas nods and turns Pelethanor to
chase after the fleeing Rohirric cavalry on the left, but it seems that even
this swift Elf-rider has overextended himself and has little hope of catching
up to them. Rard looks desperately back at the baggage camp and begs
Halbarad’s son to consider dividing the company, sending some to
reinforce the rear while keeping the rest to support the frontline. The
captain gently refuses the hobbit: “We cannot divide ourselves in face of
a superior enemy. Our only hope is to remain a strong and cohesive force.
Our assigned duty is to support the Men of Gondor, and we will fall back when
they fall back.” The hobbit sighs faintly and lifts up his bow,
ready to renew the fight even at peril to his life.
*
* *
The
enemy’s wolves are the first of the forces to leap into action as the
third hour of battle opens—but those on the enemy’s left are routed
and simply bolt, melting away into the surrounding mountains in small and
battered packs. The wolves on the enemy’s right, though, hungrily
maul the fleeing Rohirrim, and over the course of their rampage they fell
another hundred riders.
As
the Rohirrim suffer on the left, the Gondorian infantry in the center presses
their advantage. The eastern Gondorians under Forlong’s son try to
mount an attack on the fresh orc-infantry along the enemy’s left but
little comes of their effort. The western Gondorian’s under
Hirluin’s son, however, more than make up for the failure with an
extraordinarily successful assault. Filled with a fey doom, they overrun
the battered orc column in front of them and completely destroy it, slaying
each of the 300 remaining orcs down to the very last. The heavy infantry
of Minas Tirith, obeying Gilavas’s request, do not pursue the routed band
of fleeing orcs in front of them and instead defend their position, anchoring
the army’s center.
Now
the orc-infantry swings into action. Two of their battalions, however,
are in headlong rout. The decimated unit fleeing from the Men of Minas
Tirith catch up to the panicked unit fleeing from Biárki’s Dwarves, and together
they rush past the line of Uruk-hai and trolls. The hill-trolls and
Olog-hai roar in anger at the pesky goblins sweeping around them, and no small
number are squashed by huge feet or mashed by heavy maces or clubs; the rest of
the surviving orcs pour into the West Gate and flee into the darkness.
Two orc battalions, however, are not yet reduced, and they renew their assaults
upon the Gondorian levies. The attack against the western Gondorians
quickly peters out with little effect, but the orcs make an impression upon the
eastern Gondorians: among Forlong’s battalion, fifty of his men fall
during the protracted combat.
Biárki
leads his company of Durin’s Folk in a stern charge down the slope of
Gundabad as fast as their legs may carry them, and they manage to reach the
baggage camp before the wolf-riders clear the moorland heath. King
Elessar, dressed in his full panoply of battle and surrounded by his guards and
servants, all armed, greets Biárki warmly: “Never have I been so glad to
lay eyes upon Durin’s Folk, Biárki Barrelheart. You are most
welcome!” The scarred Dwarf nods grimly and deploys his warriors
about the encampment, preparing them to defend against the onrushing enemy
charge. The king slides from its scabbard his royal sword, Narsil
reforged, Andúril the Flame of the West. “Now let us join
sword and axe, Durin’s Folk!” King Elessar shouts as he brandishes
the blade, and the Dwarves raise a loud and warlike cheer.
Shortly
thereafter, the Riders of Rohan thunder down the slope. The right wing
regroups under the command of Éogar, and their rout comes to a halt in the
narrow defile at the base of the slope, within a hundred yards of the company
of Dwarves redeploying around the baggage camp and the royal pavilion.
The left wing, alas, is in a chaotic panic and suffers a dreadful counterattack
by the wolves on the enemy’s right. One by one the horses are
dragged down and the riders mauled by claw and fang, until virtually every man
lies dead or dying upon the slope. By the time Éogar’s riders
regroup at the base of the slope, only a handful of stragglers from the left
wing are behind them. The left cavalry wing has been destroyed.
The
orc-skirmishers continue to launch volley after volley of darts and
black-feathered arrows. The missiles fall harmless among the Men of Minas
Tirith, who have taken up a stout defense and shelter behind their long
shields. The skirmishers on the enemy’s right trade flights of
arrows with the Eriador company, and the battalion on the enemy’s left engages
with the Ithilien company. For all their fury, the enemy’s shafts
fail to make any impression among the archers of the Grand Muster.
The
Eriador company holds its ground and shoots a hail of volleys back upon the
orc-skirmishers. Rard does his best to inspire the men by example.
"That was good,” he says to his mates after they land a few able
shots, “but can you match this? Watch that orc with the banner in the
middle." He attempts a wild shot at the skirmishers’
bannerman, but he is wide of the mark. His wounds sting mightily from the
exertion and he gasps, "Must be the pain. Now, let's see you men take him
out…” Alas, the little hobbit is too badly wounded to make
much of a contribution to the company’s efforts. Nonetheless,
Halbarad’s son manages to direct an effective barrage, and over many
minutes perhaps 200 more orcs fall. "'Good job, men; make each
shot count,” Rard says, trying to cheer on his comrades. But, as he
watches the battle unfold it strikes him that the unit may be compelled to move
again and swiftly, and he fears that especially in his wounded state he may not
be able to keep up with the Men. The hobbit hits on the idea that if one
of the riderless horses of the Rohirrim could be wrangled, he might be able to
ride and keep up with the Men of Eriador. He spots a group of Bree-men
who have shot all their arrows away and barks to them through gritted teeth,
swallowing the pain, "You, men, catch some of the riderless horses of the
Men of Rohan. When the horses come by you will grab the
reins!" He looks grimly and adds, "It appears we may have a lot
of horses to catch." The Bree-men nod nervously and run off to see
what they can do; it is all that they can manage to capture a couple panicked
stallions, calm them down, and bring them over to Rard and Halbarad’s
son.
Meanwhile,
to the west the orc wolf-riders thunder into the mountain defile, their vicious
howls and screams filling the canyon. The northward host scurries along
the edge of the defile, sweeping past the baggage camp and redeploying in
battle order along the front of the regrouped Riders of Rohan under
Éogar. The southward host charges straight ahead into the company of
Dwarves, crashing into their battle line before they can wholly adopt a
defensive formation. Inspired by the presence of King Elessar, the hero
Aragorn of the War of the Ring, Biárki’s Dwarves stand ready to receive
the charge. The horde of wolf-riders is large and ferocious, but the
little orcs with their wooden spears and curved light swords prove no match for
dwarven mail and shields; the wolf-riders’ charge is swiftly repulsed
without much effect.
After
Gilavas rides through the Ithilien company instructing them to fall back to the
king’s rescue, Elboron finds himself torn between aiding his king and
finishing the fight ahead of him. His men are already engaged with the
enemy skirmishers, trading volleys over the heads of the infantry units
clashing in the center. Arrows fall all about him, and the young man is
tired from hours of strain and stress. Summoning up his courage, he
shakes off his weariness and comes to a firm decision: “Company of
Ithilien, lower bows and turn about face. A greater battle waits for us
at the base of the slope. To the king!” The company readily
heeds his command and marches down the slope. The orc-skirmishers launch
a withering counterattack as the Ithilien company redeploys, and the archers
leave some fifty casualties upon the slope by the time they draw up again in
the narrow gap, next to the regrouped Rohirrim and the dwarven company.
It is a risky position, Elboron knows, but he thinks it best to close the gap
and stand beside the other battalions defending the royal pavilion, even if it
means risking hand-to-hand combat with the wolf-riders.
*
* *
The
last host of wolves upon the slope of the mountain, having destroyed the
Rohirric cavalry on the left, now turns upon the levy of western Gondor.
Hirluin’s men, already engaged with the orc-infantry, are struck upon
their flank and suffer for it; before the hour is up, some one-hundred fifty
Gondorians are struck down by the ravenous wolves.
Ingold,
who has taken command of the Minas Tirith heavy infantry in the king’s
place, perceives that the line is in danger of envelopment. He sends
runners to confer with Hirluin’s son and Forlong’s son, and all the
captains agree that they must follow the course recommended by Gilavas—to
withdraw back toward the narrows in a defensive order. The orcs and
wolves surrounding them launch furious counterattacks, but the Men of Gondor
are stoutly defended and the offensives are quickly blunted. The
orc-infantry hosts smell blood and pursue the withdrawing Men, but their
assaults are wholly ineffective against the well-defended ranks of the
Gondorian levies.
At
the opposite side of the battle through the mountain defile, Biárki also orders
his warriors to take up a full defense, wielding shield and axe and hammer to
block the enemy from penetrating the baggage camp and royal pavilion. The
Riders of Rohan are full wroth at the destruction of the five éoreds on
the left wing, and they readily obey Éogar’s order to form up and charge
the wolf-riders threatening the flank of the Dwarves guarding the king and the
royal pavilion. Éogar swallows hard, fearful that he lacks the wisdom of
command to lead these men in battle. Will they suffer the same fate as
those men led by Grimbold’s son? Then, a gleaming light catches his
eye, like the orange-red fire of the setting sun; it is Andúril the
king’s sword held aloft, reflecting what little sunlight seeps through
the fulminous clouds above. For a brief moment his eyes meet the
king’s, and Éogar knows he has the king’s blessing and
confidence. “King Elessar needs the strength of Rohan,” Éogar
shouts to the men in his regrouped host, sharing with them the confidence he
has gained from the king. Charging forward upon Hildwyn he cries out,
“For the Mark!” The Riders of Rohan repeat his battle-cry,
and the cohort of heavy cavalry surges into the mass of wolf-riders.
Éogar summons up his courage to keep firm command of his warriors, guiding
their charge to strike true [2 Courage spent]. By the hour’s end,
the Eorlings have felled no fewer than 150 of the enemy host.
Up
the slope through the narrows, the battle between the orcs and the infantry
rages. The three remaining hosts of orc-skirmishers bombard the defending
Gondorians, but the Men hold firm behind their shields and very few of the
projectiles draw any blood. Even the Eriador skirmishers are not palpably
hit by the barrage. Halbarad’s son, noting that the infantry line
has fallen back in a defensive posture, orders his company to do the
same. The Bree-men and Rangers lower their bows and take up hatchets,
short swords, and bucklers, and as a mass they withdraw down the slope behind
the levy of western Gondor. Halbarad’s son smiles at Rard and
scoops him up, placing him atop one of the wrangled horses. “Come,
Master Brandybuck, you and I must ride if we are to keep you among us.
It would grieve me greatly if you fell behind and were caught by the ferocious
wolves, who look very hungry and would find you a tasty morsel!”
The orc-skirmishers launch a counterattack as the Eriador company falls back,
but the flights of arrows make no impression upon the well-ordered defenders.
Back
down the slope the wolf-riders hurl themselves at the Dwarves and Riders of
Rohan. The Dwarves hold a firm defense, and the waves of attackers cannot
penetrate their ranks. The wolf-riders to the north have somewhat more
successful charging into the ranks of the Rohirric cavalry, but for all their
fury and numbers the goblins and wolf-mounts learn they are no match for the
strong horses and heavy mail of the Eorlings, who shrug off their blows with
hardly a loss. Seeing the wolf-riders engaged hopelessly with the warlike
Rohirrim, Elboron senses a great opportunity. He halts his men within a
hundred yards of the enemy host and orders them to raise bows and pour volleys
of arrows into the exposed flank. Inspired by the presence of King
Elessar, Elboron leads his men in an effective attack: some 250 enemies are
struck by the vicious barrage before the hour’s end.
Yet,
far atop the slope in front of the West Gate stand the Uruk-hai and the
trolls—the enemy’s most powerful battalions, unscathed, unwearied,
and in reserve. The bestial warriors hold their position, clashing
weapons upon shields and taunting the Free Peoples as they are pushed back down
the slope.
*
* *
At
the end of the third hour of battle, the Grand Muster is sorely battered.
On the left wing, all 600 of the Riders of Rohan are lost. Of the right
wing, 350 riders have been struck down. Among the Gondorian levies some
200 men are casualties, and the Ithilien company has lost perhaps 50. In
total, the Grand Muster has lost some 1,200 men—around a quarter of its
maximum strength. The enemy has suffered far greater casualties: at least
2,200 orcs, a thousand wolves, and 400 of the wolf-riders. It is a
three-to-one exchange, but still a rueful one for the Free Peoples. The
enemy’s losses are only a small fraction of their maximum strength, for
the dark hold of Mount Gundabad appears now to be far more heavily reinforced
than anyone had before imagined. Of the enemy forces, the orc-skirmishers
on the enemy’s left and the northward wolf-riders have suffered
grievously, and by the end of the hour both hosts are in rout, broken and
exhausted. Of the Grand Muster, only the western Gondorians and the
Ithilien company have taken losses this hour, and
despite their fatigue both battalions hold together and do not break.
Throughout
the third hour of battle, all of the heroes are exposed to the spears, arrows,
or fangs of the enemy forces. Biárki leads Durin’s Folk in the
heart of the press, driving back the spears of the wolf-riders with his
mattock. He suffers two greater strikes during the fray, though his stout
dwarven mail absorbs much of the impact (5 + 5 = 10 damage total,
Healthy). Elboron leads his company in the thick of the action, where
arrows fall all about him. He dodges them as best he can, but still
suffers one greater strike and one lesser strike; fortunately, the coat of mail
given to him by his mother protects his body (1 + 6 = 7 damage, 14 damage
total, Dazed). Éogar braves the jaws of many of wolf during the hour, and
his spear fends off most beasts; he faces but one lesser strike (2 damage, 10
damage total, Healthy). Gilavas rides across virtually the entire
battlefield, and though he keeps mainly to the outskirts at times he faces the
enemy spears and must parry them with his swift longsword; he suffers two
lesser strikes in the fray, though his heroism acts almost as a kind of armor
and reduces the danger (5 + 5 = 10 damage total, Dazed). Rard, too, tries
to keep to the outskirts of the fray as much as possible, though many arrows
still fly his way which he is compelled to dodge; yet he is already sorely
wounded, and only his Courage (1 point spent, 1 remaining) protects him; he
suffers two lesser strikes (6 + 6 = 12, 34 damage total, Near Death).
Halbarad’s
son rides amidst the Eriador skirmishers, leading them to draw up in a
defensive posture behind the ranks of the western Gondorian levy. Behind
him on the back of one of the wrangled Rohirric mounts is Rard.
“Hold tight, Master Brandybuck!” the Ranger says, galloping
ahead through clouds of arrows whizzing all around them. Finally, the
horse and its two riders reach the new ground, and Halbarad’s son orders
his men to form up again. He leaps off the back of the horse and pulls Rard
down into his arms. He smiles and begins to say a cheerful word when
suddenly he notices the hobbit’s body is limp; a black-feathered arrow
sticks out of Rard’s back, and the hobbit’s blood covers the
Ranger’s hand. Halbarad’s son lays the hobbit down upon the
earth and breaks off the offending shaft. He says with great worry in his
voice, “Rariadoc, do you yet live?” Rard opens his eyes
weakly and coughs up blood. “A battle is no place for a
hobbit,” Rard says to him with a weak smile. “I think old
Bilbo said something like that once…” Halbarad’s son
squeezes Rard’s hand gently and begs him to hold on for just a little
while longer, until the army can safely retreat through the narrows.
Scene 7: The Doom of War
As
the battle on the western slope of Mount Gundabad continues into a fourth hour,
the Grand Muster faces inevitable retreat. The cavalry on the left wing
has been wholly annihilated, and the cavalry on the right wing has been
decimated and withdrawn to the rear to drive back the enemy wolf-riders.
The reserve force of Dwarves, too, has been pulled back to defend the royal
pavilion. The infantry line has fallen back in a defensive poster to the
narrow defile at the base of the slope, along with the skirmishers. Almost
all the ground that was gained in the first hour of battle is lost by the start
of the fourth, and the enemy’s reserve line of
Uruk-hai and trolls remains fresh, defiantly guarding the West Gate at the top
of the slope.
While
King Elessar stands alongside Biárki Barrelheart and the Dwarves of Aglarond
fending off the orc wolf-riders, the king’s herald Gilavas Parmandil
rides between the battalions of the Grand Muster, desperately trying to
organize an orderly retreat down the slope. A young Rider of Rohan,
besmirched and wearied, gallops up bearing a message. The rider reports,
“I bring word from Éogar Garbald’s son. He says,
‘Gilavas, thanks be to your calming words during the Rohirrim flight from
the front. Wolf-riders flee before us; we will press them from the dwarven
flank before aiding the stout warriors defending the king. If the front
needs aid, send Elboron and the men from Ithilien. Their aid proved
critical in routing the wolf-riders, but I feel confident that the
Dwarves and Men of the Mark can fell the remaining enemies at our
back. Tell Biárki to listen for thunderous hooves on the flank of the
wolves.’ So says our commander.”
With
a sad look in his eyes Gilavas replies, "I was too late to aid the other
flank. Too many brave men have already fallen today. Tell Captain
Éogar I will keep his suggestion in mind, should the front line
waver.” The young Eorling nods deeply and turns his horse about,
galloping back toward Éogar’s cavalry wing. After he completes his
ride along the rear of the infantry line, confirming that the battalions are
holding, the herald gallops down the slope toward the embattled camp to report
to the king.
*
* *
The
last remaining horde of wolves opens the new hour of battle; they leap upon the
flank of the western Gondorians, who are already engaged with the orc-infantry
up the slope. Fortunately, the beasts are too skittish and chaotic to
press a coordinated attack, and the Gondorian flank guards fend off the
assault.
Down
the slope through the narrows, Elboron lets out a whoop of exultation as the
first of the enemy ambushers breaks. "Attack, men of Ithilien,
attack!" he cries. "This rabble cannot stand before us! Leave
none of them alive on the field!" The Rangers and Elves under his
command raise a spirited shout as they lower bows and take up swords, hatchets,
and bucklers. Riding tall astride Léofara, Elboron leads his warriors in
a spirited charge against the routed wolf-riders. As the minutes pass,
hundreds of the orcs atop wolves are hewn. "Flee, dogriders!”
Elboron shouts. “Run back to your holes!” Indeed, that
is what the craven foemen attempt to do: those wolf-riders left unharmed fall
back in chaos, but the Ithilien company launches a punishing counterattack that
cuts straight through the enemy rout, and soon not a one is left alive.
Éogar is unable to organize a counterattack by his riders in time to join
Elboron’s assault, but regardless there are no foes left for them to
attack. The way now is open for Éogar’s cavalry to sweep upon the
flank of the other horde of wolf-riders. That other foul unit seems
unaware of its danger, for it continues to assail the unbreakable dwarven
lines; whilst the Durin’s Folk guard themselves with axe, shield, and the
stoutest mail crafted upon Middle-earth, they are quite nearly impervious to
the enemy’s paltry attack.
As
the wolf-riders hopelessly assail the dwarven ranks, Éogar leads the Riders of
Rohan around the camp and toward the vulnerable enemy flank. The Dwarves
cheer at the sight of the cavalry approaching in the distance, and Biárki gives
the Dwarves the order for which they have been longing:
“Attack!” With deafening cries of Khazâd-ai-mênu,
“The Dwarves are upon you,” Durin’s Folk come out of their
guarded stance and assault the wolf-riders before them. King Elessar
salutes them with Andúril, the Flame of the West, as they set out, and morale
of the battalion soars. Biárki himself leads from the heart of the press,
summoning up his courage to shake off his tiredness [1 Courage spent, 1 remaining].
Though the Dwarves number only two-hundred fifty, in a short space of minutes
they cut down 150 wolf-riders.
Meanwhile,
up the slope the order passes up and down the infantry line to fall back to the
narrow gap, the most defensible point in the surrounding terrain. The
light and heavy infantry wait for Halbarad’s son to redeploy the Eriador
skirmishers through the narrows and take up a new position right of the
Ithilien company; the Gondorian levies and the Men of Minas Tirith slowly fall
back into the narrows, keeping their guard facing the orcs on the slope.
The orcish counterattacks come to naught whilst the infantry holds such a
defensive posture. Seeing that the enemy has fallen back to the base of
the slope, the orc commanders give the order not to pursue; the enemy hosts
slowly march back up the slope to draw up in front of the Uruk-hai and the
trolls. Even the broken unit of skirmishers is rallied and forced back in
line as soon as their clumsy rout is blocked by the cave-trolls.
*
* *
Once
the Dwarves have driven the wolf-riders back from the baggage camp, the way is
clear for the herald Gilavas to report to the king. The solemn Elf
gallops into the royal pavilion, where King Elessar greets him. "My
lord, I bear grave news,” Gilavas says. “The Rohirrim on the
left have been completely destroyed, and Éogar’s wing has taken heavy
losses, as you can see. The lieutenant-general in the field, Lord
Halcred, is nowhere to be found, and behind the enemy battle line two
companies of trolls and a company of Uruk-hai have appeared in reserve. I
fear we can win no victory today, my lord, and to prevent needless loss of
life I must urge you to call a retreat." He bows his head
respectfully and concludes, "In the absence of both our leaders, I have
taken the liberty to order the companies from Minas Tirith and Gondor to take
up a defensive position in the gap."
The
king’s grey eyes cast far across the battlefield, and he perceives the
truth in what elvish sage tells him. “You were right to do so,
Gilavas Parmandil,” he says in a sad voice, pained by every noble life
this day. “Let the voice of my herald be heard by all our
companies, and in my name sound a general retreat. See that what is left
of our Grand Muster regroups on the moorland heath beyond the mountain
slope. I will see that the baggage train and pavilion are removed once
the way is clear.” Gilavas bows his head once more to the king and
turns about Pelethanor, galloping up the slope to obey the royal commandment.
Though
the orcs of Mount Gundabad appear content to drive the invaders back off the
slope, the wild wolves in their service know no wisdom or restraint.
Mindlessly, they fall upon the well-guarded lines of the western Gondorians,
who drive the wolves back with spear and shield. The wolf-riders, too,
remain engaged with the Dwarves, unaware of the redeployment of their
compatriots atop the slope. Éogar, summoning up the last of his courage
[1 spent, 0 remaining] leads the Riders of Rohan in a successful charge
against the exposed flank of the enemy horde. More than 300 goblins and
their wolves and felled by lance, sword, and hoof, and soon the wolf-riders are
reduced to well below half their original number. Seeing the wolf-riders
suffering grave punishment at the hands of the Rohirrim, Biárki leads the
Dwarves in yet another brutal assault upon the front ranks of
wolf-riders. Calling up the last of his courage [1 spent, 0 remaining],
he organizes a spectacularly successful offensive: the Dwarves overrun the wolf-riders’
ground, cutting down the beasts and hewing the orcs until not one is left
alive. The last of the wolf-riders is destroyed!
The
skirmishers of Eriador and Ithilien are safely drawn up in the narrows behind the
infantry line, and their captains observe the fulminating wolves throwing
themselves against the Gondorian line. Elboron leads the way, ordering
his men to take up bows once more and bombard the wild animals.
Halbarad’s son follows suit, and his Bree-men and Rangers of Rhudaur lob
volleys of arrows into the wolves. The men see King Elessar, the Flame of
the West in hand, standing in the open in the pavilion behind them, and they
are greatly cheered. It is the shafts of the Ithilien company that strike
true, and in the final minutes of the battle some 150 wolves are felled.
It is enough to break the momentum of the vicious animals, and in a panic the
animals rush back up the slope. The skirmishers and levy of western
Gondor launch a powerful counterattack, and the remainder of the wolves is
struck down; the last horde of wolves is destroyed before the beasts can flee
very far.
*
* *
The
first battle of Mount Gundabad is over, and the Grand Muster has been compelled
to retreat. The orcs, trolls, and Uruk-hai drawn
up at the top of the slope in front of the West Gate howl and laugh, mocking
the invaders. The blood of the Men and Dwarves of the West burns to hear
their mockery, but their hearts sink at the thought of trying to press back up
the slope held by an enemy that is fresher and outnumbers them by more than
half-again the effect strength of the Grand Muster. Gilavas rides about
the field, calling out the general retreat ordered by the king. Elboron
grits his teeth in rage, burning to continue the battle; it takes an act of
courage for him to swallow his battle fury and accept the will of the king [1
Courage spent, 0 remaining]. Glumly, Faramir’s son turns Léofara
away from the slope and leads his company in retreat back to the moorland
heath.
During
the final hour of the fray Biárki, Éogar, and Elboron are exposed to enemy
strikes. Biárki suffers 2 lesser strikes at the hands of the wolf-riders,
but his armor virtually negates the damage [1 + 1 = 2, 10 damage total,
Healthy]. Éogar also face 2 lesser strikes from the wolf-riders, but
he too is well-armored against the strokes [1 + 1 = 2, 12 damage total,
Healthy]. Elboron, alas, is not so skillful a defender as Éogar and
suffers 2 greater strikes [6 + 6 = 12, 26 damage total, Injured]. Despite
weariness and enemy strokes, Biárki and Éogar emerge from the battle only
slightly grazed. Young Elboron is worse off, bruised and bloodied in
several places by spear and arrow, but his wounds are not serious.
Far
more serious is the fate of Rariadoc Brandybuck. As Gilavas Parmandil
rides between the retreating companies, he espies Halbarad’s son riding
toward him from the column of Eriador skirmishers. The tall Dúnadan bears
a small load in his arms, and as he nears the Elf-sage he dismounts and gently
lays the bundle upon the earth. Gilavas leaps off Pelethanor and gazes
upon the little form wrapped in a cloak, and his heart despairs to see the
spirited hobbit Rard mortally stricken. “There is none among the
Eriador company with knowledge of leechcraft enough to treat such a deathly
hurt. I beg you, Master Gilavas, use your arts to save his life,”
pleads Halbarad’s son.
The
High-elf kneels before Rard and examines his wounds, and he quickly discerns
that the mortal injury is likely beyond his ken to heal, even with the aid of
magic. “I will do what I may,” Gilavas tells Halbarad’s
son. Gilavas speaks words of magic, calling upon those Ainur whose power
spares and sustains life. He pulls free the broken shafts from
Rard’s body, cleaning the wounds and wiping clear the blood and grime; he
lays his hands upon the hobbit’s form, letting the magic of his elvish
nature preserve the hobbit’s life. “He is stable for
now,” Gilavas says, “but I can do no more for him. We must
bring him to King Elessar. The hands of the King are the hands of a
healer…” Halbarad’s son nods and gingerly lifts Rard
into his arms, climbing atop his horse and cantering toward the royal pavilion
being set up further away from Mount Gundabad.
*
* *
Columns
of Gondorian infantry, Eriador and Ithilien skirmishers, Dwarf axe-warriors,
and Rohirric cavalrymen stream away from Mount Gundabad’s western
slope. Of the army’s original strength of approximately 4,800, it
is reckoned that 1,200 are casualties. Not all of that number is killed,
and around 400 wounded men are able to limp off the field of battle, some
carried by friends, some crawling by what strength remains in
their limbs. These walking wounded are lain
in a field, incapacitated and in need of treatment. The army’s
surgeons move among them, tending their injuries as best they can; with time,
perhaps a month, these wounded souls will regain their strength and may fight
again. However, 800 men of the Grand Muster will never draw breath
again. Most of them were stricken dead in the battle, but some
unfortunate souls were only crippled and left to face a lingering death.
The orcs, who are once again masters of the slope, walk amongst the bodies and
cruelly slay those few survivors. It seems that no prisoners are taken:
no quarter is given by the Orcs of Mount Gundabad, and none shall be granted
them.
The
captains, lords, nobles, and counselors of the army gather where the royal
pavilion is erected anew, and despite their own hurts and weariness they bemoan
the cruel deaths inflicted on those casualties left upon the slope. They
swear angry curses upon the orcs, and call for the king to order a fresh
sortie. King Elessar walks among these officers and silences them with a
gesture. “We are finished this day, my friends,” the king
says. “Our strength is spent, and any further efforts would only
result is the wasted effusion of blood. Would you have me add to our
suffering by ordering more of it?”
“Let
us form the line again, and renew the press!” Hirluin’s son
pleads. Forlong’s son seconds, “We may yet prevail, now that
our king leads us!”
The
king shakes his head solemnly. “I cannot, and I will not,” he
says. “The enemy is far greater in strength than we ever supposed,
and our situation is precarious.” He now turns his grey stern gaze
upon every face in the assembly. “And let no man say that the day
would have been carried had the king led the host. It was by vote of this
assembly of counselors that the royal person was consigned to the baggage camp,
and there is nothing to say that my presence in the front would have changed
the outcome. As you supposed before we departed Norbury, a stray arrow
could have felled me. Do not dishonor the dead and dying by supposing
their sacrifice might have been unnecessary, had only the king commanded them
in the field.”
“But
where is Halcred Théogar’s son?” asks one of the Gondorians.
“It was he who commanded us, and he who proposed that he be made
lieutenant-general in the field. He bears the responsibility for what has
befallen us.”
“No,”
the king returns in a stern voice. “It is I, and I alone, who bears
responsibility. I am the king, and it is my charge to rule with what
wisdom is given me. That I surrendered this charge upon the advice of my advisors
who feared for my safety is a decision that I alone bear. The rightful
king is born to command, and his right is earned through the blood shed by
those who fought so that he might come into his inheritance. A rightful
king listens to the counsel of his subjects, but he does not let the love,
fears, or passions of his People dominate his native wisdom and
duty.” His grey eyes flash with a light of authority and he says in
a soaring voice, “May the Holy Ones forefend us from a time when kings
treasure their lives and comfort over all, and secret themselves away in
palaces, fearful of the risk and struggle of governance. Our efforts are
halted to-day, but we are not defeated. We will regroup, and nurse our
strength, and renew the attack in days to come. Then, I will lead the
army in the field, and share the burdens and risks of battle. If it is my
lot to perish, and the doom of the West to have no more kings after me, so be
it. But, I will not surrender my charge and duty. When the Grand
Muster marches again, their king will fight among them!” The
officers are inspired by his words, and they raise a great cheer. The
king then bids them to return to their hosts and companies, and to see to the
disposition of the men under their command.
By
nightfall the army has returned to where it bivouacked on the 5th of
June. The camp is rebuilt, and a strong watch is set so that none of the
orcs or wolves might launch a raid against the companies of the West. The
king visits the wounded and gives them encouragement. However, his
attention is focused on some specific casualties. The body of
Grimbold’s son, captain of the Rohirric cavalry on the left, is located
and brought to him, but that brave soul has already expired. The mortally
wounded Rard is brought into the royal pavilion, and King Elessar is gravely
saddened to see the cheerful hobbit so badly hurt. “Master
Brandybuck, I cannot bear you to leave my service yet,” he says in a
gentle voice, brushing the matted hair from the hobbit’s little brow.
He orders to his servants, “Fetch water and bandages, leeches and springs
of athelas.” When they are brought to him King Elessar uses
his own hands to mend Rard’s wounds; by his own lore and skill he is a
great healer, but his works are aided by the healing gift granted to a
rightful king of the line of Westernesse. Some hours later Rard is
greatly improved; the bleeding is stanched, his injuries are cleaned and
dressed, and the hobbit now is only badly wounded and certain to recover.
Alas,
King Elessar himself is very weary after the endeavor. The news brought
to him afterward is ill indeed. “My lord!” a servant cries,
running into the tent. “Halcred Théogar’s son has been
found!” Two Rohirric warriors carry Halcred’s broken body
upon a makeshift stretcher, and they lay the dying lieutenant-general at the
feet of the king. Elessar again calls for water and supplies to tend to
his wounds, but Halcred is so mortally stricken that even the king himself
cannot save him. Halcred nods weakly when informed by the king that his
mortal injury cannot be assuaged. With labored breath Halcred says,
“I must speak with Éogar Garbald’s son…”
The
servants fetch Éogar, who is not far away; for he was loath to leave the royal
pavilion until given word that Rard’s life was safe. When informed
that Halcred has been found and is dying, the Knight of Arnor hurries to
him. Halcred looks up at Éogar as he kneels beside him;
Halcred’s body is struck by many blows, and his armor is in tatters, but
it is a deep spear-wound to the chest that claims his life. Halcred
says in barely a whisper, “It is my time to leave this earth, Éogar, but
I must beg your forgiveness before I depart for the halls of my
fathers.” With his last strength he lifts up the hilts of his
shattered sword and says, “Do you recall the oath I swore to you one year
past in Rivendell?”
Éogar
answers in a sad and somber voice, “You pledged not to reveal my identity
to those whom I served or to any in the assembly until I deemed it right, and swore
that your sword should shatter in its hour of need if you broke your
pledge.”
“It
was a pledge that I ignored at my peril,” Halcred responds weakly, his
words broken by a cough that expels blood. “When the orcish
infantry assailed our ranks in the second hour of battle, I rode against them
and was surrounded. I heard your voice call my name, and I began to fight
my way toward your position. But, when the last orc stood in my way, I
lowered my sword against his shield; my blade struck hard and shattered.
My horse was killed beneath me, and my body was pierced by their
spears…” He opens his hand and lets the broken hilts fall to
the ground. “I have wronged you, Éogar Garbald’s son,”
Halcred says with his dying breath. “Too late do I see your worth…
Grant me your pardon… Return to the Mark, and speak well of
me…” Slowly Halcred’s eyes draw closed, and he breathes
his last.
*
* *
The
rueful night passes upon the cold, wind-swept moorland heath, and though the
orcs and wolves ever can be heard in the distance, they do not attempt to
assail the encampment. When the sun rises on the morning of June the 7th,
the king orders the army kept in camp. Defensive ramparts are to be
constructed around the bivouacs, especially around the camp where the wounded
lie in recovery. Strong watches are set all along the breastworks, and
well-armed patrols are ordered to guard every approach. When the men are
put to work ensuring the army’s security, King Elessar summons the lords,
captains, and advisors to the royal pavilion for another war-council.
Much needs to be discussed and debated: What must be done to ensure the safety
of the army? What course should be taken in the future against Mount
Gundabad? When, if ever, should the Grand Muster venture another assault
against the western slope? How did the wolf-riders ambush the army in the
final hours of the battle, given that these enemy hosts came across ground
through which the Grand Muster previously had passed and secured?
Scene 8: Counsel and Mourning
By
nightfall on the 6th of June, FA 16, the remainder of the Grand
Muster is once again encamped on the moorland heath, less than one league from
the western slope of Mount Gundabad where the army had been defeated by orcs,
trolls, and wolf-riders. Though summer is nearly upon Middle-earth, the
night is unnaturally cold and dark. It is a sad night, too, for the army
has nearly 1,000 dead to mourn. The night is especially sorrowful for
Éogar, who spends the dark hours alone contemplating the passing of Halcred of
the Mark, the Rohirric noble who long ago put aside his troth to Éogar’s
sister after Éogar and his family were dishonored at the Isen River
battles. It was this shame that put Éogar on the path of an exile, that
made him leave the Mark without his king’s leave and become a renegade
unwelcome in his homeland. Meeting again after so many years brought to
the surface lingering anger in both men. Anger and doubt led Éogar to
exact a harsh oath from Halcred; anger and arrogance led Halcred to disdain the
oath and break it. Éogar looks to the starless sky above and finds little
comfort, the cold night air stinging his lungs with each breath. Yet he
finds resolution, and speaks quiet words to the soul of the departed Halcred:
"I will see your sword reforged so that you may rest with it. When I
return to the Mark, your name will be sung in the halls of Edoras."
Biárki
spends the desolate night among the Dwarves of Aglarond, who suffered few
casualties at the hands of the enemy and none serious. He sends for the
small band of Dwarves that are sworn to help him retake Khazad-dûm, and is glad
to see that they all are well. When he instructs them to remain among the
Dwarves of the Glittering Caves, to count the wounded and compliment the brave,
and to inquire if any Dwarf here has knowledge of these mountains and their
passes, some of his sworn folk complain that such work is a distraction from
their true mission. “Should we not return to Khazad-dûm, and force
our entry whilst the orcs are fearful of war to the north?” Biárki
reminds them that their duty now lies here at Mount Gundabad, and it would be
shameful for his company to leave when the army is most in need.
“Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens," he
reminds them. Biárki’s fellows assent and go among the Dwarves of
Aglarond, but they are not able to find any one with knowledge of these
mountains. It has been ages since Durin’s Folk peopled the halls of
Gundabad, and little knowledge of these mountains has survived into the Fourth
Age.
*
* *
On
the morrow, while the soldiers of the army are put to work building
fortifications for the wide encampment, the lords and counselors are summoned
to the king’s pavilion for council. From his sick-bed near the
king’s tent, Rard Brandybuck wakes at the commotion. Old Gamba
Bracegirdle sits at his side, and informs him that the noise is the gathering
of yet another council. Rard asks to be brought from the tent of the
wounded captains so that he may attend. The surgeon mending him
reluctantly agrees, so long as the hobbit remains still and seated. Rard
answers with a smile, "I do not think that will pose a
problem." The hobbit is happily carried to the council by a
strapping soldier and placed upon a pile of soft pillows.
Éogar
is gladdened to see his little friend alive and well enough to leave his
sick-bed. "Hobbits were meant for greater things than combat,
Rard,” he says. “I am sorry that I could not have been with
you." Rard places his hand upon Éogar’s in a comforting
gesture. There are regrets enough this day, and none should be allowed
between friends who have endured so much together.
King
Elessar emerges from his tent, his chamberlain Ingold at his side. The
king smiles gently to see Rard among the gathering, shorter than ever as he
convalesces upon a stack of pillows. A slight breeze sweeps in from the
west as the king appears, the yellow glint of the morning sun reflecting off
his royal crown-helm. The day is cool, and the sky heavy with clouds, but
not so wicked and dark as during the battle the day before. “My
lords and friends,” the king says in a strong and comforting voice,
“we are gathered to debate what course lies before us. Our army was
reserved in battle yesterday, but we are not broken. It seems to me that
we are not able to assail the mountain’s West Gate, but neither are we
driven away from the mountain in defeat. Here we shall remain until the
blood we have lost is avenged and our foes purged from the ancient halls of the
dwarven-fathers.” A cheer is raised by the assembly, none more
loudly than Biárki and the dwarven-counselors.
"My
lords!" Elboron calls out when the noise subsides. "Our first
priority must be to locate the source of the wolf-riders that assailed our
flank. Why were they able to take us unawares, and why did our scouts
detect no sign of them? If the enemy is able to position forces to our
rear, they could wreak havoc on our supply lines and place the entire campaign
at risk."
The
entire assembly falls silent, and the expression upon the king’s visage
confirms the truth in what Elboron says. Then, a small little voice
breaks the stillness. "We must have missed a secret
passage…” Rard says weakly from where he sits upon his pillows.
He tries to reside but quickly sinks back down in pain from his many
wounds. “As chief scout I accept the blame. All those brave
men are dead because we missed something." Tears well in his eyes as
exhaustion of the day and guilt begin to overtake him.
"Do
not judge yourself harshly, Rariadoc Brandybuck," Gilavas says.
"The orcs have occupied these lands for ages, and the rugged foothills and
mountains provide numerous possibilities for hidden exits."
"Rard,
there is too much land to scout in enough detail,” Éogar says, trying to
reassure his hobbit friend. “If there was another exit from
Gundabad, long has it been dormant. Is it possible that sorcery is at
work here? The dark clouds we have fought under today were not those of
the normal sky."
"Indeed,
the clouds were raised by Orcish magic,” Gilavas replies.
“Not as powerful as the shadows raised by Sauron, but sufficient for
their cause." Rard shutters at the thought, wiping the tears from
his eyes.
Halbarad’s
son walks to Rard’s side and says, “You were not scout alone,
Master Brandybuck. You had in your company some Rangers of Rhudaur, men
born to the wilderness and crafty in its ways. Neither did they spot a
hidden pass.”
"If
there is such a passage, it is likely well hidden,” Biárki states.
“Perhaps it was constructed by Durin's Folk."
King
Elessar nods once and says, “You carried out your charge well, Rariadoc,
and no-one blames you for what befell us. The wolf-riders worked little
mischief. Their stratagem surely was to wait for our army to advance onto
the slope and then to rush into the narrows, blocking our retreat. It was
well the company of Aglarond was in reserve and able to rush the narrows before
the wolf-riders could seize them.” The king looks among the
assembled counselor and asks, “What may be done to find this hidden
pass?”
Elboron
immediately proclaims, "I propose a patrol in force along the wolf-riders'
trail. The Rangers and Elves of the Ithilien
company
are uniquely well-suited to this task. I will lead the patrol
myself."
Some
of the lords of Gondor shift uncomfortably at the grand-standing of the young
man, but any dissent is quieted by the words of Gilavas. “Lord
Elboron speaks wisely,” the High-elf says. “We should send
out patrols in force to map out the possible exits in our flanks and
rear. These patrols should be strong enough to fend off a possible sortie
from the enemy."
"I
will go as well, and bring those skilled in reading stone,” Biárki
says. “If there is a door, we will find it."
The
king smiles at the sight of Elboron, brave as his father and headstrong as his
mother. “Make it so,” he answers. “Take two
hundred of the Ithilien company, find the trail of the wolf-riders, and track
them to their hidden passage.” He looks to Éogar and says,
“Call for one hundred volunteers among the Rohirrim, and ask them to
maintain a patrol between the Ithilien scouts and the army’s
encampment. I will not have any of our number out of communication for
long.”
"King
Elessar, my lords, I have some questions to add myself as well,” the
voice of Gilavas Parmandil rings throughout the morning sky. ”The
strength of Gundabad was far greater than expected. In order to determine
the full strength of the enemy, I would advise to send riders to our allies in
the east and west. Did they encounter resistance as well, or did the
enemy concentrate its forces here at the West-Gate of Gundabad?”
Ingold
responds, “It would take a great deal of time to send messengers to the
Dwarves at Mount Gram, the Elven-king and Lord of Lórien at the Redhorn, and
the Dwarves of Erebor and Bardings at the east slope of Gundabad. The
riders must needs travel west across the moorland heath, and south around the
Ettenmoors, then east over the High Pass, and back again to our camp.
Many months would pass before word returns to us.”
“Yet
I fear it must be so,” King Elessar says. “This army is not
in retreat, and we will remain here at the slope of Gundabad and await what
reports come from our allies.”
Gilavas
moves to his second point: “I am most concerned about the presence
of the companies of Olog-hai and Uruk-hai in Gundabad. The Great Goblin
nominally does not hold enough power to command these elite troops of
Mordor. Either the Great Goblin has greatly increased in power
recently, or some other servant of evil has taken over the command of
Gundabad. Who or what is in command of Gundabad, and perhaps all of the
Orcs of the North, at this time?"
“We
feared that a great evil may yet sleep in the ruins of Carn Dûm, and so asked
the Sindar of Lindon to stand watch,” says Ingold. “We had
not dared to think that some lingering evil may already have set itself in
place in Mount Gundabad!”
King
Elessar answers, “It is no better to fear what we do not know for certain
than to fear our own shadows. In the years before the battle at Morannon,
when Sauron was strong and held sway over much of Wilderland, his dark forces
ranged far afield. It may be that some Uruk-hai and black trolls were
left in the north after his fall, and they set themselves up as masters of
Gundabad, either as overlords of the Great Goblin or altogether in his
place. Sauron had many servants of great power, and not all of them
perished with him; it may be that we face one of them in Gundabad. Let us
not be fearful, but kept vigilant.”
Hirluin’s
son, who captains the levy of western Gondor, raises his voice next:
“What of the Grand Muster, my lord? We have suffered heavy
casualties. If we could not take the West Gate at our full strength, what
hope do we have that we may carry it with our strength so reduced? The
army must be reinforced.”
"The
cavalry has taken great losses," Éogar responds, “but King Éomer
will hear it, and death of the noble Halcred, from messengers. With such
an evil blow struck to the Men of the Mark, surely he can be convinced to send
more troops to bolster our numbers and avenge our fallen brothers.”
He pauses for a moment and adds, “How quickly needed troops can be
deployed, I am uncertain.”
Ingold
says, “Even the swiftest messenger would need a month to reach Edoras
from here, and if King Éomer agrees to send us additional riders it would take
him no less than a month to muster them. Once assembled, a body of
cavalry would take no less than a month to travel to us unspent and in good
order. It is nearly a thousand miles from here to the Gap of Rohan
alone. It is half-again further to Minas Tirith, and it would take twice
as long for a body of infantry to be gathered and dispatched to us.”
“Then
it is clear that we cannot expect even the first of our reinforcements to
arrive before the end of autumn, and companies of foot not before the following
spring,” King Elessar says, his expression darkening.
"How
long can we support the army in the field?" the pragmatic Biárki asks.
The
king looks to Ingold. The army’s quartermaster answers in a somber
tone, “So long as the Shire-folk are able to provision the army.
Our halfling allies expected to keep the army in provender until next spring,
but I fear that each month beyond will prove a harder burden on them. And
there is no other realm in the north with prosperous folk enough to provision
an army than the Shire.”
“Then
our course is set,” the king proclaims. “Our army will stay
in the field and lay siege to the West Gate of Gundabad, to deprive the orcs of
free movement and reinforcement. Word shall be sent to the Shire that our
army requires provisioning through spring of the next year, and I know that
goodly folk will not fail us. Let riders go to Edoras and Minas Tirith to
report our losses and ask for what reinforcements may be gathered. A
rider also must go across the Redhorn Pass to take counsel with the Elven-king
and Lord of Lórien, and another must travel the High Pass to take counsel with
the King-under-the-Mountain and the Bardings who hold the eastern slope of
Gundabad. These our allies must be convinced to keep their leaguer for
another year, until we may hope to assail the West Gate next summer.”
Volunteers
are called for, who will set off on their long journeys the next morning.
*
* *
That
night a funeral is planned for those who fell in the first battle of Mount
Gundabad. Most of the fallen are to be buried at the foot of the slope,
but the bodies of Halcred and Grimbold’s are to be preserved and wrapped
so that at least their bones one day may be carried to their homeland.
Éogar bears the shards of Halcred’s broken sword as he seeks out
Biárki. "A dwarven-friend, named Frolin, re-forged the armor that I
trust with my life today. It is well known that your people are master
craftsmen and he proved it under any measure. Will you or one of your
craftsmen reforge the sword of our fallen field general? It shattered
because of a foolish and vain oath I made him swear. By reforging his
sword, I hope that I can return the honor that it stole from him so that he may
rest in peace," he explains. “Will you help me, Biárki?”
"I
swing my hammer to crush foes, and I use a sword to cut off their heads and
stab their black hearts. But there is doubtless a forge and tools with
the baggage train, and it is assured that one of the folk from Gimli's hall
will have great skill with them,” he answers. "But you must
know," says Biárki, searching Eogar's face for confirmation, “you
will have no easy task to convince the artisan to accept the work. Few of
Durin's Folk will honor the fallen son of Théogar."
Eogar
nods once and replies, "Halcred was wrong to deny you and your people the
front ranks and the first blood. It does not make him dishonorable.
Will you help me to convince your brethren to re-forge his sword?"
"Eh,
none of us will deny there was enough fight to be had,” the Dwarf
says. “If the army hadn't been so ill used we'd have carried the
day!" But Éogar’s passionate words move the large-hearted
Dwarf, who agrees to help him. They walk among the company of Aglarond
and find no shortage of artisans who can mend a sword. Indeed, many a
sword in the army needs mending, and many of the Dwarves scoff at the request
to re-forge the sword of the dead general who led them to defeat. But,
with Biárki’s help one of them in convinced. The Dwarf takes the
shards to the forges and, over the next few hours, heats the metal and hammers
them fragments back together; when the pounding is finished, the artisan dunks
the hot blade into a tall pale of water, and a bale of steam rushes to the sky
above, carried by the winds across the heavens. Éogar finds peace that
Halcred’s soul is at rest, and he bears the re-forged sword to the
funeral. When the remains of Halcred are brought out to be wrapped, Éogar
places his mended sword at his side where it will remain with his bones.
The
first battle of Gundabad is over, and now a long period of waiting
begins. Word must be sent to the allies, and reinforcements received, and
the Elboron must lead the scouts into the surrounding foothills to find whether
the enemy does indeed hold a hidden pass that threatens the Grand
Muster’s flanks. Much work remains to be done…
The story
continues in Part II (click here)
