Sunday, July 09, 2006

"Fight! Fight for your lives!"

As Gondorian infantry fought a desperate, last-ditch battle in the streets of Minas Tirith, doomwolves, orcs and armoured trolls poured among them like an insatiable flood, while numerous fires raged amidst the ruins of Minas Tirith.

The defenders of the White City were hopelessly outnumbered, but they would fight on anyway.

Then Gandalf looked up, a look of surprise creasing his battle-stained features.

A lone trumpet sounded out, its billowing tone carrying a plaintive note across the fields of the Pelennor.

A line of figures silhouetted against the horizon. Mounted figures, as the line quickly grew to encompass as far as the eye could see. Horsemen.

Rohirrim.

To honour their pact of brotherhood forged centuries ago in the furnaces of war, Rohan had come to save its ally.

Stretched across the endless fields, the hordes of Sauron were massed in all their dark splendor. Catapults incessantly rained boulders upon the besieged defenders of the White City, as siege towers continued their ominous path towards the marble fortifications.

Eowyn squeezed her arm around Merry comfortingly.

"Courage, Merry. Courage for our friends."

A thousand yards away, Gothmog strode among his bewildered troops, the Orc commander spitting out terse commands.

"Form ranks, you maggots! Pikes in front, archers behind!"

Elsewhere, Theoden brought his white steed to a halt, surveying the many regiments of doom marked out in stark relief, before spurring his horse towards his commanders to issue battle orders.

"Eomer, take your Eored down the left flank."

"Flank ready!"

"Gamling, follow the King's banner down the centre. Grimbold, take your company right after we pass the wall. Forth, and fear no darkness!"

The King of Rohan brought his stallion to a halt in front of his army. "Arise! Arise, riders of Theoden!", the king raising his voice to inspire his people, the pride of Rohan. "Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be shaken. A sword-day, a red-day, ere the sun rises!"

Wordlessly, the front ranks began to lower their spears in preparation for the charge, resembling a giant porcupine about to unleash its fury.

"Whatever happens, stay with me. I'll look after you," Eowyn promised.

"Ride now! Ride now!" Theoden continued, his steed cantering vigorously along the the breadth of his army, saluting the foremost riders by clattering his sabre on their raised lances. "Ride! Ride for ruin, and the world's ending!"

Before the echoes had begun to fade away, Theoden raised his sword for one last rally.

Who am I, Gamling?

"Death!"

"DEATH!" roared back the massed Rohirrim.

You are our king, my liege.

"Death!" Theoden cried again, waving his sword.

"DEATH!!" was the echo that rolled across the plain.

And do you trust your king?

"Death!" screamed the king.

This time, Eowyn and Merry lent their voices to the incredible chorus: "DEATH!!!"

Your men, my lord, will follow you to whatever end.

"Forth Eorlingas!"

To whatever end.

Again the battle rhythm of Rohan sounded, but this time with the all might of Rohan's trumpeters behind it. The rising sun glinted off the armour of the Rohan warriors, silhouettting them as warriors of righteousness.

Leading his army on with the point of his sword, Theoden quickly spurred his mount to a canter. The eager cries of the Rohirrim followed as they urged their own horses after the monarch, undimmed by any thought of fear or of self-doubt.

The army fanned out, its riders assuming the arrow-shaped formation of the wedge, designed to deliver maximum punishing force to whatever might be on the end of such a charge.

The Orc archers stood ready, their bowstrings straining.

"Fire!" Gothmog ordered.

The first wave of black, stubby arrows descended upon the onrushing horsemen. Huge gaps appeared as man and horse tumbled away, felled by the deadly shafts, but the Rohirrim broke not a stride; indeed, they were only roused to greater fury by the death of their comrades, the sounds of their battle-cries carrying higher and higher.

The first line having spent their ammunition, a second line of Orc archers stepped forward to take their place.

"Fire!"

Another hail of death. But this time, with the Rohirrim rapidly closing the distance, many of the arrows were misjudged, thudding harmlessly into the Pelennor turf.

"Charge!" Theoden commanded.

Looking around him frantically, Gothmog issued his last order: "Fire at will!"

This time the response was almost spasmodic, as the Orc archers fumbled to reload their crudely-fashioned bows. The entire company could only manage sporadic shots at the incoming horde as the deafening sound of hooves drowned out the last shreds of Orcish morale.

Nearer and nearer the Rohirrim came. The clangour of their yells carried forth, a fury within that could only be satiated by the death of every last one of their enemies.

Some of the leading Orcs, seeing the bloodlust of their foes more than matching their own, furtively attempted to retreat, but the press of their fellows from behind was too great to resist. In their attempt to get away, the entire front line began to crumble.

Nearer and nearer they came...

A rush of sound and colour. The biting steel of cavalry sabres, and the piercing blow of their lances. A Rohan warrior was lifted out of his saddle on the edge of a coal-black pike, and a patch of dark metal appeared where a score of orcs were trampled into the ground by relentless hooves.

The Rohirrim broke upon their enemies like an irresistible tidal wave, sweeping all before them in a body.

The nerve of the Orcs completely shattered, they turned as one to run away, their minds overtaken by sheer panic. Many of them did not get far, however, as they only presented a better target; Orc after Orc was pincushioned in the back by spear, arrow or throwing axe, or simply cut down mercilessly as the Rohirrim rode past.

"Drive them to the river!" Eomer yelled.

His command was unnecessary, however. The few Orcs able to muster any signs of resistance were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer momentum of the charge, knocked aside by a few hundred pounds of swiftly-moving horse, the Rohirrim whooping their battle-cries as they savagely cut their enemies to pieces.

By now Eowyn and Merry had been forced to a virtual standstill, but this did not deter them as they used the greater height of their horse to full advantage, striking down the panicking Orcs on both sides.

"Make safe the city!" Theoden ordered.

Before the remnants of the routed Orcs could fade away, a thudding echo silenced the raucous chants of victory. Open-mouthed, Theoden stared down the Pelennor at a new and formidable threat.

The battle was not yet over.