The Last Ringbearer (5 page)

The Dúnadan awaited him without trying to maneuver: knees slightly bent, upraised sword held in both hands, hilt against the belt buckle; all his earlier indecisiveness was gone. The general quickly approached to within about seven paces, right up to the maximum reach of the northerner’s blade, and started feinting: right, left, then his favorite distracting move – a quick pass of the scimitar to the left hand and back …

A terrible blow in the back felled him. He managed to twist sideways (“Spine’s still there …”), lifted his head and thought distantly: yes, I have underestimated those deaders … so they can move real fast and real silent when needed … northern bastard … Amazingly, he managed to get up to one knee, using the scimitar as a crutch; the dead men, having already surrounded him, stood still with swords raised, awaiting word from the ranger. The latter was in no hurry; pushing the helmet to the back of his head and chewing on a straw, he gazed at his fallen foe with interest. Then his calm soft voice broke the silence:

“Welcome, Commander-South! I knew that you would come for a one-on-one fight, as is the custom by you nobles.” His lips twisted in a smirk. “I was only concerned that you wouldn’t dismount, like I did. Had you kept to the saddle, it all could have been different … I’m glad that I didn’t overestimate you, fair sir.”

“You cheated.”

“You fool! I came here to win this war and the crown of Gondor, not some stupid duel. As Tulkas is my witness, I have often played heads-or-tails with death, but always for a goal, never for the hell of it.”

“You cheated,” repeated Commander-South, trying not to cough with the blood from his pierced lung slowly pooling in his mouth. “Even the knights of the North will not shake your hand.”

“Of course they won’t,” laughed the Dúnadan, “since they will be kneeling before the new King of Gondor! I beat you in an honest fight, one on one – so it shall be written in all the history books. As for you, even your name will perish, I’ll make sure of that. Actually,” he stopped in midstride, hunting for the stirrup, “we can make it even more interesting: let you be killed by a midget, some tiny little dwarf with hairy paws. Or by a broad … yes, that’s how we’ll do it.”

He mounted quickly, gestured once to his dead men and set the horse after the distant phalanx. He turned back only once, checking in annoyance: are they catching up or what? The corpses, though, were still standing in a circle, their swords rising and falling like threshing flails.

CHAPTER 8

M 
eanwhile, the battle continued. True, the Mordorian troops had wavered and now parted before the ranks of the undead without a fight, but there were no Western Coalition troops in the southeastern part of the battlefield to take advantage of the breach made by Aragorn. Besides, the clash at the hollow had demonstrated that the gray warriors were not totally invulnerable; they were hard but not impossible to kill. The phalanx, left without guidance for a few minutes, kept going forward until by sheer accident it wandered into the range of stationary long-range catapults trained on the citadel of Minas Tirith. The Mordorian engineers lost no time in turning these around and opening fire, this time with forty-bucket incendiary naphtha barrels rather than three-bucket jars. Whipped by monstrous fiery whirlwinds and not seeing the enemy (who was firing from a concealed position), the phalanx kept going forward mindlessly, getting deeper into the killing zone with every step, so that when Aragorn, catching up on a lathered horse, ordered an immediate retreat, it had to traverse the same deadly terrain a second time.

This time the losses were so great that the Dúnadan decided to rejoin the main forces to the west before it was too late; that proved to be difficult. Now, Orocuen horsemen dogged the decimated phalanx like piranhas, expertly lassoing the undead, especially in the rear row, pulling them out of the ranks and dragging them away, where they methodically hacked the corpses into tiny pieces. Trying to rescue their captured comrades, the gray warriors had to break ranks, which made things all the worse for them. You have to give Aragorn his due: he managed to close the ranks and break through to the Gondorian side under cover of brief counterattacks, personally cutting down two Mordorian officers in the process. They had to cover the last hundred fifty yards under fire from field catapults once again, so that only a few dozen living dead made it back to the Gondorians, almost causing them to flee.

So Aragorn’s gray phalanx almost completely perished, but it did its job. First, it had diverted substantial Mordorian forces, especially the catapults, without which the inner fortifications of Minas Tirith could not be taken. More importantly, after the death of Commander-South the South Army was deprived of overall direction and allowed itself to be drawn into head-to-head fighting for mutual annihilation – a losing proposition where the foe is so much more numerous. Nevertheless, the Mordorians kept fighting skillfully and determinedly; the March day was already failing, but the Coalition still had not managed to utilize its nearly two-to-one advantage. The main action was in the northern direction, where Trollish infantry and Umbarian bowmen managed to beat off the Rohirrim’s attempts to break through their defense line, despite large losses.

… Éomer slowly made his way past the line of Rohan and Dol Amroth cavalry, just rolled back from another unsuccessful attack, the fourth one today. Actually, to call this glum crowd of men and horses, some wounded and all exhausted to the utmost, a ‘line’ would be a stretch. He had been trying to straighten out the faceplate of his helmet, bent in by a Haradi club, when they informed him that Théoden was among those who perished in the last assault. After the victorious march on Isengard the old man was convinced that Éomer was going to use his coming glory of the victor over Mordor to strip him of his crown, and watched his nephew with a hawk’s eye. That was why he headed the march to the southeast himself, and then stripped his most popular general of his command right before the battle. The king was determined to win this one all by himself, “without the snot-nosed youths,” and so ignored all tactical advice and sacrificed the best of Rohan’s cavalry in senseless head-on attacks. Now he, too, was dead.

Éomer, now in charge, gazed at the glum ranks of the Rohirrim shivering in the brutal March wind. He felt like a physician who has been graciously allowed to treat the patient after the latter had already slipped into a coma. The hell of it was that the army of Mordor was in the same shape, if not worse; experience and keen battle intuition of the general told him in no uncertain terms that just one swift assault could swing the battle now. He saw clearly the weak spots in the enemy’s line and knew exactly where to strike and how to develop a successful breach, but he also knew that he dare not order his men forward. There is an unwritten unbreakable law: one may only give an order when he is sure that it will be followed, otherwise it is the end of everything that sustains an army. He saw just as clearly that these men could not be roused for another attack, not today.

So he stopped his horse, ordered everyone to dismount – to be seen better by more men – and launched into a speech strange for a warrior:

“We’re all mortal, guys; what the hell does it matter if it’s sooner or later? To me, it’s way more interesting what’s gonna happen to us afterwards. You probably think the general’s nuts to talk about life after death right now, but I reckon – when’s a better time? I mean, we’re simple guys – we live in the field, pray to a shield, once the danger’s over we give it no thought till the next time … Well, lads, there’s plenty of opinions about how’s it gonna be, but one thing everyone seems to agree on is that we all get whatever we believe in. So if you think that once your corpse rots there’s nothing left of you but a handful of dust, then that’s how it’s gonna be with you. Some faiths are even worse – you bum around the underworld forever as a shade – better to rot to nothing, indeed, than such a fate! Some expect to lie on the green grass in a pretty garden, drink heavenly nectar and play the lyre till the end of time; not bad, but kinda dull to my tastes. But there is a wonderful faith in the Eastern lands – a travelling preacher told me all about it a few days ago – and it’s pretty damn good, no fooling, but its Paradise is what’s best, just my style.”

He looked around – the men seemed to be listening – and continued:

“A palace in Heaven and in it a feast to shame a royal wedding, wine flowing like water from a spring, but the best part, lads, is the
houranies
. Those are girls who are forever eighteen, beautiful beyond belief, and no doubts about their looks, for they are dressed only in a golden bracelet each. And as for screwing – there are no such experts down here! One problem, though – only righteous men as led a sinless life are allowed into that pleasure palace, blokes like us have no chance …” He spread his hands.

The ranks stirred distinctly, a rumble rose and fell, someone spat: cheated, again! Éomer raised a hand and silence fell again, broken only by the listless susurration of dead grass.

“That is to say – no chance but one. There is one loophole for losers such as ourselves. In this wonderful faith anyone killed fighting honorably for a just cause – and who’d dare say that our cause is unjust? – has all his sins forgiven and is automatically considered righteous. So if any of you boys wanna get to this Paradise by living righteously from now on – good luck to you! As for me, I have no such hopes, so I’m gonna join the
houranies
right here and now as a valiant martyr – when else am I gonna have such a chance? So whoever wants to and
can
– follow me, and good luck to the rest!”

He stood in the stirrups and yelled somewhere skyward, using his armor glove as a bullhorn:

“Ahoy, gals! Open up the Heavenly bordello, never mind the hour! Stand ready to receive three best regiments of Rohan cavalry – bet my head to a broken arrow that you won’t ever forget these customers! We’re about to attack, so we’ll join you in Heaven in about ten minutes, that should be enough for you to get ready!”

And a miracle happened: the men began to stir! Laughter and elaborate cussing rose from the ranks; someone from the right flank inquired whether one could catch clap from a
hourani
and if so, how long it would take to cure in Heaven. Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, a handsome man famous for his amorous exploits who had in the meantime drawn up closer to Éomer, told a furiously blushing youngster on the left flank:

“Chin up, cornet! Those in the know say that there are beauties for every taste in that establishment. They must’ve lined up a flock of romantic maidens for you already, pining for a chance to hear you recite some verses in the moonlight!”

To booming laughter, the young man blushed even more and glared angrily at the prince from under thick, positively girlish, eyelashes. Éomer wheeled his horse around so that dirt fanned out from under its hooves and called out:

“To saddle, men! The madam up there must’ve already sent for the best wine for the new customers. By the laughter of Tulkas, today every one of you will get enough Núrnen wine to drown in, be it in heaven, be it on earth! The Valar will treat the fallen, the King of Rohan will treat the living! After me! …”

With those words he tossed his mangled helmet aside and looked back no more as he rushed the horse towards where his trained eye had spotted a tiny alien patch in the unbreakable stockade of Trollish armored infantry – the dark rounded shields of Easterling spearmen. The wind whistled in his ears and tossed his sweaty flaxen hair; Imrahil was galloping on his right, almost nose-to-nose.

“Dammit, Prince, put on your helmet – bowmen to the right!”

“After you, fair sir!” The prince grinned at him, whirled his sword over his head, and called out in a voice hoarse from shouting orders: “Dol Amroth and the Swan!”

“Rohan and the White Horse!” echoed Éomer, while behind them the thunder of thousands of hooves was already building to a majestic staccato: the riders of Rohan and Dol Amroth were making their last charge, to win or die.

CHAPTER 9

E 
verybody knows that Easterling infantry is far inferior to Mordor’s; Éomer’s charge scattered them like bowling pins, and the shining edge of Western cavalry crashed through the Mordorian defensive line. A little later another force slammed into their rear – a cutting edge of Aragorn’s remaining gray warriors, encased with Gondorian armored infantry. By about six in the evening those two fangs met deep in the body of the South Army, near its camp. The battle as such was over then, and slaughter began. The parked siege engines were set ablaze, and the gigantic bonfire highlighted now an Orocuen ambulance wagon stuck in the mud, then an arrow-studded
mûmak
dashing around the field, trampling friend and foe alike. Éomer had just run into Aragorn in this chaos of victory and was ceremoniously hugging his brother-in-arms to everyone’s victory whoops, when he noticed a horseman approaching them at full gallop – the blushing cornet. To tell the truth, the boy had more than acquitted himself, worthy of a medal. When the Rohirrim ran into the remnants of the Southern cavalry near the camp, he took on a Haradi lieutenant one-on-one and knocked the black giant out of the saddle (to everyone’s astonishment), seizing the enemy’s Snake-emblazoned scarlet cape – the very cape he was now waving triumphantly. A dozen paces short of the fatherly gazing leaders the cornet dismounted, pulled off the helmet, shook his head like an unruly horse, and suddenly a mass of hair tumbled over his shoulders – feather grass of the Plains of Rohan gilded by the evening sun.

“Éowyn!” was all Éomer could say. “What the hell! …”

The shield-maiden stuck her tongue out at him, tossed him the Haradi cape in passing – he was left standing, stunned, clutching his sister’s trophy – and stopped in front of Aragorn.

“Greetings, Ari!” she said calmly; only Nienna could have named the price of that calmness. “Congratulations on the victory. As I see it, the wartime excuses are now void. So if you don’t need me any more, say so now and, by the stars of Varda, I will immediately stop bothering you!”