Eorl the Young led the Eotheod south to rescue Gondor’s desperate army at the battle of the Field of Celebrant in the year 2510 of the Third Age.  Much has been written about the subsequent alliance between Eorl’s people and Gondor and the pledges made between Eorl and Cirion. 

However, there is little to mark the details of the battle itself or the preparation, strategies and tactics of the Eotheod, Gondor, Orcs, Balchoth and their leaders in the days leading up to the conflict. 

Nothing at all is written in the known history of the Age of the unplanned inclusion of Aragost, Chieftain of the Dunedain, in the host of the Eotheod.  Keeping it secret for years, he left his account on a scroll hidden deep in the Dunedain archives at Rivendell, only recently discovered along with these two surviving maps of the encounter:

https://imgur.com/a/p0j5oCO

https://imgur.com/YkeRIcW

Join us then first in a short foreshadowing chapter in the year 2463 of the Third age, followed by the unfolding of events in the days and weeks leading up to the climactic battle of the Field of Celebrant.

T.A. 2463

The two men came in out of the storm, brushing epaulets of snow from their shoulders.  The tavern was quiet.  Few would venture out in such weather. 

The older traveler nodded towards a corner alcove where an old man in a grey cloak sipped on an ale.  He was expecting them.

They picked up two tankards at the bar and made their way over. 

“Not a fit night out for man nor beast” The old man in the grey cloak said by way of greeting.

“They say the weather has changed since my grandfather’s time.” the older traveler replied, easing into a seat at the table.

“It was indeed a more benign time for your grandfather Aragorn in more ways than one” the man in grey replied

“You knew them both?”  the younger traveler inquired.

“Yes, Aragost, and their fathers and grandfathers before them, chieftains of the Dunedain as you will be one day.  They and your father Arahad have been guardians of these lands during the Watchful Peace.  It appears that time is ending.”

“Ending?” Arahad said quietly

“Sauron has returned to Dol Guldur.  Far to the east, beyond the sea of Rhun, it is said that men may be gathering in numbers.  There are signs of stirrings in Mordor.”

“It does not bode well, Gandalf” Arahad replied

“It does not.  As such, I, and another of my order have met with Elrond and others.  Word is going out to Thranduil in the north of Mirkwood, and to the dwarves where they may be found.  Arrangements will be made to inform Gondor.  And I am here to share these tidings with you.  We must now be on guard.”

“What do you expect?”  Aragost inquired

“He will test where things are strongest and that is Gondor.  As to what other mischief he will stir, it remains to be seen.  You are the eyes and ears of what transpires along the Misty Mountains, west to the Shire and south to Dunland.  It would behoove us to meet here once yearly”

“Agreed.  Provided it is not in mid-winter.”  Arahad let a smile soften his weather hardened mien.

“When the leaves turn then.”

The two men nodded in agreement.  It was done then. 

The innkeeper took that moment to arrive with a tray heavily laden with bread, cheeses and smoked ham.  It was on the house.  He knew well that these two travel weary men with serious faces kept Bree and its outlands safe.  A generous meal and his best overnight room was the least he could do.

He had been summoned from maneuvers on the Pelennor scarcely an hour ago, escorted by two of the Steward’s Guards of the Citadel.  Neither of them had said a word, leaving him to speculate as to what he might have done to arouse the wrath of the Steward, if that was what was in store for him.

“Borondir” Cirion intoned as Borondir was led into the Steward’s private courtyard by the two guards who then wordlessly left. 

Gondor’s leader was a tall man, with dark brown hair swept back from a noble, but serious face with penetrating grey eyes which now focused on Borondir.

“Your reputation commends you to me.  We are in need. Come” Cirion motioned him to a long waist high table.  Borondir untensed his shoulders.  He was not facing punishment.  Another fate awaited.

A great map was unrolled, secured at the table corners with brass weights.  Cirion approached the table and pointed out features on the map.

“North of us the Balchoth marshal on the east side of the Undeeps.  They arrive in great numbers.  I ride out tonight to meet our Northern Army already some days march to the Anduin.  I need you and five others to ride out to seek aid if we are assured to prevail”

“What aid can that be?” Borondir wondered out loud.  “Are we not alone, always alone, facing invaders?”

Cirion shook his head and directed the pointer to a corner of the map.

“Far to the north, over two hundred leagues from where we stand dwell the Eotheod.  Centuries past we fought together against the Wainriders.  A desperate hope it is that they will come again to our aid, but hope we must.  You and five others will ride to them in pairs.  What I tell you must be committed to memory.  You will take this carven stone as evidence of my seal.  The rest…is in the hands of fate.”

Borondir had then listened to and memorized the Steward’s plea for aid, with details of the Balchoth horde, their numbers, weapons and plans as they surmised them. 

Then he was led away through halls and passages, emerging to a paved open space where a powerful chestnut stallion waited.  It was heavily laden with supplies for the long ride.  A captain of the guard gave him final instructions.

“You will ride north from Minas Tirith tonight.  Make way through Anorien, then mark your path to the North Undeeps.  From there follow the Anduin.  A map is in your saddle pocket.”

Borondir nodded, walked over to one of several swollen saddlebags the horse was carrying.  The Captain commented.

“Special feed for the horse.  Your provisions are in another bag.  A resupply station awaits you in west Anorien, at the River Glanhir and at the Undeeps.   Then you  must forage to supplement what you carry.  North of the Undeep you may encounter Balchoth raiding parties”

“Did you hear that?”  Borondir whispered into the horse’s ear.  “We must fly to stay ahead of hunger and murder.  What say you?”

The horse snorted then turned its head, assessing Borondir fully for the first time.  It could sense the seriousness of the emotions of men.  Life would be at risk.  Was this man up to it.

Their eyes locked.  Borondir smiled.  They understood each other.  Equals, partners, the arc of their lives crossing on this mission of peril.

Borondir gently held the horses’s head in his hands. 

“You have heart enough for both us.”  He stepped back, turned to the Captain.

“My partner?”

“He awaits you at the gate to the city.”

Borondir stepped up and swung into the saddle.  A nudge, then hooves clattered on paving stone as they started down the road to the gate, far below.

Erandor looked out over the battlements of the old fort towards the river, glimmering in the morning sun.

It was nearly half a league to the far shore.  In between were shifting sandbars and shoals, small rocky islands and the great pulse of the Anduin sliding by.

His keen eyes could just make out the activity of men on the far shore, advance groups of Balchoth.  When the wind came from the east he could hear the sound of voices in their harsh, rude tongue.  And hammering.  They were building things, rafts if the spies were correct.

It was getting harder to spy with the buildup on the other side.  Indeed it was a close run thing that the Steward’s messengers crossed here at the North Undeep just the day before.

Their path would not be easy.  The Vales of the Anduin were no longer safe.  Armed scouting parties of Balchoth had driven most settlers out, those who had survived the random night ambushes. 

Erandor remembered his hurried conversation yesterday, with Borondir who had stopped to resupply with his scouting partner.

“What news from Minas Tirith?” Erandor had asked.

“The North Army marches to confront the invaders.  I ride north to seek aid from the Eotheod.”  Borondir had replied as he’d refilled his saddle bags with feed for his horse and field rations for his own appetite.

Erandor had paled at the thought.

“But that is over one hundred fifty leagues from here.”

“Well do it know it” Borondir had replied grimly, his face set in resignation to his chances of surviving the distance.

That was when Erandor had finally understood.  Gondor’s North Army might not carry the day on its own.  Committing the South Army as well would leave the entire realm open to invaders from Umbar and Harad. 

“It will take…”  Erandor had started, but Borondir interrupted him.

“Ten days hard ride to Framsburg.  Even if Eorl comes to our aid, the muster will take time and their journey south over a week.  Yes, it will take time! Gondor must then buy time and you, Erandor, must hold fast with Gondor til our return.”

There was steel in his voice, hardness in Bornondir’s eyes. 

It had been a dose of reality for Erandor.  Until that moment it had been a distant thing, a possibility and one that surely Gondor would meet and prevail.

But from that moment on, imminent arrival of the Balchoth across the river was real, building its strength with the intent to destroy.   He would be in battle, trying to save his life, to save Gondor.  

“I will meet you on the battlefield, Borondir” he had replied.  “Not as a corpse, but with my sword cutting them down like spring wheat.” 

“Pray the harvest is good, Erandor!” Borondir had shouted as he swung into the saddle.  A nudge to his horse and he’d galloped away.

Would Borondir survive the ride?  Would aid be granted?  Would his bold words to Borondir come to haunt him as a fool’s boast?

Erandor had no answers to these questions.  What mattered today was across the river.  The far shore was now thick with Balchoth, a tide of men that ran north and south along the Anduin.  The east wind bore the voices of a large multitude.  The river bank was dotted with their large wooden rafts, being assembled at a feverish pace.

His small garrison of twenty was steadily sending reports to the North Army. It was still a good two weeks away, pushing to beat the Balchoth to the western shore of the Anduin and drive them back into the river.

If the Balchoth attacked before then, Erandor had orders to evacuate the fort, head south and meet the North Army.  A sacrifice of the garrison would serve no good purpose. 

A scout returned from a spy mission on the river.  Overnight he had hidden on a shallow river island, in a thicket of shrubs and small trees.  He whispered into Erandor’s ear, then made off to a waiting horse to ride south to the North Army.

The news was bad.  More than five thousand had already arrived.  Scores of large rafts had been assembled.  And over a thousand more arrived every day.  Erandor knew from reports two months ago that their numbers could reach twenty thousand. 

Then they would attack. 

Erandor estimated that would occur in two to three weeks at the rate they were arriving.  The North Army would be at his doorstep in two weeks at best.  It would be a close call and he could do little more than wait.

Cirion emerged from his field tent on a slight knoll, standing quietly, looking at the stars wheeling above.  He sighed heavily, reviewing once again the latest scout’s report which had confirmed his worst fears.

The Balchoth were massing at the Undeeps, their wains bringing supplies and countless rafts they would use to cross and ravage Calenardhon.  He could not permit that to succeed. 

Cirion looked out over the plain below him.  Campfires flickered in the darkness.  He had 10,000 battleworthy soldiers.  More could not be spared for risk of inviting attack from the south or east.  His son Hallas had remained in Minas Tirith, entrusted with its defense

The scout had estimated at least 10,000 crudely armed Balchoth, with another 10,000 to come.  They carried clubs, short spears, some with hatchets.  They bore no chain mail, just padded coarse tunics, some with a leather curiass.  They did not deign helms, letting their black hair run wild. 

Cirion’s men carried swords, short spears and small circular shields. Some had forgone the spears for short battle hatchets.   Armor included helmets and chain mail hauberks.   One tenth of his forces were archers. 

It might not be enough.

So he thought, as he heard footsteps approach.

“You’ve received the scout report” a gravelly rasp queried.

“Yes, general.  Such numbers.”  Cirion replied to Vorandur, general of Gondor’s north army.  An old campaigner he was nonetheless still a canny tactician and firm disciplinarian.

“So be it.  We cannot retreat back to Minas Tirith.  That will not lessen their numbers.  And we would cede all of Calenardhon.”

“No we cannot.  We either have the strength to defend the kingdom or Gondor falls.”

Cirion’s thoughts went back to the tenth day of the month when he had sent Borondir and his companion north, the first of three pairs seeking out the Eotheod.  Even then he had feared the worst, an attack in such numbers to overwhelm his better equipped army. 

Even if Borondir survived a ride of over two hundred leagues, there was no assurance that the horsemen would come, would come in sufficient numbers, and most importantly, would come in time.

More than two weeks had passed since the riders galloped off.   

“General, what is our timetable?”

“We are at least two weeks march from the Undeeps.  It will take the Balchoth many days to organize themselves on the east bank of the Anduin.  Then they must take their rafts across the river and reassemble on the western shore.  That will take time and they will be vulnerable.”

Cirion smiled.  It had a chance.  Let them land a third of their force on the west bank.  With the army had at hand he would have the numbers to annihilate their vanguard.  That would begin to even the odds should they still proceed.

It had to work. 

It was a still clear night. The moon shone bright and hard.  The first wisps of ground fog were collecting in the low folds of the land.   

Borondir was awake.  A third night on an empty stomach did not grant sleep.  Nor did his throbbing head, still oozing blood from a Balchoth club during an ambush south of the Carrock.  It had claimed the life of his partner.

His horse lay on its side, snoring lightly, exhausted after days of riding.  Its stomach was bare as well, having eaten the last of the feed two nights before.

He unrolled the map the Captain of the Guard gave him in Minas Tirith in what felt like months ago.  Moonlight lit up the pale vellum, contrasting with the lines, figures and illustrations that were Middle Earth.  He drew his finger along a black wavy line bearing north from Gondor to the far north.

It was the Anduin and by his reckoning they were a half day from the junction of the Langwell and the Graylin whose combined waters sent the mighty Anduin down to the sea.  Then another half day to Framsburg.

It was all the time they could afford.  Their bodies would only carry them so far. But his horse could no longer carry him.  They would walk together to the land of the Eotheod. 

He went to the horse to whisper in its ear, to say it was time to get up and take this last long day with him.  The chestnut snorted wearily, stared at him accusingly for a moment, then made a show of clambering up on aching legs.

Borondir smiled, stroked its muzzle then led it on, north into the night.

                  ----------------------------*------------------------------------

Time passed.  They followed the gentle folds of the land, the Anduin valley a few miles to the west, wreathed in silvery fog.  They stuck to game trails, narrow creases in the wild grasses frosted by the moonlight. 

Fierce stars glittered overhead.  His breath exited in a light fog.  It was utterly silent save the brush of his legs against the grasses and the soft whoosh of the horses’s breath at his side.

After a while the harsh blackness of the night sky began to soften in the east.  Borondir felt a flicker of anticipation for the dawn.  With light they would better see the crossing of the Graylin.  Better light would make them seen as well, or so he hoped.

Another hour and the moon set west of the Misty Mountains, tugging night with it leaving a flat, cold early dawn.  The sound of rushing water ahead bespoke the Graylin making its final rush to merge with the Langwell, forming the Anduin. 

He could now make out the rough stone bridge that crossed the Graylin.  From his instructions nearly two week past, he knew that Framsburg was another few hours march.  There he would find Eorl, son of Leod, Lord of the Eotheod to receive the Steward’s message and plea.

He would not arrive alone.

On the other side of the bridge eight horsemen left their position guarding the far shore of the bridge.  They crossed, split into two groups that sped forward, eventually bracing him on either side, leaving two riders athwart his path to bring him to a halt.

They were well armed, each with light chain mail, battle swords drawn.  An axe was at hand’s reach in a leather saddle sleeve.  A long spear hung in a leather sheath on the left side of the saddle. 

“You there, what is your business” A stern, blond haired young man demanded.

Borondir took him to be the leader.

“I have ridden over a fortnight from Gondor with an urgent message from the Steward”  Borondir replied weakly but relieved nonetheless. 

The leader stared blankly back at him.  Borondir smiled wearily and drew a small greenstone with the Stewards seal engraved on its face. 

“The Steward’s seal” Borondir handed it to him.

He examined it, turning it over and over, then gave Borondir an appraising look.

“You have come far.  I know not of stones and sigils, but it is not of our kind.  We will bring you to our lord Eorl at once.  He will listen to your message.  Your horse is spent.  Eric will care for him while you take his mount.”

A tall, golden haired man dismounted and led his piebald white and brown horse over to Borondir.  As it approached, it shared a glance with Borondir’s steed.  A brief eye contact ensued as the piebald assured the spent horse that Borondir would be safe.

Bornondir wearily mounted the piebald.  The patrol leader motioned to him.

“We will be in Framsburg in an hour.  You will find some bread and dried meat in your left saddlebag.  More will be provided at the Eorl’s table, but for now you must begin to restore your strength.”

Borondir wasted little time fishing a small loaf of bread out of the saddlebag and hungrily tearing a chunk off.  Ahead, the patrol leader’s horse cantered off.  Four cavalrymen surrounded Borondir then followed, making way across the bridge spanning the Greylin, en route to Framsburg. 

Aragost stood at the rail bordering the small flagstone courtyard.  The sky was beginning to pale in the east. His breath hung in the still cold air of early spring. 

It had been ten years since his last visit to the Eotheod.  Leod had then been the Lord of the land.  Now his son Eorl was master of not only the realm, but Felarof as well, the great white steed that had thrown and killed his father.

Eorl had extended his hospitality, providing private lodging at a guest house built next to the great hall.  Eorl had his own much larger manse on the other side of the hall.  Last night was for greetings.  The morning was for conversation.

The doors of the hall opened.  Aragost could see he was not alone at this early hour.  Eorl was striding his way, followed by a single servant with a full tray.

He was tall, broad shouldered.  A mane of long blond hair framed a strong face and piercing blue eyes.  Clothed in doeskin pants and tunic, he was dressed for a light ride in the country as was his want in the mornings. 

Aragost matched him in height and breadth.  His face at 79 years was that of weathered nobility under a sweep of dark brown hair with the first streaks of gray. For the Dunedain, 79 was a man in his prime, not one doddering in old age.  He walked towards Eorl as they met at a table set out on the courtyard in front of the main hall.  The servant left a tray of bread, cheese, blueberry jam and hard boiled eggs.  Hot cider steamed in mugs.  Eorl gestured that they should sit.

 “I trust you slept well?”  Eorl inquired, taking a bite out of an egg.

 “The hospitality of the Eotheod has no match.”  Aragost replied spreading some jam on a slab of bread.

 Pleasantries dispensed, Eorl pressed on with the business of the day which was the state of affairs in the lands to his south, now that evil had once again taken residence at Dol Guldur.

 “What of Orcs?  How is it you are here?”

 “Not an easy thing.  They have multiplied and infested the Misty Mountain passes to the south.  The Elven Lady Celebrian was beset by a band of orcs in the Redhorn Pass.  She was at their mercy until her sons Elladan and Elrohir arrived and laid waste to the orcs.”

 “I trust she is well.”

 “Recovered in body but not in spirit.  She has made way west to the Undying Lands.  For myself it meant I had to be even more cautious.”

 “They have been more bold from Mount Gundabad.  That has only decreased their numbers as our armed patrols have extended their range.  Great pyramids of severed orc heads are lit to burn for days.  It brings temporary peace.”

 Eorl’s eyes glittered and a wolfish smile suggested he was a frequent participant on patrols.

 “It is to the south where our concerns may lie.”  Aragost resumed

 Eorl gestured that he should continue.

 A great body of Easterners, called the Balchoth, has overrun forests near Dol Guldur.  They harry what folk remained in the Vales of the Anduin.  That will not satisfy them.  I fear they intend to move west into Gondor’s northern province, Calenardhon.”

 “We have marked them since the days I was born, Aragost.  Refugees from Rhovanian have brought tales of their brutality.  We take nothing for granted.  There are none we can expect to aid us this far north.  Our armorers have been busy these past years.”

 That had been apparent to Aragost as he’d entered the realm of the Eotheod.  It had grown since his grandfather Araglas’s time, now pressing across the Langwell to the lands to the south.  He had observed local eoreds mustering and practicing combat maneuvers.  To a man they were mail clad, with deadly spears and straight swords.  Some were bowmen, capable of sticking a target at 100 yards at full gallop.

 It was a formidable army should Eorl muster all the eoreds.  But for the moment it was a force for defense of their homeland. 

 “None would be so foolish as to test the resolve of your people.”

 “Let them come.” Eorl laughed.  “Death awaits any foe at the end of spear points or the edges of seven thousand swords.”

 Aragost smiled.  The young lord of the horse people relished the idea of combat as a young leader might if he had yet to be tested by war.  Skirmishes with outnumbered orcs was not war. 

Aragost changed the subject.

“You are running short of open pasture.  Many farms fill the land north of the Langwell.  You have even crossed that river for some leagues with settlement.”

Eorl nodded in assent. “We have prospered and have surplus to trade with the Northmen across the Anduin.  Yet we relish the open plain.  The lands to the south are wooded.  A hard labor to create riding space by cutting trees and burning stumps.”

 Aragost replied.  "There are open lands west of the Misty Mountains and south of the East West Road. Much of what lies between ruined Tharbad and the hobbit lands of the Shire have scarcely a man to count.  None make claim to it.”

 Eorl shook his head slowly.

 “It is no small thing to move. Our ancestors did so or I would not be here this moment talking of movement yet again.  But they fled from mortal danger from the East. There was no choice. No such danger is imminent. Can I risk the people in a crossing over orc infested high mountain passes to a land none of us has seen?”

 Before Aragost could answer, a young member of Eorl’s personal guard crossed the courtyard at a brisk pace, leaned over and whispered in his ear.

Eorl’s blue eyes widened slightly as he digested the message. 

 “Tell them I’ll be there in a moment.”

 Aragost raised his eyebrows in question.

 “A messenger…from Gondor, riding for a fortnight. I must go.  Come with me.”

They abruptly got up from the table. The personal guard was gesturing for them to come his way, down a path of stone steps to a large house with a thatched roof. Their medical house.

He hurried them inside to a bed in the corner where a man in light chain mail lay battered and bloodied, hollow with hunger. But his eyes were bright with the intensity of the message he was bound to deliver. Eorl knelt at his side. The messenger opened his mouth and began to speak.

A soldier was waiting at the Healing House as Eorl and Aragost approached. 

“Come, he his weak and anxious to give you his message.’

Eorl and Aragost walked briskly to the rear of the main room where a man lay.  He was clad in light mail over a dark padded tunic bearing the symbol of the white tree.  His strong face was thinned by hunger.  An aide was slowly feeding him some broth.

Eorl knelt down beside him.

“They say you have come two hundred leagues from Minas Tirith.”

Borondir stirred, braced himself up to a sitting position.

“I have a message from the Steward for the leader of the Eotheod.”

“I am Eorl, Lord of this realm.  What tidings prompts the Steward to risk such life and limb of his riders on a journey to our far land?”

“We are sorely pressed, my Lord.  East of the Anduin, over twenty thousand Balchoth gather near the Undeeps with intent to flood Calenardhon with their menace then march south to the heart of Gondor.  We have scarcely ten thousand men marching to meet them.  As your ancestors aided Gondor during the siege of the Wainriders in the days of the Kings, the Steward asks your aid in our hour of need.”

Borondir paused, closing his eyes, panting and exhausted.  The aide came with more broth and a small oat cake.  Eorl stood up, turned to Aragost.

“It is just as you said, the Balchoth”

“The threat is more imminent than I expected…and it would seem more dire” Aragost replied.

“My patrol leader said he left Minas Tirith on the tenth of the month.  His path north took him past Gondor’s north army then across the Undeeps on the fourteenth.”

Eorl paced back and forth trying to picture the situation to his south.  He stopped and turned to Aragost.

“Gondor’s army will make for the Undeeps.  They must meet the Balchoth head on as they cross.  It will take time for them to make that march, at least a fortnight, ”

Eorl paused and stared at Borondir, now in deep sleep.  He would let him rest, then press further for detailed dispositions of Gondor’s army.  But he knew enough already to make his decision.

He motioned Aragost to follow him through the entranceway back out into the bright morning sun. 

“We could do nothing.  Give the brave rider refuge with us here in the north, and leave Gondor to its fate.  Perhaps the Balchoth will not venture so far north to capture farmland and pasture when there is land and plunder much closer at hand across the Anduin.”

“But if they do…”  Aragost left the sentence hanging.

“If they do, we would face more than twenty thousand with the seven thousand riders we can muster.  I care not for the odds and many lives would be spent in uncertain victory.”

Eorl’s brow was furrowed with grave deliberations.  He paced back and forth, then turned and spoke to Aragost.

“But if we join with Gondor now, our combined forces number nearly those if the Balchoth,  Our horses will trample their foot soldiers into the earth.  Our swords will take their heads.  Our spears will pierce their bodies and their wills.  They will be defeated and of no further concern to Gondor or the Eotheod!”

Eorl was almost shouting.  The path was clear to him.  The excitement of the pending battle was in his blood.  His eyes were lit with the song of the sword. 

“Is there enough time?” Aragost quietly intruded.

Eorl’s heart slowed its pounding, his eyes cooled. 

“It is nine days hard ride to the Undeeps. Every man with a horse must come.   But I cannot just simply will such a thing.  The people must assent to such a task.”

Aragost nodded in assent.  It would risk all they had built over many generations.  Their lands would be undefended.  The preparations to muster 60 eoreds of over 100 riders each would almost be as daunting as the ride itself.

“I know your thoughts and have much the same.  We have rarely massed more than a thousand riders over the years.  At peace, we have no need to move armies.  Our eoreds are all we need to conduct patrols using local militias.  Now we must move seven thousand and see that they and their horses do not starve en route.  When we arrive our seven thousand must have a plan of attack.  I must meet with the Marshalls of the realm, my chief commanders who will bring their twenty eored captains.”

“How can I help?”  Aragost asked

“Join me.  Listen to the men.  Tell me what you see.”

Aragon nodded his assent.  Eorl stood facing him, hands on hips.

“You asked if there is time.  There is not.   I should have at least twelve weeks.  I have scarcely twelve days before we must depart.  But it must do.”

Eorl signaled to an aide who came running.  He whispered instructions in the aid’s ear.  The man went running.

“I have ordered messengers to ride to the Marshalls at all due speed.  They need gather their Captains.  I will ride out tomorrow.  Four days hence I will either have their support or we will watch from afar.”

Eorl took off at a brisk walk up the long stone path back to the main hall.  The wheels of his mind were turning rapidly from what he would say to the rations the men would need. 

Aragost watched the tall, blond haired warrior stride away.  Eorl would rouse his men to action, Aragost had little doubt.  He would bear witness as Eorl had requested. 

And then what.  Ride south with Eorl, plunge into battle hundreds of leagues away, risk his life and the line of the Dunedain?  Some knew of his journey to this land, his father Arahad for one, now old living out his last years.  His son, Aravorn, was learning his destiny in Rivendell at the hand of Elrond’s masters of lore and martial arts. 

His death on this mission would thrust Aravorn into the role of Chieftain.  One he was not ready to assume having passed just twelve summers.  One that Arahad could no longer carry given the infirmities of age in the winter of his life.

And he was just one man, no matter how well fostered in youth, or tempered by years in the wild.  His sword would cleave only so many Balchoth.  His absence would not affect the outcome.

He respected these truths but they did not sway him.

It was simple really.  He could not in good conscience claim the lineage of the kings of men and turn his back on Gondor in hour of need. 

The sun was setting behind the Misty Mountains as Eorl arrived with his personal guard.  The mustering field was dotted with tents, one for each eored captain and a larger enclosure for the Marshall of the northeast lands.

Eorl gestured to the guard leader who busied the troops in setting up Eorl’s tent.  Aragost walked with him to the tent of the Marshall.

“Wulfgar served as Marshall to my father, Leod.  He commands more than a score of eoreds.”

“What will he think?”  Aragost replied

“First he must hear the facts.  And realize that such a mustering and journey has never taken place in all the time of my people here.  He is brusque but will speak his mind truly.  That is why I value him.”

Soon they approached a large circular tent.  Decorated in green and gold it had white stallions emblazoned on each side.  A guard with a spear stood next to the entrance.

“The guard is his son.  There is no threat here.  He insures his father is not disturbed for trivial matters.”

“He looks formidable enough for any task you might assign”, Aragost remarked

“He may have his chance.” Eorl replied, approaching the guard

The guard saluted, recognizing Eorl.

“We have been expecting you.  Come inside.”  The guard opened the tent and bade them in.

It was well appointed.  Banners hung depicting forests, hunting for deer, men on horseback.  A long table anchored the center of the room.  On it were spread maps and three mugs of ale.  Off to the side the Marshall’s own area, with bed, chair and personal items.

“My lord!” Wulfgar the Marshall stepped out from the table, clasped his fist to his chest.

Wulfgar was a stocky man, powerful built.  His mane of dark gold hair was beginning to grey. 

Eorl stepped forward and gave the man a large bear hug.  Wulfgar had been like an uncle to him growing up.  Upon his father Leod’s death, the young Eorl, barely 16 summers, was instantly supported by his father’s favorite Marshall to lead the realm.

“Wulfgar it is good to see you.”

“You bring a guest?” Wulfgar queried, looking past Eorl at Aragost, paused at the entryway into the tent.

“His name is Aragost.  He has come over the Misty Mountains from Eriador.”

Wulfgar walked up to Aragost taking in his lean visage, high forehead and dark hair flecked with grey.

“You had less grey whence I saw you last at Leod’s court ten years past.  Man of the Dunedain.  What brings you to our land this day?”

“To visit, share tidings as before.  Though tidings come not from Eriador.” Aragost glanced at Eorl.

“A rider has come from Gondor, two hundred leagues south.”  Eorl replied

Wulfgar raised his eyebrows. 

“He did not come to share tidings.”  Wulfgar said flatly, then paused, thinking.

Wulfgar resumed.

“No, he came on most urgent business, such a journey.  Gondor needs our aid.”

Eorl smiled.  The veteran horseman was as shrewd as he was skilled with a lance.

“It is true”, Eorl replied, “The Balchoth, at least twenty thousand strong will cross the Anduin at the Undeeps.  Gondor’s North Army brings ten thousand men.”

“They may not prevail.”  Wulfgar said grimly, shaking his head. 

“Or it may be such a win as to bleed out both sides, reducing the army to a shadow of itself.” Eorl replied

“Leaving Gondor victorious but vulnerable for many years while rebuilding its forces.” Wulfgar replied, folding his arms across his chest, head slightly bent as if anticipating what would come next.  A moment’s thought and then his face was settled, a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Come, my lord, and guest, Aragost.  Let us continue in more comfort.”  Wulfgar gestured to an area in the tent with comfortable benches.  They each picked up a tankard of ale on the map table.  Wulfgar retrieved a scroll and spread it out on a low table in front of them as they sat down.  Eorl spoke first.

“We could choose to do nothing.  A matter beyond our concern.  An unnecessary risk.”

Wulfgar took a sip of ale, then pointed to the map on the low table in front of them.

“One hundred fifty leagues south.  They could well be overwhelmed and destroyed.  At best, they win but are sorely depleted, fatally vulnerable for years. If the Balchoth turn their eyes north it would be we alone who face their thousands”

“Or we could muster the eohere.  Seven thousand riders.  Even the odds.  The Easterners are on foot, rudely armed.” Eorl countered

“The Balchoth would be destroyed.  Wulfgar replied, “Trampled under hoof, hewed with swords and stuck with spears.  Gondor would be preserved and our realm safe.” 

Aragost remained silent.  It was not for him to decide. 

“It seems that the choice to remove doubt about the future lies in our hands,” Wulfgar continued.  “We must act”

Eorl smiled.  The old Marshall had come to the same conclusion as he had in conversation with Aragost the day before.  It was best this way.  As lord, he could have simply ordered the mustering and committed to the long journey south.  But having his Marshall come to the same conclusion not only confirmed his own thoughts but created an active supporter.

“Act we shall” Eorl replied, “Come, let us look at the map.  There is much to plan if we are to move such a host.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day Eorl stood in the mustering field on a bright fresh spring morning.  In front of him were assembled twenty-three eored Captains and their Marshall, Wulfgar. 

“Marshall Wulfgar.  Captains of the realm.  I come to you with news from the South.”

There was a murmuring among the Captains.  Wulfgar silenced them with a glower.

“A messenger has arrived from Gondor.  He has ridden more than two hundred leagues, survived attacks, arrived starved and weary.  Over twenty thousand Balchoth mass on their borders against Gondor’s army of barely ten thousand.  Gondor may not prevail, may be defeated and overrun.  They seek our aid.”

The murmuring resumed, swelling into conversation among the Captains.  Eorl motioned to Wulfgar that they should feel free to debate.

After a while their voices subsided.  Eorl continued.

“You might ask, what if we do not heed their call.  It is far away.  The Easterners invade Gondor, not the land of the Eotheod.  Why should we risk our full strength in a battle not our own.”

The murmuring renewed.  A few nodded their heads at his last words.

“Because, my Captains, if Gondor falls, we are left alone against the Balchoth and their dark allies.  Then we will the ones facing them with long odds.’

The murmuring stopped.  Eorl slowly paced back and forth in front of them, then continued.

“No, today we must heed their call.  With a full muster of the eohere we nearly match their numbers.  Our horses will trample them into the dust.  Our swords and spears will cut them to ribbons.  We will destroy them!  What say you1”

A split second passed.  Then the Captains erupted in a roar of approval.

Aragost watched it all play out from the side of the Marshall’s tent.  These men would follow Eorl to the ends of the earth if he so asked.  Now the Captains would report back to their villages, inform the men of their eored of their task and begin feverish preparations. 

                                        9. On the March

It was late afternoon. 

His army was spread out below him, setting up tents and campfires.  The sounds of ten thousand voices rolled up the hillside where his field tent was situated. 

It was clad in white, the Steward’s colors, which made it visible to all the troops. 

Despite the noise of the army making encampment for the night, Cirion felt a  larger quiet about him.  They were in open land, grassland, empty land 

And that was at the root of the problem.  An empty land meant no farms, villages, towns or commerce.  Calenardhon could not contribute men to Gondor’s army.  It was a place where an army of ten thousand could march with only the grass and their own ears to hear the tread of their boots. 

And so to defend Gondor’s northern province, an army of soldiers from homes in Anorien, Minas Tirith and parts of the White Mountains must of needs march north to meet the enemy.

It was not sustainable, Cirion knew.  Empty lands were just lines on a map.  Without people, it was of little use to defend it.  Yet the magnitude of the threat was not of roving bands of brigands.  It was of such numbers that Gondor itself was threatened.  It had to be met or Gondor would be perceived as weak and others beside the Balchoth would soon be at their doorstep.

True enough but nonetheless these last few days he had questioned himself over and over. 

Should he have committed the South Army as well, bringing their full force to bear, but leaving the entire kingdom open to invasion from the south and southeast?  Was it galling but more pragmatic to simply retreat to Gondor’s core territories and provide a fierce, strong defense should the Balchoth not be content with just Calenardhon?  Was that better than risking annihilation of his North Army in its entirety?

And then there was Borondir.  Had he reached Eorl?  Would the Lord of the Eotheod respond?  Would it be in time?

The fact was he had no good choices and he knew it.  A hard thing to know as he looked out over the sea of men he commanded, men who trusted his leadership, that he would not lead them to doom.

For all his doubts, though, the path he had chosen was the only one that offered the promise of victory…if Eorl answered his call. 

Cirion signaled to an aide.  He would go amongst the men, see how they felt, sample the morale, and dine with them around a campfire.  If doom was their destiny then he would share it and all else with them. 

Eorl had ridden west after the morning with Marshall Wulfgar and his Captains. 

In a setting similar to the morning meeting, Eorl met with Cenhelm, Marshall of the northwest, along with his twenty five eored Captains.  The outcome was much the same. Cenhelm had then hosted them in his field tent that evening.  Early the next day he accompanied Eorl and Aragost back to Framsburg for a meeting of the Elders of the Eotheod.

Eorl's Marshalls would represent the men of the eoreds.  Werhild, his father’s brother, as Landsman, would speak to the state of the crops and livestock.   Eadric, was well versed in the inventories of seed, fodder and foodstuffs and general supplies.  Hengest was the master armorer whose smiths might find themselves suddenly busy.      

Finally there was Grimgar, his grandfather’s youngest brother.  And old man of seventy, he was a trusted source of wisdom, one who took a long view irrespective of the passions of the moment.  When Leod was thrown and killed by Felarof, Grimgar had been a forceful supporter of the sixteen year old Eorl as the new Lord of the realm. 

Eorl would bring two guests, outsiders to the council of Elders.  One was Borondir, who had recovered sufficiently to recount his tale directly.  The other was Aragost of the Dunedain, by chance visiting to renew contacts after ten years absence. He stood with both of them outside the doors to the Council Chamber. 

“You are improved” Eorl turned to Borondir.

Indeed he was.  He had slept like the dead, then woke with the appetite of a bear.  He had washed off leagues of dirt and dust off.  Aides had cleaned his field uniform.  The image of the White Tree shone against the blue black of his short traveling tunic.  His eyes were clear and purposeful.

“I was running out of days.  You have given them back to me and more with your hospitality.”

“Come then.  The Council awaits.  A grave decision is upon us I fear.”

With that Eorl pushed open the tall doors and emerged into a room with a long polished oak table.  The Council looked expectantly at him as he walked over to his chair, motioning Borondir and Aragost to theirs. He paused for a moment standing at the head of the table, assessing the faces turned his way.  Then he spoke.

“Men of the Council.  Two days ago, this man…”  Eorl gestured to Borondir, “…arrived at the south bridge, half starved, exhausted from more than a fortnight’s ride from Minas Tirith bearing dire news.  I would have him tell his tale directly”

At the other end of the table, Grimgar nodded in assent.  Eorl bade Borondir begin.

“On the tenth of this month, Cirion, Steward of Gondor, sent out three pairs of riders who were to ride north to seek your aid.  It seems I am the only one to survive.”

“The Steward requests your aid.  To the east of Gondor, the Balchoth have advanced from the East.  Though rudely armed, they number twenty thousand or more.  They are massing at the Undeeps, planning to cross and overrun Calenardhon, perhaps then advancing on Minas Tirith itself.  Cirion leads the North Army of ten thousand soldiers.  The South Army guards Minas Tirith and the southern approaches to Gondor.”

“You have not enough” Grimgar declared flatly

“No, we do not.” Borondir replied

“And why is this our concern?” Werhild mused out loud, stroking his voluminous beard.  “One hundred fifty leagues to meet a foe of Gondor, their foe.  Do they attack us? Would Gondor ride north if Gundabad burst forth with legions of orcs to harry us?”

It was Werhild’s way, Eorl knew, to be the contrarian.  He respected the man’s links to the land its tillers, how they viewed the challenges of their world.  But he also knew that Werhild harbored some envy that Eorl, at 16, and not he, had been chosen as Leod’s successor. 

“They do not attack us.  Today…”  Eorl replied, evenly.  “But in recent years they have rendered the Vales of the Anduin uninhabitable below the Gladden Fields where Borondir almost met his doom at their hands.”

Werhild waived him off.  “A hundred leagues from here.  I know what you propose.  Vacate the realm of any who can ride a horse, wield a sword on this quest.  Where are the arms, legs and backs to manage the farms, tend to the livestock, defend the realm against enemies closer at hand?  What if you don’t come back?”

And that was the nub of it.  The room went silent, awaiting an answer.  Finally, Wulfgar, the old Marshall spoke.

“An army can march a hundred leagues in a month.  My eored’s can cover that in less than a week.  A week, a month.  That is the time that separates us from the present northernmost predations of this Balchoth.  It is a short time.  We are not so remote as to dissuade an enemy with a will.”

Wulfgar leaned back in his chair, glanced around the table, then continued.

“If we sit here, do nothing, then we are just waiting.  Waiting to see what the Balchoth and others like them will do after they defeat Gondor’s North Army, as surely they will if Gondor stands alone.  We would wait, our seven thousand horsemen against their twenty thousand foot soldiers should they come.  We might not prevail.”

Wulfgar let that sink in for a moment, then continued. 

“For my part, I prefer not to wait nor ask my children and grandchildren on to wait on their whims for a time when we are alone against them.  If we seize the day, this day, we meet them with Gondor’s strength beside us.  We will destroy them.  There will be no waiting”

A low murmur swept the room.  Eadric spoke.

“We have ample supplies of feed and traveling rations.  The last two harvests have been good and the winters mild.  It will not strain our reserves.  Men and horses must eat whether they are here or en route to Gondor.”

“They will have the best of weapons.”  Hengest offered as chief armorer in the realm.  “We have been at peace for many years.  It has given us time to prepare well for war should it have come.  Every man shall wield a fine sword, shield, and lance.  All will have light mail and helms.  Indeed, most of them already are so armed.”

Eorl stood, arms folded, looking down the table at Grimgar. 

“It is not in our nature to wait.”  The old man growled.  “Nor is it to chase foolish quests. Wulfgar is right to measure threats to our southern borders not in leagues but in time, the time an enemy takes to reach our realm.  I also look at time as an old man.  Not just this season, the fall harvest, the winter snow.  But the future of our people, the Eotheod, our grandchildren’s grandchildren.  It is upon us, in this room, to protect them.  To do that we must act.”

Eorl leaned forward slightly, place his palms on the table, fixing on Werhild who squirmed slightly in his seat.

“And act we will.  From what Borondir tells me, by mid next month Gondor will meet their foes at the Undeeps.  That is nine days hard ride south from here.  We must be there. Marshalls, can we muster the eohere in time?”

The two Marshalls, Wulfgar and Cenhelm, huddled together.  Then Wulfgar spoke.

“We can muster seven thousand fully armed horsemen and three hundred mounted archers.”

Borondir’s eyes widened at the number and realization that his mission might save Gondor. 

“Very well.  Every one of them must be in formation south of the Graylin no later than the sixth of next month.  Marshalls, consult with your eored Captains. Hengest and Eadric, see to their needs as best you can in such short time.  And Werhild, we need to talk about the state of spring planting.  We must have crops to return to when our task is done.”

And so the meeting ended.  The Marshalls hurried out to conduct a canvas of their Captains as to needs for arms or supplies.  Hengest and Eadric went their own directions to check on inventories.  Grimgar quietly left with a satisfied smile on his face.

Two men sat at a table in an outdoor courtyard awash in spring sun.  Except that only one of them was a man, and only half man at that.  The other looked like an old man but was something else entirely.

The one with the pointy blue hat was visiting, passing through as he called it.  His dark-haired host welcomed his visits which often lightened his grave countenance.  They caught up on the affairs of Middle Earth and worried about its future. 

“She has gone over? 

“Yes, Gandalf.  Celebrian no longer felt safe.  Though she survived the attack by the orcs, she had become sundered from Middle Earth in spirit.”

“It is not safe, Elrond, truth be told.” Gandalf replied, “Orcs multiply.  They infest all the passes through the Misty Mountains.  There is no present force to stop them”

“There is a larger problem to the south and east” 

“The Balchoth.” Gandalf replied, puffing on his pipe

“Word has come to me that Gondor intends to make battle with them west of the Undeeps in Calenardhon.”  Elrond unfolded a piece of paper and nudged it Gandalf’s way.

Gandalf perused the message, borne to Rivendell on the wings of a hawk released from Minas Tirith two days past.

“The Northern Army is outnumbered.  They seek aid.”

“We cannot help them in any material way, Gandalf.  And there are no great kingdoms of men who can.  Arnor has disappeared.  Most of Eriador is empty, save for settlements in Bree, Hobbits in the Shire and Dunlendings to their south.”

“What of the men of the north?  The Eotheod grow and prosper.  They are fine horsemen, fierce and well-armed to defend their realm.”  Gandalf replied.

“All well and good they are.  But how likely are they to pick up stakes and ride more than 200 leagues south to join Gondor in engaging the Balchoth in battle?”

“Perhaps we should find out” Gandalf replied

Elrond raised his eyebrows at what seemed to be a spurious thought.

‘Find out?  Do you propose to hazard the orc infested passes and trudge seventy leagues north to pose such a question?  Even if you arrived unscathed, the battle at the Undeeps would be long over ‘ere any aid could arrive” Elrond replied dismissively

“There is one there already who can answer.  I saw him off over a fortnight past as he made way north for a visit he makes once every ten years.”

“Who?”

“Aragost.  He was last there during the reign of Leod.  Leod who is nine years dead with his son Eorl now as Lord of the realm.  Surely we can spare a hawk to make inquiry with a message of our own.  Aragost will attach his reply to it.”

“You cannot expect him to rouse the Eotheod to Gondor’s aid, Gandalf.  They are safe and remote and will not risk all on the word of a single man, even if he is Isildur’s heir, which will mean little to them.”

“I have no expectations.  I am just an old wizard seeking knowledge.”

Elrond looked at him narrowly.

“There is something more to this than meets the eye, but I know better than to spend my time trying to pry it out of you.  Very well.  We shall release a hawk.  With favorable wind and weather, he may return in three days.”

“Plenty of time to get about.  I understand young Aravorn is about with Elladan and Elrohir, learning woodcraft and orc stalking.”

“He is a quick study, Gandalf.  You also might pay a call on Arahad who is my guest for the while, enjoying time with his grandson when the day’s lessons are done.”

“That I will.  Many a year it has been since I met with him and a much younger Aragost at the Prancing Pony to talk of the end of the Watchful Peace.  All in good time.”

“How long will you be gone” 

Leofric knew this was coming.  He had been back just a day from his meeting with the Marshall, listening to Lord Eorl talk of a bold mission. Equally bold was Freya, his wife of 10 years, standing before him in the upper field, hands on hips.  Clad in simple field tunic, she was nearly his height, broad shouldered with long blond hair.   

“All the eoreds muster at Framsburg.  We must ride south no later than the sixth of next month.  It will take nine days.”

“Your men are sharpening swords, bracing shields, fledging arrows.  Eorl does not muster the entire eohere to chase game.  You go to war.”

Her blue eyes blazed at him, rage not so much at his destination, but his reluctance to tell her the truth promptly and fully. 

“Yes, we do.”  He replied evenly, facing her.

Looking at him she had little doubt.  He was equipped for it.  Taller than most, hard muscle spread over a lean frame.  She had seen him practicing with his men, battle helm sconced over his mane of blond hair, demonstrating sword strikes on bales of hay. 

“I did not know we were at war.”  She said quietly.

 Leofric sighed.  All across the realm other husbands were facing their wives and this question.    

“A horseman arrived from Gondor two days ago.  They are outnumbered and will be hard pressed by Easterners called Balchoth.  If we do not respond, they are likely defeated.  Then nothing stands in the way of the Balchoth should they decide to venture north”

“Then we will meet them here, if they come this way.” 

“Freya, they number over twenty thousand.  Alone against them we may bear the same fate as Gondor’s army now faces.”

Freya turned away for a moment, looking down the slope towards the barnyard where her ten year old son and six year old daughter were tending the chickens.  Two flaxen haired children with no knowledge of what was to come.

“War makes widows and orphans, husband.  What if you do not come back.  What if none of you come back.  You do not know what you will find two hundred leagues south.  Gondor already defeated or retreated away and the eohere left alone to face this Balchoth!"  

“Retreat will not save them.  They would know that.  The only hope for victory is with our help.  The promise of a tomorrow where they…”  Leofric pointed to the children, laughing and chasing chickens, “…do not have to march to battle.  Our combined numbers are enough to take the field.”

She of course knew this, despite her protestations otherwise.  The women of the Eotheod had their own means of swift communication.  She wanted to gauge his commitment.  Doubt weakens the best sword.  It would not weaken his.

“Then you will be needing this.”

Freya opened a sack she was carrying and drew out a heavy tunic she had woven to be worn under chain mail.  Deep green it was with a stallion emblazoned in white on the front.  His eyes widened with delight and love for her.

“How could you…”

“This was meant for your birthday, come next month.  I did not create it overnight, husband, no matter how swift I weave.  We shall celebrate that day upon your return.  Now come, we must talk of practical matters, the farm, the children and what you will need.”

She led him away down the grassy slope towards their homestead, a sturdy stone house with a thick thatched roof.  She was smiling.

It was late in the day.  Aragost sat at a table on the terrace outside his quarters.  Long shadows from the Misty Mountains to the west would soon envelop the land, racing across the Graylin to Mirkwood and beyond. He and Borondir had visited the Armory.  Fine smiths had put a clean edge on his sword, closed holes in his chain mail and provided a long hand axe designed for horsemen felling orc heads from bodies.  Borondir had received his own attention, then left to join Eorl in counsel with his Marshalls about the route south.

An aide to Eorl brought a flagon of ale, some cheese and deer sausage.  Aragost nodded in gratitude.  Eorl would be by in an hour to join him for a full dinner after a pressing day that would not end with that meal.

Aragost had time on his hands.  Great events were in the making.  He would participate, ride with them to whatever victory or doom awaited.  But little more he could proffer.  They knew their tactics.  Each eored practiced them every year, often paired with neighboring eoreds.  Every other summer, Marshalls would mobilize their entire forces for a two week journey about the realm, living off supplies and the land, practicing larger movements.   Up to 2000 horsemen might ride, learning signals in battle, the use of pennants and horns. 

Now they worked out the battle doctrines for an army of seven thousand confronting a foe they had not yet seen, in numbers they had not known, in alliance with an army from Gondor with whom they had not spoken.  Aragost could not help them with this.  What lore he knew about great battles in the past, learned as a young man in Rivendell, was of little use. 

He sipped at the ale, gaze fixed to the east.  His sharp eyes caught a small dot in the sky, descending, growing larger as it took a wide, sweeping curve to the left and then to the right.  Then it straightened out and seemed to come directly towards him.  Aragost stood, watching the dot take form, growing swiftly larger. 

Aragost smiled.  He knew this creature.  Suddenly it was almost upon him, rearing up, baffling its wings to reduce speed, then floating down to rest on the table in front of him, staring expectantly.

Aragost glanced at its right leg where something had been wrapped about, just above the branch of its talons.  A message and judging by the rune on the outside, one from Rivendell. 

“Well master hawk, we meet again, both of us far from home this time.  We enjoyed a hunt three years past courtesy of Lord Elrond.  It seems I am your quarry today.”

Aragost cut off a slice of sausage and fed the proud red hawk which quickly snatched it away, downing it in an instant.  Aragost cut three more slices and left them on the table.  Then he slowly unwrapped the message while the hawk stabbed at the meat.

The Balchoth will attack at the Undeeps by mid next month.  Without aid, Gondor may not prevail.  Only with the Eotheod in force can victory be secured.

The message ended with Gandalf’s signature rune.

Aragost cut more sausage and cheese for the hawk, which he knew to be famished after such a long flight.  He would have to secure more before he set it off on return with his answer to the message. 

It did not surprise him that Gandalf knew of the peril from the Balchoth.  That had been building for some time and the old wizard had an uncanny way of knowing what was going on from the mouths of the Anduin to Iron Hills and west to the Grey Havens. 

But what to make of his last sentence.  Had he expected him to single handedly rouse the Eotheod to action?  Or did he know more and was just pressing the point home about the desperate state of things?  If he ever saw him again he would try for an explanation from the old riddler.  But for now, he had news and the need to get it back to him swiftly.  To what end he knew not, but he was far from underestimating what the old wizard could do.

At that moment he heard the sound of voices at the far end of the courtyard.  Eorl was bidding good day to his Marshalls and Borondir who would take a quick supper then resume their plans for the journey south.  Aragost spoke a few words to the hawk, communicating safety and friend so it would not fly off or try to peck out one of Eorl’s eyes. Eorl strode over to the table where Aragost sat, slowing his gait as he approached, stopping six feet short just to be safe.

“It seems you both are acquainted.” Eorl said

“We have hunted together in Rivendell, times past.  Buteor is skilled at spotting game and from time to time, orcs.”  Aragost replied

“Then he is welcome here, though his journey has been far for seeking game.”  Eorl eased closer and sat in a chair near the table.

“He brings a message from Gandalf the Grey.”  Aragost passed the paper to Eorl and cut more sausage and cheese for Buteor.

“I know of him,” Eorl replied, “He visited in my father’s time when I was a boy of ten.  He is well informed on the state of things.”

“I met him in Bree over a fortnight past just before I made my way north.  The danger of the Balchoth was discussed but not with the detail and immediate urgency that Borondir has brought us.” Aragost replied.

“Perhaps he had acquired more information since then.  Did he expect you to press us on aiding Gondor?” Eorl asked.

“I have long given up trying to fathom his thoughts and plans, though they generally fare well as pertains to the fate of men in Middle Earth.  He is a friend.”

“Well you have such a friend and also well you chose this time to visit.  The hawk would scarce have recognized anyone else.  Or not have come at all”

The hawk presently finished the last of the meat and cheese.  Eorl signaled to an aide to bring food more fitting for a raptor of the sky, then continued.

“What do you suggest we do, Aragost.  The outcome he seeks is about to come to pass.  Is it wise that we tell him now?  Is the advantage of surprise we now have at risk?”

“I have known him all my seventy-nine years.  In turn he has known the lives of my father, grandfather and those before them.  He has always acted without reproach.  Good always follows in his wake.”

Eorl contemplated this, chin in hand, while the aide came and dropped off a shallow bowl for the hawk.  A mix of shredded raw lamb and honey coated grains would supply energy for the long trip back.  

“Then we shall inform him.  If there is good to be found he will do so.  We should not turn away allies, whatever their contribution.”  Eorl signaled to an aide who brought pen and ink.  Eorl flattened the message, then turned it over, revealing a blank side used for responses.  Aragost watched as the pen scratched out a narrative in a small neat script.  Eorl pushed it over to him to read.

Aragost nodded his approval with its contents, then rolled the paper tight and fastened it to the hawk’s leg with a small piece of red dyed twine.  The hawk stared at him intently, then with a cry it leapt off the table.  Powerful wings pinioned and it rose quickly making for points west towards the foothills of the mountains.

“It will spend the night in the forests to the west.  It does not long suffer the world of men, bound to the earth.”

“But suffer it we must, Aragost” Eorl replied, “And we have work to do.  Come, Aragost, let me share with you what plans we have made.”

The two walked over towards Eorl’s private quarters near the main hall.  They were soon immersed in maps and the thought of distant battles yet to come.

It was late afternoon on a warm early spring day.  Bright clouds chased each other across a deep blue sky.  His army was making camp in the rolling swales of the Downs southwest of the Undeeps. 

It seemed unreal to Cirion, a fine spring day coexisting with the certainty of a desperate battle against a powerful foe not so many days away.  He was proud of his men, the best soldiers to be found.  Man to man, the Balchoth were no match for them.  But it was not man to man.  They were outnumbered at least two to one. 

Centuries past, Gondor had more men at arms and a cavalry wing to support them.  Time, invasions, neglect and a long period of peace had not been kind.  There were less volunteers, less pressure to commit funds and with the migration north of the Woodmen and Northmen, less horses.  Now what steeds they had were used by messengers or hauling wagons.  All the more reason he reached out to the Eothoed.  He knew their reputation, the unstoppable force of their eoreds.  It had been 20 days since his riders left for the north.  He had heard nothing, knew nothing. 

His eyes drifted north, over the near hills and beyond, catching the glow of the late sky.  Far off a dot emerged against a puffy cloud drifting west.  Larger it grew, moving little to the left or right, as if fixing purpose on him standing there.

Vorandur, his general, emerged from the field tent and followed his gaze. 

“A hawk, Steward if my old eyes don’t betray me” he growled

“Coming our way it would seem.  Look its wings have stopped beating.  It comes in at a glide.” Cirion replied.

The hawk banked left, then right, coming down from its high flight line, braking its speed, but keeping its eyes on the man in a white tunic standing just two hundred yards distant.  It was he who he had been sent to find.  The red hawk drew close rapidly, then reared up, fluffing its wings at the last, stopping forward motion and landing haughtily in front of Cirion, eyes flashing.

“Look, its right talon.  It bears a message” Vorandur observed.

Cirion approached it gradually, then knelt in front of the raptor, gently removing the tightly wrapped band about its right leg.  And aide appeared at his side with some scraps of meat to keep the hawk busy and sated.

Cirion unrolled the message.  His eyes widened, then closed with a relieved sigh.

“It is from Gandalf the Grey.  The Eotheod are coming, in large force.  Just over a fortnight they will be north of the Undeeps.”

“They must make haste.  The Balchoth will not abide along the Anduin waiting on their arrival.  I fear we will meet them sooner than that.  The latest scouting report estimates their lead elements crossing the Anduin on the tenth of the month.”  Vorandur replied

Cirion grimaced at the news.  Even moving at twenty miles a day he would be easily sixty miles west of the Anduin by the twelfth. 

“Yes, it means they will have crossed in full numbers before we can engage them.” 

“Our plan to attack them when they had only landed several thousand is now abandoned.”  Cirion muttered half to himself.  That plan had promise, his ten thousand to make swift work of seven thousand crudely armed easterners having just crossed the river.  Then the odds might look better against the remainder of the Balchoth after the first group was defeated.

Now the odds were longer.  They would be outnumbered at least two to one, maybe more.  Even worse, by his estimate now they would engage on the twelfth, a full three days before they could expect the Eotheod. 

“We must hold out, general.  The Eotheod cannot arrive to the Balchoth picking over our corpses on the battlefield, then turning and swarming over the horsemen who will be alone in this land.”

Vorandur knew what this meant.  Surrounded perhaps, facing a battle of attrition against an enemy of superior number with little regard for their own casualties.

“We must tell the men the truth.  That we face a dire battle.”

“We must also give them hope, general.  The possibility that the Eotheod may come to our aid.  A further reason to fight on, survive.”

Vorandur nodded affirmatively.  On the eve of battle, not many days hence, this would be revealed to the men.  In the meantime, tactics would be revised and drilled, supply and rations adjusted for a siege.  Men would have time to prepare themselves in their hearts that their minds would be settled and firm on that fateful day. 

Vorandur knew that would make them stick together in grim, solid purpose.    

“We got orders, Lugnashk” Bagrish barked

“What orders, Bagrish, you stinking slime.”  Lugnashk replied, loathing the commander he’d been assigned to as first deputy.

“His orders. ‘n you better be sharp about it. ‘e wants a thousand of you rats ready to go in a week, Lugnashk” Bagrish replied

“ ‘n where are we headed” 

“Make way southeast to the great river, ‘e says to me in my head.  Be there on the fifteenth where the Limlight joins the Anduin.”

“What then”, Lugnashk sneered

“ 'e says you’ll know what do to you little bug.  Just be ready to fight”

Lugnashk snarled and stalked out of the ramshackle hut that was their headquarters.  With equal charm he began shouting at his subcommanders slumped over rude tables in a shabby mess room, rousing them from wine induced stupors, kicking some, cuffing others on their pointy ears.

“Come on you swine.  We got heads to chop and guts to stick.  Find your troops.  We leave in a week.”

There was more grousing and groaning.  Several of them began fighting each other, dulled by splitting headaches from the sour wine.  Lugnashk separated them, beating them on their heads with his mailed fists, kicking them out the door.

Soon the woods and mountain crags were echoing with snarls and curses as the main host of orcs was similarly awakened. 

Bagrish listened with satisfaction.  He said the Steward of Gondor might be a prize and what might He pay for the head of such a trophy, Bagrish mused.  Whatever it was Bagrish would make certain that prize was his.

He was short, but wide and powerfully built under his padded tunic and small leather curiass.  Unkempt black hair spilled over his brow.  A nail studded war club and hand axe lay at his feet.

Dezoch brooded on the small knoll overlooking the rally point on the Anduin.  His two thousand men were idling on the riverbank, among the first of the ten tribes to arrive. He grated at the delay.  It would be nearly a week before all the tribes would gather, convert their supply wains to rafts and launch across the great river.  In the meantime his men were eating into their provisions, getting drunk on sour wine and losing discipline.  He would crack a few skulls later to bring them to order.

Mozuk, chieftain of the Balchoth, had placed Dezoch’s tribe on the south flank.  His men and three other tribes would soon separate from the main host once on the west side of the Anduin.  Mozuk would meet Gondor’s army head on.  Dezoch would lead the other tribes west, but just south of the battle.  Then they would swing north to stave in Gondor’s exposed right flank. 

Mozuk had hinted that others might attack Gondor from the northwest, but revealed little.

Dezoch cared little.  They would overwhelm Gondor with numbers and ferocity.

Once they had finished Gondor’s army, the lands west of the Anduin would be theirs.  So much land.  He had been promised a great swath and a lordship for his tribe, if he survived. 

Dezoch smiled.  He always survived.

“The men are ready, Lord.” 

Eorl looked out upon the assembly plain.  Marshall Wulfgar had assembled his twenty two eoreds in full combat formation.  Each rider wore a heavy tunic under a chain mail hauberk.  Soft deerskin pants were in order for the long ride ahead.  As to arms, they all bore a sword, spear, shield and axe. Saddle bags were full.

Eorl too was in full battle dress.  As with his men, his long golden hair fell out from a shining steel helm.  His polished chain mail hauberk lay over a leather padded tunic.  Light vambraces shielded his forearms, greaves protected his legs below the knee. 

“We do not as a rule mass in such numbers” Eorl remarked to Aragost and Borondir, joining him and the Marshal on a small rise overlooking the plain. 

“No more than five hundred men easily suffices to keep any orc incursions from Gundabad at bay.  But we prepare for much worse.  And it is a joy for us to ride so it is no labor.  We imagine such a foe that we would muster the entire eohere.  And that foe presents today to our south.”

Aragost looked out at the horsemen in the formation that constituted the right wing of Eorls’s army.  The twenty two eoreds of one hundred riders each were clustered into five groups of four to five eoreds.  Each group was led by a first captain, selected from among the captains of each eored.

“I battle I will lead the eohere at the center.” Eorl instructed. “Each Marshall leads a wing.  When we are upon the enemy I will give the order of battle.  My herald will sound the horn and Marshalls will sound theirs.  We then advance at speed to deal the enemy a terrible blow!”  Eorl’s ice blue eyes glittered for a moment, swept up in the scene he envisioned.

“The Balchoth will not stand idly by for slaughter” Borondir remarked.

“It would be quicker for them if they did” Eorl replied with a grim smile, “But adapt we can and our lead captains are expected to exploit what presents itself.  They will sound the horn for their eored group and take what prize may be offered.  Now watch and see.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leofric waited several yards in front of the line of his five eoreds.  The Captains vote had chosen him Lead Captain for their section at the tail end of the right wing of the eohere. 

They were all mounted and ready, fully armed and pack laden.  It would be so in battle.  Leofric’s horn lay on his chest, strap cast over his right shoulder.  Upon the signal from the Marshall he would sound the horn as would all the Lead Captains.  Then they would ride in formation, charging across the assembly plain towards their targets, hundreds of posts, some with shields attached, others bound in straw.

His group would take the targets on the far right, hacking them to pieces in a single charge, then wheel around and charge back to their starting points heaving spears at freshly placed targets. 

He looked to the left.  The Marshall was galloping down from the knoll where he had met with Eorl.  Leofric watched intently.  Then as the Marshall approached the first of his troops he raised his horn and sounded the charge.

Immediately five horns echoed his signal.  With a shout, Leofric spurred his steed into action, hooves sending dirt flying.  The ground trembled with the terror of hundreds of horses charging at speed across the plain.

-----------------------------------------------------****-----------------------------------

Borondir and Aragost watched, transfixed as over two thousand horseman charged over the assembly plain towards their targets less than half a league away.  A great wave of hooves and steel led by the Marshall and his five lead Captains.

“See, the main formation, how each group of five eoreds maintains a slight separation from their neighbor group.”  Eorl was getting excited, watching them sweep across the plain in combat discipline.

“Now watch as the target masters in those scattered copses of trees cut the long ropes to raise new targets.”

Aragost and Borondir swept their gaze out into the distance.  Abruptly what had been rolling plain was dotted with a maze of new stakes risen up the far end of the wing. 

“A little surprise.  All tied down under tension, easily released by the target masters cutting the restraining ropes in the trees.  Now we will see if our Lead Captain at the end of the wing remembers his training.”  Eorl commented.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Leofric saw it on his right as he closed the distance to his assigned targets.  A thicket of new targets, suddenly emerged, painted black, simulating orcs.  They would have to be struck down or the wing would be flanked.  At full gallop he raised his horn and sounded three times, then veered right. 

Three of his five eoreds split off from his formation and followed him.  The remaining two stayed on their original course.  Off to the left, the Lead Captain of the next eored group heard his signal and closed ranks with the two remaining eored’s providing support for their original mission.

Up on the knoll Eorl smiled in approval and gestured to Aragost and Borondir.

“Nothing is fixed in battle.  We train for change.  Watch now as the Lead Captain cuts his way through the orc targets.”

Down on the plain Leofric’s three hundred made short work of the stakes and straw dummies, leveling them with vicious cuts of their swords, then wheeling left to rejoin their other two eoreds which had decimated the original targets. The entire wing formation made a turnabout in good order, reforming the line, then charging back to their original position where large targets had been quickly raised.

Once again the ground shook under the pounding of incessant hooves. Dust and dirt flew in the air.  Men raised their voices in battle cry as they closed with spears drawn in their right hands.  Fifty yards out the spears were released, shredding the canvas targets.  A great cheer went up in the ranks.  They had performed well.

The cheers grew deafening as Eorl rode down to address the men, his sword held high in salute.

“Men of the Eotheod!  You have done well today!  In two days we depart to meet an enemy of flesh and blood, not straw and sticks.  But they will fall as hay before the scythe.  Gondor will be saved!”

A great roar went up in the ranks.  Men brandished swords, shouting. 

Up on the knoll Borondir spoke to Aragost.

“His men would follow him to any doom.”

“The doom will be for the Balchoth.”  Aragost replied

“If we are in time…if we are in time.”  Borondir said quietly to himself.

Aragost emerged from the field tent.  It was dark. Cold stars of adamant glittered against the black satin night, casting ghost light on a haze of ground fog. It would be dawn in an hour.  Dawn for seven thousand mounted warriors and three hundred cavalry archers who had arrived late yesterday and camped overnight. 

He still felt a sense of unease.  It was not the fear of battle, injury or even death.  For that he was well prepared despite the solitary nature of his life.  No, it was that he was still of two minds. His training, his birthright, had proscribed his life of a wanderer, a hidden shepherd of those dwelling in the open lands of Eriador.  He was not of Gondor, facing a desperate battle, not one of the Eotheod, warrior horseman riding to save Gondor and fulfill their own destiny. 

He was simply not necessary for the success of their mission.  Just another sword, a most capable one, but just one nonetheless.  Whereas, on the other side of the Misty Mountains, he was at times the only thing standing between men, hobbits, and the dangers of a world beginning to grow darker.  But there had been no great tests west of the mountains, not just yet.  He was seventy nine years old, in his prime as chieftain of the Dunedain, a lonely life he would begin to teach his son Aravorn in ten years.  A duty whose limitations had been hard to accept when he was a young man. 

Everything pulled him in the direction of that duty, to make west back over the pass, down to the East-West road the town of Bree and beyond, the rich farmlands of the Shire.  There to serve out the years until he was old and stiff and Aravorn wore the mantle of chieftain.

But until today there had been no alternative.  And he was made of flesh and blood, mortal, despite his long life.  He would have no other such chance as this. 

No, for all the pull of duty, he could not walk away from the great contest of his time.  To do so would be to give something away of himself, to surrender without a fight, quietly retreat home.  That was not in his blood. In fact at home he was more likely to die facing down an unexpected pack of wolves, outnumbered and alone, than in battle. His great grandfather had died thusly, rent by tooth and claw.   

Off to his left there was a rustle of cloth.   Aragost departed from his thoughts, glanced over.  A tall broad shouldered man with a long shock of blond hair emerged from a tent, mail clad, helm in hand.

“Ah, Aragost, always the first up.”  Eorl said as greeting, walking over, then continued, “I am glad you have joined me.  Do you know why?”

“No, if truth be told I do not.  I have been wrestling with the question of being here, not leagues away, west of the Misty Mountains as chieftain of the Dunedain.”

“I want you here because you are not one of the Eotheod nor a citizen of Gondor.  My advisors and Marshalls may not tell me all of what they really think.  You have no such need to withhold.  They will think only within the ways of the Eotheod.  You are not so bound.   You have lived more than thrice the years I have, received a noble tutelage.  We go to war, Aragost.  I will need your honest counsel in addition to your sword.”

“And you shall have it.” Aragost replied, the last vestiges of doubt being swept away. 

The two of them then gathered in front of Eorl’s tent for a quick breakfast.  The first fingers of dawn were reaching across the fading night.  Out in the plain, seven thousand warriors were finishing their own meal, packing their horses for the long journey.  An hour later they stood tightly packed in an arc below the slope where Eorl waited silently.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The time for tests and maneuvers had passed.  He had seen them perform well, including the three hundred archers whose arrows would be sent to provide death and chaos in the ranks of the Balchoth. 

Eorl looked out at them on the bright, clear spring morning astride white Felarof on a small rise overlooking the entire eohere.  His helm was off, the north wind restlessly tugging at his blond hair.  The sun shone off his polished chain mail.  Felarof stood as a marble statue beneath him, a mearas, lord of horses. 

“Men of the Eotheod.”  His voice was strong and clear, as even the last rider could hear.  “Today we ride to the aid of Gondor.  For if Gondor falls and Minas Tirith is taken, there will be no allies to protect us from the same doom.”

“We have nearly two hundred leagues to ride.  It will test you and your steeds.  But we will arrive with mighty swords, stout shields and sharp lances.  We will cut them down like hay before the scythe!  Are you ready men?!”

A great roar erupted.  Men raised their swords, pounded their shields.  Eorl raised his own great sword, flashing light off the morning sun. 

Behind him the standard bearer rode up, bearing the pennant of a white horse against a green field.  It was the signal for the men to mount their horses.  Eorl then rode down the slope of the rise.  The ranks parted as he and his personal guard led the way.  The eoreds of the center formation followed in order behind him, then the right wing, and the left led by their Marshalls.  Such were their numbers that it was the better part of an hour before they had left the plain on the east side of the Greylin, making their way south.

Their lands, farms, their women and children would trust in their return.  Those too old for the quest would stay behind, still hale enough to provide a modicum of order and protection. 

Freya stood on the bridge over the Greylin, watching the riders disappear into the distance, the ground trembling with the storm of hooves breaking south.  Somewhere in the distant sea of sun glinting helms was Leofric.  His quiet strength now belonged to this task.  She did not begrudge that.  His heart belonged to her.