Chapter 41

Into the Mêlée

June 24

Somewhere in the gorges, Southern Gondor

"Mûmakil," Aragorn muttered under his breath. It was as if the battle were determined to prove that it could still surprise and dismay him. "I should have brought more men."

The advantage to not having a very large group did seem to be that the oliphaunt was having difficulty actually crushing any of Aragorn's men, but as the Gondorians ran to get out of the giant animal's path, they were picked off by the Southron archers up on the ridge.

With no one on hand to help him, the king nevertheless stepped from cover and took a stand, notching an arrow to his string and aiming for the animal's eye. From the ground, and with the beast moving so quickly, he wasn't surprised when the arrow only lodged in its madly waving trunk. "Forget more men, I should have brought an elf." He took aim again, and again the shot missed its target. With a breathless curse, Aragorn flung himself to the side, wrapping his arms over his head as the mûmak thundered past him and more shale came loose and rained down from the canyon walls.

Immediately, Aragorn sprang back to his feet. There was little he could do against the mûmak from behind, so he turned his attention to the enemy archers. A Southron stood up on the lip of the canyon and took aim, and Aragorn grunted in satisfaction as his own shot caught the man before he could fire. An arrow skipped off a tree by the king's face and he turned his head aside for an instant to keep the scatter of splinters from hitting his eyes. Nine shots in a row found their mark perfectly, and then he had to move as the other archers began to focus their aim on him alone.

"Move into the trees!" Aragorn yelled, as the men who had escaped the mûmak's charge came staggering past him, dodging arrows. "Bring down those archers!"

One man nodded, turned, and then fell with an arrow in his throat. Two more found safety behind a wide boulder and they leaned around to pick off their targets.

Aragorn moved, trying to shake off the archers spotting for him, but their aim followed and he was forced to stop in a low place with no cover. Trying to watch all directions at once, Aragorn realized that his quiver was beginning to run low. He had always disliked armor, preferring to have Legolas watch his back for him, but now was a moment when he regretted the lack of it. A fletching brushed his cheek as a shot from behind him came too near the mark, but as he turned and saw another arrow pointed toward him, the Southron aiming suddenly had a knife in his gut and he doubled over and fell.

"Thank you," Aragorn acknowledged Duurben quickly.

"I should hope so." Duurben was breathing hard from his run as he placed his back against his king's. "That was my favorite knife."

"I shall have a new one made for you."

"Fancy that!" He squinted as he aimed. "I sacrifice it, you recreate it. And to think I nearly slept away such opportunity! Out of curiosity, what will you do if I lose my head?"

"Replace it with a turnip — no one will notice." Grabbing Duurben's belt, Aragorn pulled the man down with him as two better aimed arrows burned the air where their heads had been.

A third arrow skipped off a rock, grazing Duurben across the knee, and he flinched as he stood back up. "I already resemble that vegetable."

"You said it yourself: we're getting old."

"I said that?"

"I believe that was you." Aragorn reached for another arrow, realized his quiver was now empty, and took an arrow from Duurben's quiver instead. "I don't forget faces easily."

"I wish I was wrong."

Aragorn frowned at the ridge. The line of Southron archers kept falling to the Gondorian's arrows, but not enough of them, and they seemed to be instantly replaced as they fell. "We'll discuss it when we get old and have nothing better to do. Stand back!"

They backed up hastily as the mûmak came charging back towards them.

Duurben caught hold of a tree to steady himself. "What's that hanging from its tusks?"

"Rope and netting — the beast must have become tangled in the snare that was laid for us." A gleam entered the king's eye.

"My lord?" Duurben's voice was wary.

Aragorn seemed not to hear as he took half of Duurben's remaining arrows.

"My lord?"

For a moment Aragorn crouched, the balls of his feet shifting a little in the loose dirt. The earth trembled as the mûmak came closer, drawing nearly level with their hiding place.

"My lord!"

With a last nod that gave away absolutely nothing, Aragorn sprang forward, racing like a deer towards the giant creature's trailing nets.

"Aragorn!"

The mûmak jerked to fitful halts as the nets it dragged became caught on the terrain. At the same moment that Aragorn jumped, the net snagged on the boulder the two archers had hidden behind not long before. Using the net like a ladder Aragorn pulled himself up to the level of the platform that the beast's handlers were standing on.

His hands caught the railing, slipped for a moment as the net tugged free and the mûmak continued on, and then he had flipped himself up and over the side into the midst of the Southrons. There were only five of them — just the driving crew, rather than a full war party, since the archers were on the canyon walls instead.

The two men lunged, one behind the other, and Aragorn's arrow was fired at such close range as to impale both men on the single shaft. The third Southron knocked the bow from Aragorn's hand, sending it skittering across the platform. Aragorn didn't have time to grab his knife, so he punched the other man in the jaw, grabbed the front of the red tunic in both fists and drove his knee hard into the Southron's gut. A copper-colored arm wrapped itself around his neck and he drove his elbow backwards into the Southron's chest, causing the fourth man to release him immediately.

Suddenly the mûmak stumbled, sending the Southron tumbling forward. Aragorn doubled over into a crouch so that the other man's knees crashed into him and with a cry the Southron was pitched over the railing. Grabbing his sword from its sheath, Aragorn lunged towards the mûmak's driver. The last Southron snarled, releasing the long leathern reigns that were hooked into the beasts ears to steer it, and drew a scimitar, but Aragorn's sword was the stronger and it shore through the haradic blade like thin foil. The man fell back and Aragorn lunged and caught hold of the curved horn the driver had hung round his neck. The leather strap held the Southron up for a moment, and then it parted and Aragorn was alone on the platform, still holding the horn. Now, with no ability to find cover from the Southron archers, he would have to hope none of them would notice that the mûmak had changed owners. Catching hold of the reigns, Aragorn searched back for the little Haradic he still knew from his old travels as 'Thorongil'. "Slow!" he yelled in the Southron tongue. "Slow!" His call went unheeded at first, but then the mûmak felt the painful tug on the hooks in its ears.

Hauling the reigns to the right, Aragorn drove the mûmak towards the left wall so that its tough sides ran up against the stone and its pace was checked still further. Below he caught the faint sounds of Duurben shouting orders.

His arms strained a little to hold the beast beneath him in check, trying to prevent it from trampling any more Gondorians. When for a moment his path was clear enough for him to let up his control, he freed a hand and blew a resounding call on the Southron horn. He knew Faramir would recognize it. He also knew the Haradrim would know it was no horn call of theirs. The unthinkable had happened — a mûmak had been captured. He was exposed.

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Faramir heard the horn call clearly and guessed the sound to be a mile or so further off. Gathering his men with a few brisk orders, he started the company off at a near run. That was Aragorn calling for assistance and everything else could wait.

As they came closer Faramir motioned for stealthier movement. He could see by the faint twitching of the bushes at the ravine's edge that there were hidden archers at work. That explained the horn call; certainly the Gondorians below would not be able to make headway against such concealed positions. There were other archers on the ravine edge directly across from Faramir, but he hoped if his men were swift enough they would be able to take out the nearside archers before the rest of the Southrons realized that these positions were no longer manned by their allies.

Slipping up close behind an enemy archer, Faramir felt his thigh flash red with pain and his leg gave way beneath him. The archer whirled around before Faramir had time to curse his clumsiness and a short fight ensued in the underbrush, almost soundless as both men tried to gain the upper hand with tooth, nail, and knife. At last it was over and Faramir caught hold of the body before it could fall out of the bushes and give away his position. He wiped his knife on the grass and looked around before moving. As he made to get up his leg seared again. He glanced down in annoyance and saw the blood glistening through his leggings. The stitches were definitely tearing.

Ignoring it, he moved on. His men had followed their orders well, but it was getting steadily more difficult to fight quietly; more and more the archers further on were becoming aware that many of their fellows had inexplicably stopped firing.

"Faster," Faramir whispered to a few soldiers. They had to finish before the archers opposite them discovered their presence.

Three short tussles later and Faramir was having to force his leg to respond as the blood continued to seep through. Only a few enemies more, he told himself. Only a few and then you can rest… The next fight was a vicious one, and this time the archer had definitely suspected trouble. The moment Faramir slipped between two bushes, the Southron snatched up a large stone and slammed it against his head. The world around the Steward flickered in shocks of bright light. Instinctively he ducked before another blow could land, and then he had to lunge into a full length sprawl to avoid the third blow. The rock instead slammed into the center of the bloody spot on his leg and the stitches burst completely.

Whipping his protesting body into a roll, Faramir kicked his other foot into his opponent's ear. The Southron dropped the rock and pulled out a rippled knife that he stabbed into Faramir's foot as it came back again. The thick leather resisted the blade, but it still penetrated enough to draw blood. Taking out his own knife, Faramir feinted towards the Southron's hand, which was nearest him, and then flicked the knife in a short throw that caught his opponent in the gut. Here the Southron armor was weaker, but not weak enough to let in a killing thrust.

The Southron hissed something vicious and brought his own knife down to return the injury. Catching up the rock that was still stained with his own blood, Faramir slammed it with crushing force against the Southron's wrist. There was a crunch, and then a faint clink as the knife fell.

With a hoarse cry, the Southron flung himself bodily at Faramir. Most archers were chosen for their lithe, slimly muscled swiftness — such had Faramir always been. Amongst the Haradrim this was less common; the Southron bows were stouter, harder to bend, and thus the Southron archers were large men of strength, just like any other man in the Southron army. The full weight of the man crushed Faramir into the stony ground, driving the breath from his body. Twice he almost managed to work his way free of the Southron's pounding blows, and each time was battered back.

Then the large bronzed hands closed around his neck. His windpipe was crushed in, his breath cut off. He was gasping and trying to strike back effectively through the fog of pain and lack of air. Slowly his efforts became more difficult, less meaningful. The world dimmed and lost color.

Pain! Good pain! Good pain…? The Southron was hauled off of him, the motion tearing Faramir's leg open still further. Then came the air, expanding his lungs and sending lancing agony through his chest as his ribs realigned themselves. He was choking and coughing helplessly, wishing he could help whoever had come to aid him.

Then a pair of hands was helping him to sit up and he found himself looking into a familiar pair of gray eyes.

"I told you to— stay in the camp…" Faramir wheezed.

"Aye, my lord steward. Are you alright?" Beregond was checking him frantically for more blood.

"You— disobeyed — a direct order!"

"I know, sir. Here, take my hand, you're leg is bleeding."

Faramir bit back a cry as the weight on his leg and the weight on his stabbed foot combined to try and drive him to unconsciousness. He resisted — Beregond had a good deal of explaining to do.

"You could have been— killed — foolish not to let yourself heal first."

Beregond was almost carrying him back away from the edge of the ravine, his own injuries still evident in the slowness of his movements. At Faramir's words, he looked at him with an expression that was trying hard to be as deferential as usual. "I bow to your superior knowledge of the subject, my lord."

Faramir felt his eyes narrow. "Oh you do, do you? Valar take it, Beregond, I didn't request you for my personal guard so that you could kill yourself through negligence."

"No, I'm sure you did not." With a wince, he lowered Faramir to the ground in a concealed position where Faramir could still see Aragorn's men below. "And I, Lord Faramir, did not risk my life for you in the Hollows so that you could fight the Southrons half-lamed either." He dropped his head humbly as he sat beside his lord.

Faramir situated himself as comfortably as he could, bringing out his bow. "I should report you for insubordination."

"Will you?"

"Have I ever?"

Drawing his bow fully, despite the pain in his chest, Faramir aimed for an unsuspecting archer on the opposite ridge.

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The dying flames crackled on all sides, but Legolas was unperturbed as he sought his quarry. Lieutenant Anto had taken the men onward through the burned camp to pursue the remnants of the Southrons, but Legolas had remained behind.

Something still lurked amid the flames… Terrified though it was of fire, its kills were all here and it would want a chance to feast. Legolas had no intention of leaving a taerg at their backs to come at them from behind when it was hungry again. He had his bow drawn as he slowly turned in place, watching all ways and seeming to know what the very air was doing while his back was turned.

For a while a slight frown creased his fair features as he moved about soundlessly. Surely by now he would have seen some sign… and then he felt it. He did not smile, but his whole body seemed to relax with satisfaction. The taerg was stalking him.

The elf's blue eyes flicked casually toward a cluster of stunted marsh trees. There. Amid the shadows, a lithe tan body. The taerg was no longer hungry, but it remembered Legolas with antipathy and it would not like the idea of the elf walking free. However it was canny enough not to rush too soon. A full belly had leant caution to its madness, and it could recognize the dangers of a bow should it choose to rush the elf from such a long distance.

Taking advantage of the time still remaining to him, Legolas paced toward a smoldering pile of tent canvas. It had caught on some bushes, creating a makeshift windbreak, and he eased his way around behind it. Its height was enough to shield his body from view, but his bow still protruded up above the top edge. Carefully he fastened the bow to one of the remaining tent poles so that it remained standing, still visible to the waiting taerg. Putting away the arrow he'd been holding, he examined the canvas quickly. Perfect. He drew his knives. A careful slit in the canvas so that he could watch for the taerg's approach, and then Legolas crouched ready and waiting.

The minutes passed slowly, and flames crackled in the silence. Nothing moved.

It was so subtle when it happened that a man would not have noticed, but Legolas was an elf. The grasses rippled with the light wind, but at the center a small clump of reeds bent into the wind instead of away from it. The taerg had left its crouching place. Slow seconds later it crossed the first part of the camp, moving silently and crouching again. When it seemed its quarry had not moved (the bow at least had remained stationary) it ambled with less caution across the remaining space, coming to a stop only a few feet from Legolas' canvas shield.

Legolas could see the whites of its bloodshot eyes as it debated its final attack. Now. The elf whipped his knives out, slitting not towards the center of the canvas and the taerg beyond it, but towards the sides where the canavas was still weakly attached to its tent poles. The heavy cloth came loose and Legolas carried it with him into his forward leap.

The taerg's first reaction the wall of white coming at it was to balk and growl, slashing out with its claws. Then it was enveloped in canvas as the elf landed on it. A sharp pain registered as the beast's claws caught the elf briefly at his hip, but the scratch was not a deep one. Legolas stabbed twice with his knives before the taerg managed to shred its cloth prison. Even when the taerg was free, he managed one good thrust before it could track where he had gone. The beast gave a roar of hatred, blood dripping from its shoulder, its neck, and below its ear.

It leapt at him, teeth and claws glinting. Legolas stayed in its path until the last possible second, and then he threw himself forward instead of to the side. The taerg leapt right over him, landing with a snarl and scrabbling to turn around for a second charge. Taking fast aim, Legolas threw his first knife. It missed the throat, but it caught an artery. Blood began to steadily soak the animal's chest.

Knowing he had won the victory, Legolas turned and began to run. The taerg chased him, but its roars grew weaker the longer they ran, and at last the elf heard the stumbling tread of the animal in its death throes. Cautiously he turned to watch the taerg from several yards away. The beast was staggering, blood staining its legs and the dirt beneath it now. It collapsed onto its side, snarling, spitting red saliva, and scrabbling a little in the ashes of the camp.

Warily Legolas came closer, still keeping out of range of a final spring. The beast snarled one last time, choking and writhing in pain, and Legolas felt pity — not for what the beast was now, but for what it had once been. Knowing the beast would die slowly else wise, he drew his second knife and aimed directly between the bloodshot golden eyes.

The taerg died instantly. Sadly, Legolas withdrew his knives and cleaned them. Giving a last nod to his opponent, he collected his bow and started off after Anto.

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It was like riding on the back of thunder, if such an ethereal beast of the storm skies could be given form on Arda. An earthquake of sound battered Aragorn's ears — the crushing of rock and tree under foot, the smashing of shale from the canyon walls, the ice-cracking trumpet of the beast's snake-like nose. Every muscle in his body was throbbing as he tried, mere mortal a hundredth the size of the beast he rode, to turn the mûmak and drive it. Nothing could have prepared him for the feat he had so suddenly — rashly, perhaps? — undertaken. A steady stream of words passed his lips in a mixture of Haradic and elvish, trying to charm the war beast with words. It was beyond taming.

Southron arrows now buzzed angrily around his head as the enemy realized their great mûmak was no longer in friendly hands. The shafts lodged in the tough skin of the beast, passing Aragorn by. Aragorn left the mûmak's ears some space to move freely, hoping this would help shield its eyes.

An arrow came too close; the mûmak bellowed horribly, lunging almost out of his control as an arrow lodged a bare inches above its eye. The thrashing of its head dragged the leather reigns through Aragorn's tightly clenched hands with bloodying force. Grimly the king clung on, knowing there would be no safe way to disembark until the fighting was over. He was here for duration, to live or die with this giant creature, and he hoped greatly for the former.

An arrow snicked a red line along his cheek, a fingers-width below an identical scar already there. Aragorn ducked instinctively, and then felt the jolt as his unintended jerk of the reigns drove the mûmak partway into the remains of the rope trap.

Time and again they would double back to trample the same ground. So long as the Southrons were shooting at Aragorn, they would not be shooting at his men. And Faramir should be on his way…

Dimly he noticed the lessening of arrows. The small part of his mind not wholly taken with the mûmak caught the sounds of arrows firing from the right-hand ridge, and of startled cries from the left-hand ridge. As if the Southrons were firing upon each other...

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Duurben looked up, sharp eyes watching the arrows in flight, and seeing what too few men could have seen from the ground: the change in the firing pattern. Hoping fervently that Faramir now held the right-hand wall, he ordered the men to file ahead close to the left side. This would present the smallest possible target for the Southrons — only a shot strait down would be able reach them, and that only if the shot was strong enough to carry through steel helms.

It would also, he thought, leave the right side clear for Aragorn and the mûmak to tramp along unhindered. What his king had been thinking, Duurben still could not guess, but through his dismay came the wayward thought, We shall laugh about this a good deal in Minas Tirith — out of the queen's hearing, of course…

And then there were no arrows! Cries of surprise came from the Southrons above as Faramir's men rose as one from the bushes and let loose a barrage on the opposite ridge. The Haradrim were caught completely by surprise and they tumbled from their perches like sparrows struck by stones.