Eradan of Gondor

The well laden trading party had set out in early spring from Minas Tirith, making the long journey north towards the gathering place at the Old Ford south of the Carrock.  As in previous years, Gondor sought the horses brought down from the far north by the fierce, golden haired warriors of the Eotheod, now dwelling along the Langwell.

A few weeks later the party returned, floating down the Anduin past the outpost on Cair Andros, their bodies tied to tree trunks, festooned with black orc arrows.  Their heads arrived two days later in coarse woolen sacks lashed to a small rudely fashioned raft.

A reinforced cavalry patrol of 25 was quickly mustered with orders to scout the territory north of Cair Andros for evidence of what had befallen the trading party and the magnitude of the threat.  Ten days later two huge logs were spied rolling in the river, one carrying two of the cavalrymen, impaled to the tree with a dozen swords, the other log a pincushion of spears, all Gondorian in make.

Now Mardil stood brooding on the high terrace overlooking the city poised on the great bend of the river Anduin.  Tall, austere, and gray, the first ruling Steward of Gondor was still an imposing figure in the latter years of his stewardship.

“They must be avenged father” Eradan announced as he strode out onto the terrace.  Tall, like his father, with long brown hair with the first flecks of gray, the Steward’s son was dressed in battle gear, fresh from maneuvers on the plains below on the north side of Minas Tirith.

Mardil turned, the afternoon sun catching his robes of Stewardship, billowing slightly in the cool early spring breeze.  “Avenged….my brave warrior son?” Mardil replied evenly, his blue gray eyes leveling with Eradan as he approached.

Eradan doffed his helmet with an impatient gesture.  “We have the mightiest army in the land, a fleet that controls the coasts.  The Wainriders are dead and long gone, put to the sword over a hundred years ago.  Let us sweep these arrogant scum from the earth and teach them a lesson they and their ilk will never forget!”

Mardil’s face clouded with anger.  “Think Eradan! Think! You who will be Steward some day and responsible for the lives of all within view!” Mardil swept his arm out in a great semicircle from the north, round to the east and south of where they stood.  Eradan stepped back from the sudden force of his father’s words.

“It is not enough to respond in the heat of vengeance with blind force!” Mardil pounded his fist on the rail at the edge of the high terrace, his eyes flashing.  “For blind it would be my son” he continued, controlling his emotions now, calming himself.  “We know not where the enemy is nor his strength or intentions.  It would be well to the liking of those who lurk to the east for us to empty the city of its strength on some vain chase to the north.”

“So you think this a trick, to lure us out?”  Eradan ventured.

“Perhaps…” Mardil turned to the east, his hands on the rail, looking beyond deserted Osgiliath to the jagged line of the Ephel Duath, whence Earnur had gone in his foolish challenge to the Witch King over ten years ago .

“But you too are right Eradan…we cannot just sit here and be attacked with impunity.  That too strengthens our enemies just as it weakens the resolve of the people.”

“Then we will respond?”  Eradan offered hopefully

“We have no choice.  And our adversary, who or what he may be well knows that Eradan.  The people will not long abide an unknown not acted upon.  Come Eradan..”  Mardil gestured behind them towards the entrance to the paved terrace where they stood.

The walked through the row of white marble columns into a large circular room with a high domed ceiling.  Shafts of light streamed through openings to splash on the white paved floors.  Mardil walked over to an immense, ancient wooden case, richly polished, with carven doors on brass hinges.  Tugging lightly on a silver handle, the right door, taller than a man, swung open silently, revealing a honeycomb of nooks and crannies, filled with hundreds of rolled parchments.  Mardil withdrew several and walked over to a large waist high stone platform shaped in a shallow arc.  Several small highly polished egg shaped stones, flat on the bottom, sat neatly in one corner.

Mardil unrolled the largest scroll and pinned it to the surface, a stone at each corner.  Out on the terrace a large, disreputable looking black crow quietly descended from the afternoon sky and fluttered to the pavement a few yards from the row of columns.

“Gondor and the lands to the north”  Mardil stated, running his hands over the map spread out before them..  In the days of the kings our sway ran up the Anduin beyond the Argonath almost to the edge of the forest men now call Mirkwood.  Now Cair Andros is our northern position of strength and the grasslands to the north of the Ered Nimrais are virtually empty.  East of the Anduin the land is fen and swamp, then the harsh, dry Emyn Muil and the desolation of the Brown Lands”

“I know well the lay of the land, father.  Much I have ridden with the cavalry these last 10 years.”

“It is no geography lesson I teach, Eradan.  Look” Mardil pointed to a route inscribed in blue, wending its way along the Great River, picking a careful path through the Mouths of the Entwash, then along the border where the tumbled feet of the Emyn Muil met the grassy plains of East Emnet, ultimately heading north through the Wold, past dark Fangorn Forest and points beyond.

“The old trading route” Eradan said matter of factly

“Old indeed.  And where does our adversary lay in wait?  Some wild men down the hills from the Druadan forest?”

“Not likely…we patrol too close and they would be fools to provoke us so close to our strength”

“Agreed.  So it is farther north…lurking in the fens and reeds of the Entwash or holed up in the Emyn Muil…perhaps something old out of Fangorn forest itself…something that hides yet something that wants to be found…” Mardil stared at the map quietly.  Out towards the terrace the crow hopped quietly in past the columns, its head cocked from side to side.  

“Go to the garrison, Eradan.  Hand pick seven hundred men.  Bring provisions for a month’s hard riding and supplies for a long stay for some of the men.”

“A long stay?”

“Leave 200 of the men at Cair Andros with adequate supplies to reinforce our presence there and allow for patrols in force of 50 men each day up and down the Anduin.  Take the rest across the Entwash to the shores just above Rauros.  Leave another 200 there to build a rough stockade and scour the hills in force for a month. “

“That still leaves a force of 300”  Eradan questioned.

“For you to take at your discretion for a fortnight or two.”

Eradan’s mouth broke into a wolfish grin.

“I said discretion, Eradan.  You are to be back at the stockade within 30 days whether or not you have found those responsible for this.  The entire force, save those at Cair Andros is then to return to Minas Tirith to report fully.  I will expect riders every week while you are gone to bring news south from Cair Andros, the Emyn Muil, and your ‘discretionary’ force.  Should they fail even once to bring news I may recall the entire command. Understood?”  Mardil stared hard at Eradan.

“A wolf hunts best without a leash” Eradan stared back

“And falls prey to the traps of men.  No, Eradan, you will do this my way or another will take your place.  Understood?!” Mardil added emphatically

“Understood…” Eradan’s replied grudgingly, then turned on his heel, his footsteps echoing through the domed room as he strode away, the names of the first hundred men for this command already fixed in his head.

Across the floor, the old crow hopped back out to the terrace, gave a derisive cry and took flight, flapping away into the afternoon sky.      

As Eradan made his way down from the seventh level of the city, the crow struggled to climb higher in the late afternoon sky.  It felt the familiar tug of His will, urging, demanding, that he fly higher, farther.  Its breathing grew labored, the tendons in the pinions of his wings ached and deep inside his dark heart hammered furiously.  The city shrank below him to a glittering white bas-relief on the slopes of Mount Mindollin.  Then as if stepping into a rushing stream, the black bird was swept up in a narrow river of air and carried away with increasing rapidity to the north.

It was His doing, drawing him back at twice the speed of a cavalry charge.  Cair Andros slid away below and just to his right, then the Dead Marshes glinting dully in the late afternoon sun.  Dry and unforgiving, the rugged eastern end of the Emyn Muil marched beneath him next, sere ridges catching the last light as the sun set far to the west where the Isen carved a gap between the White and the Misty mountains.  As dusk fell over the desolate plains of the Brown Lands the current bore on, faster now as if anticipating His impatience, towards a dim line at the northern horizon, the southern marches of Mirkwood.

The flow of air began a gradual descent in the deepening gloom, crossing the edge of the forest, dropping towards a solitary rocky bulk rising suddenly out of the black forest.  Its battlements and surrounding festering pools were all but invisible in the night, save for a smattering of torches on one side and a lurid red glow spilling out of a high domed eyrie  atop the squat, vaguely pyramidal prominence called Dol Guldur.  The glow etched the feathers of its outstretched wings and glinted malevolently off its cold black eyes as it swept on its final approach through a narrow opening high up in the dome.

Moments later there was laughter inside the dome, cold and harsh as the grate of rusted iron on stone.  More points of light emerged on the dark slopes.  Shouts and screams, mingled with curses, the clank of armor and weapons, all responding to where now His urgent command to seize an opportunity.  Like black beetles scuttling out from a rotting dung heap they swarmed out the southern gate, visible only as a line of torches in the pitch black.  Above, the laughter continued on long after the last of His minions had stolen away into the southern forest.

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It was just before dawn as Eradan mustered the three battalions of heavy cavalry on the Pelennor near the base of the city.  A light ground fog muffled the sounds of horses snorting and whinnying as equipment and weaponry was being strapped on.  Commanders began barking orders, aligning their units into formation. 

Eradan sat erect in his saddle, hiding his impatience beneath his impassive gaze.  He was outfitted much like the men he would lead.  Thick all weather black leather riding boots, warm finely woven woolen leggings, a long, almost knee length tunic of light chain mail over a light shirt and heavier woolen jacket, then finally steel breastplate and back guards fastened together with leather straps.  The stout helmet with visor was doffed for now.

His saddlebags were laden with dried fruits and meats, nuts, and a nutritious long lasting bread developed for extended campaigns.  A large leather water reserve was paired with a satchel containing various travel and first aid implements, as well as a change of clothing.  A bedroll was tucked behind the saddle.

Eradan carried the standard issue for heavy cavalry; small arm shield, short sword, riding bow and arrows, and throwing lance.  But while most of the men favored a broadsword, a few perhaps a long battle axe as their primary weapon, Eradan carried a mace.

Forged of gleaming steel, the haft was well over 3 feet long, crowned with a ball of spikes nearly the size of a man’s head.  Eradan had trained intensively in the rarely used weapon he had named Crusher.  So much that his right side, grip forearm, biceps and shoulder, were visibly larger than his left, lending a curious asymmetry to his form.  It also lent enormous power as skirmishers from Harad found to their dismay on a raid across the Poros a few years back.  Riding in the vanguard, Eradan had caught their leader square in the chest with a sweeping blow that hurled him out the saddle, sailing nearly 20 feet before landing in a disheveled heap with a crushed ribcage and ruptured heart.

His men whispered that there was a strange gleam that came into his eyes when he raised the weapon in battle.  Perhaps it was so.  But now the eyes were sharp and steady, watching commanders Weidar, Raladon, and Zerephath ride towards him, having readied their men.

Eradan returned their salute and they fell in formation behind him as he rode to the assembled cavalry to address them.

“Men of Gondor…you all know why we are here.  An enemy, yet unknown, has brutally murdered a trading party.  A patrol has been ambushed, some are dead, others bear a fate we know not.  Some of you will go with Weidar to Cair Andros to reinforce the garrison and patrol both sides of the Anduin as far north as the Entwash and Nindalf.  Others will establish a forward outpost in the western Emyn Muil and search for this adversary under Raladon’s command in the hills and the near plains to the west.

“The final group” Eradan nodded to Zerephath just to his rear on the right, “will accompany me into the Wold as far as the Limlight.  At a minimum the Steward expects us to determine what has befallen the traders and our comrades. 

“Better yet…” Eradan paused, his hand slipping down to grasp the haft of his mace, “…we will find this adversary and send him to hell!”

A loud roar poured forth from the troops, punctuated by the sound of swords beating on of his mace for silence.

“Any questions…” he shouted.  There were none.  He stared at them for a long moment, then lowered the mace, pointing it north.  “We will exit by the north gate.  Commanders, bring your units into formation.” 

Seven hundred feet above the Pelennor, Mardil stood on the terrace, hands clasped behind him, staring down at the formations making their way towards the north gate of Rammas Echor.  He was pleased that Eradan had chosen Zerephath’s battallion for the furthest push to the north.  He had always chosen well.  Mardil had two younger sons, still in their twenties, but neither had Eradan’s knack for leadership.

Mardil hid his doubts, that little would come of the expedition beyond a show of force.  Still there was this lingering unease, something that didn’t quite make sense to him about the scale of violence committed so far.  Nonetheless, he had made the right choices.  The rest was up to fate, as it always was.      

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The land felt strange, alien, too far. The rolling grassy plains of the East Emnet and The Wold were long behind them and now they traversed the empty void of the Brown Lands. The Guardians of the Argonath and the abandoned forts of the Undeeps were leagues away, outer limits of an empire of the past.

They were now over a week on the east side of the Anduin.  Astride a low rise Zerephath viewed the distant dark line of the southern marches of Mirkwood from the saddle of his dark chestnut mount.  Ahead Eradan was motionless on his white stallion, contemplating the limitless north, knowing they had but finite time to complete their task under the Steward’s firm orders.  Behind him the rustle of adjusting baggage mingled with the panting of the horses and the murmur of men filling the windswept emptiness of the desolate plains.

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They had reached Cair Andros the first day out from Minas Tirith.   Aduras, the garrison commander had met them on the west bank of the Anduin.  Old friends with Weidar, he had welcomed the arrival of the jovial, stocky battalion commander, bringing new faces, supplies and news to the outpost.  Many in the battalion had friends and relatives among those stationed at Cair Andros, a circumstance that had not escaped Eradan in his planning.

“Not likely you’ll find anything between here and the Entwash, m’Lord” Aduras had announced to Eradan soon after their arrival.

“What gives you such certainty” Eradan queried.

“Our own patrols for one…we have found nary a trace of either the trading party or the patrol as far as the Entwash.  But there is more.  We live on the river and know its currents as well as we know the speed of a patrol or the trudging of merchants laden with commerce.  For them to have passed us and then days later to return….as they did…on the river….no it had to have happened above the Entwash, at least as far as the southern foothills of the Emyn Muil.”

Eradan had mulled the news quietly for a moment, then spoke..

“What you say bears truth, yet much may have changed since then and our adversary is not likely to remain conveniently still for us.  Weidar will conduct his patrols has planned and maintain the lines of communications as the Steward has ordered.  We will proceed north to the Emyn Muil and perhaps find there the evidence that you foresee, Aduras.”

And so they had continued northwards after a long days ride, making camp a few leagues south of the Entwash, on a last sliver of dry land overlooking the swamps and marshes that could swallow the unwary.  With the dawn of the second day they’d set out along paths that picked carefully among the hummocks and sand bars, trails whose existence made the Mouths of the Entwash passable to the men of Gondor and a strength sapping morass to an inexperienced adversary.

Still it was the better part of the day before they emerged from the bogs and fens, hot, tired, and rife with insect bites, to the first upslope of dry ground that formed the southern boundary of the grasslands that extended far over the northern and western horizons.

Now they could see the foothills and mountains of the Emyn Muil as a jagged line across the northern horizon, at least a day’s ride away. 

Eradan glanced at the late afternoon sun and the cavalry.  Zerephath and Raladon eased their horses up next to his.

“A short rest and little feed for the horses and I’d wager we’ve more than a few leagues in us ‘ere day’s end”  Zerephath commented in his gravelly baritone.

Eradan turned in the saddle towards the old campaigner.  Lean, hard and weathered, skin the texture of an old saddle, long curly black hair now liberally met with gray, Zerephath had been trainer, mentor, and friend of Eradan’s for nearly 20 years. 

“More that a few leagues it must be old friend.  I want those foothills within bowshot’s range of our camp tomorrow night” Eradan replied, pointing north, a look of set determination on his face.  “Do we have a trail to follow as yet?”

“There have been storms and the wind on the plains quickly covers the tracks of friend and foe…but there is enough to tell me that cavalry has been here in the last two weeks.  Beyond that I can say no more.”

“Then we will add our own footsteps to these empty lands.  Have the men give the horses some food, but let us be gone quickly.”

The two commanders wheeled their mounts around and rode off, shouting orders.  Three hours later dusk was giving way to night as they wearily set up pickets and perimeter patrols on a high grassy roll of the land that would be home for the night.

Deep, dreamless sleep was broken by a clear hard dawn, one of winter’s last reminders of its sway over the open plains.  The men assembled briskly.  There was an air of expectancy in the camp, that the day would bring something, a clue, a sign.  As they moved out in formation, Eradan dispatched several advance scouting teams in parties of three with orders to return by noon, sooner if they discovered anything.  Two more riders were sent south to Cair Andros to report on the prior day’s march.

An hour before noon, Zerephath spotted a rider to the north, galloping hard, a thin trail of dust blowing in his wake.  A murmur went up in the ranks.  Moments later the scout thundered up, breathless, his mount panting, soaked in sweat.

“Ahead…about 3 leagues…” the scout struggled to regain his breath..”We saw vultures whirling in the sky…went closer and found two horses…dead”

“Whose horses!” Zerephath growled, grabbing the winded scout by the shoulder, nearly dragging him from the saddle.

“Two of our own I fear…dead some time” the scout replied, more in control.

Dead and nearly hacked to pieces as they found an hour later.  The ground was stained with their blood.  Baggage had been torn and heaved about randomly.  The knee high grass, brown, with just a few new green shoots emerging, was still disturbed, broken shafts mute evidence of a struggle.  Zerephath inspected what was left of the mounts and their belongings intently, then walked over to Eradan, still mounted, grimly absorbing the scene.

“Two riders, likely sent back from the first patrol with important news” Zerephath’s commented flatly.

“Ambushed…someone was expecting them.  Still there must be something up ahead we need to see…something that they found.  Spread the men out…have Raladon’s battalion split into companies starting at the river, working west and joining up with your men.”

The units mobilized quickly, forming a front a league wide, heading north.  Come mid-afternoon a scouting party rushed up with more news of death.  It was much like the plight of the two riders from Gondor.  Several horses, little more than bony carcasses after days of vulture’s work.  Trade wagons, broken, tumbled over.  Supplies of food ripped open and strewn about.  Bolts of trading fabrics unraveled, ripped, riffling in the wind gusting across the plain.  

Zerephath dismounted, walking the perimeter of the site, squatting down from time to time, examining the ground, occasionally extracting some small object from the grass, turning it over in his hand.   He stood for moment, chin between his thumb and forefinger, staring hard to the north, as Eradan eased his mount forward just behind him.

Zerephath turned and tossed a small object up to him.

“A bauble…but worth enough to trade with.  Too many like this lying about.”

Eradan stared at the small golden orb rolling slightly in the palm of his hand.  Ahead the Emyn Muil loomed large now, the patrol perhaps lost in some wild chase in its crags or woody defiles, or in the hands of some larger adversary waiting on their arrival.

“We have a few hours more…we’ll camp at the foot of the mountains”  Eradan said nothing more and rode away, his thoughts to himself.

The camp was silent that night, sobered by the senseless slaughter.  Sleep was uneasy and restless, merging into a cloudy, humid dawn as the wind shifted, carrying moisture laden air in from the sea far to the south.

Eradan had regrouped the battalions back into field formation…Raladon’s on the right close to the edge where the foothills abruptly met the plain, Zerephath on the main trail to the left and slightly ahead.  The light was flat, the sky overcast and heavy.  By mid-day they had rounded the extreme left flank of the Emyn Muil.  A scouting party rode in to report.

They were ashen faced, anger and horror racing across their young features.

“Two leagues ahead…more horses…and…”

And Eradan knew the rest.  They were there shortly.  Twenty horses lay dead, many decapitated.  Armor and saddle bags lay in a heap, slashed open and rifled.  Twelve men sprawled on the grass face down, studded with arrows, their bodies rent with grievous wounds.  A trail of trampled grass led away to the east, up into the foothills, the ground spotted with amber stains and dropped booty.  To the north another slightly larger trail led north.

The men were buried with full honors.  Eradan had his commanders assemble the cavalry.

“Men have died here…brave men” Eradan’s voice carried strong and clear through the ranks.  “We know not the fate of their companions.  Only that two paths lead away from this spot.  One to the east and one to the north.  Raladon will strike to the east, Zerephath and I will take the north.  We will meet here again in two fortnights.  Return with those who are missing, or return with the heads of their captors.”  Eradan paused, scanning the men, still, at attention, “…but don’t return empty handed”  He raised his mace and the plains shook with the roar of Gondor’s finest.

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And now over a week’s hard riding had passed since Eradan’s bold words had galvanized the men.  Raladon had taken his 200 horsemen up into the Emyn Muil.  The continuing exchange of riding messengers and signal pennants from the western ridgetops bespoke a trail gone cold, seemingly petering out to nothing as if the force they tracked had simply melted away one by one.  Still, Raladon would scour the crags and narrow rocky valleys while any shred of hope remained.

If any hope had escaped Eradan, it had been replaced with a desire for vengeance and a gnawing frustration that they might indeed return empty handed despite his exhortations.

They’d had no trouble following the track north as the Emyn Muil receded behind them to the southern horizon.  The enemy, who or whatever they were, had made no attempt at concealment.  Zerephath’s men still found small objects from time to time, though with less frequency, as if they were being carefully hoarded by captives still trying to leave clues to their rescuers.

Then the trail had abruptly turned east directly to the Anduin across a shallow known as the South Undeep.  Two years of drought had made what was formerly a raft or pontoon crossing passable for horses or those on foot willing to take the risk.  Eradan had them  refill their water skins, posted a rearguard of 50 at the one of old abandoned forts on the west banks of the Anduin, then crossed the great river heading east into the empty steppes of the Brown Lands. 

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If there had been any hope during the next several days harsh journey over the barren plains of the Brown Lands it had been the growing realization that they were steadily gaining on their adversaries.  A trail, first faint among the scattered low scrub, sparse grass and windblown dust of the Brown Lands,was now fresh, by Zerephath’s judgement, just a day or two old. 

Zerephath eased his mount forward.

“We have to overtake them before they reach the forest” Eradan said flatly, acknowledging Zerephath’s presence. 

It was stating the obvious.  They had ridden hard the past week.  There was barely enough feed to get the horses back to the South Undeep of the Anduin.  Water had been scarce, only a brief gusty rainstorm in the last four days to fill the dry washes with a brown, silty murk that had barely kept their steeds going and replenished empty water skins.  The men were tired, caked with dust, and uneasy about the isolation of their position so far from home.

Now the southern extremity of Mirkwood forest lay upon the horizon, several leagues away, under a vague yellow haze.

Mirkwood.  Eradan had suspected as much once they were a days ride beyond the Anduin’s eastern banks.  Though well to the north of Gondor and beyond her current sphere of influence, there was nonetheless a steady stream of disquieting tales of the dark forest, fell creatures, and the shadow of a more sinister power.  He had not the force to pursue an adversary into its dark eaves.  Even here, leagues away, he sensed a threat should he venture too much closer.  Still, with a final sprint, they might catch the raiding party that had arrogantly thrust so far south into Gondor’s northern perimeter.

Zerephath stared at him questioningly

“I know, old friend…it grieves me to think that these vermin might escape when we are so close.  But we are at the limit of our range and Mirkwood could easily swallow us like a snake dispatching a field mouse.” 

Zerephath looked away.  It was late afternoon.  A layer of low clouds was moving in from the north under a higher canopy of milky white.  A light breeze carried an odor from the distant forest to the north, vaguely sulfurous with a sickly thread of rot.  A small bump further north, just breaking the horizon, suggested a hill or low mountain deep in the forest, though its exact outline was indistinct, lost in a patch of darkness that hovered low over its upper reaches.

“The scouts return” Zerephath announced, spotting the dusty trail of flying hooves two leagues away.  They were moving fast, not the usual gait of a patrol returning empty handed.

“Form up the companies” Eradan ordered, also marking the scout’s pace, anticipating that this might their moment, their last chance.  Zerephath grinned wolfishly and galloped off shouting orders and curses, aligning their force of 240 into six companies in spread V formation with a reserve group in the center between the wings.

The two scouts rode up, grins on their faces, eyes lit by excitement.

“Four leagues ahead…group of forty, most in black, maybe ten in a another group garbed in gray…” The scout paused, catching his breath.

“They’ve only 3 leagues to go to reach the forest” the other scout broke in.

“Any sign of reinforcements?” Eradan stared hard at them.  They shook their heads.  Eradan looked north.   The light wind had wafted the dust from the scouts’ hard ride well up into the air, high enough for an alert adversary to notice and take action.  They might now be just two leagues from the gates of the forest while his cavalry stood a full seven leagues from the wood.

Dressed in black.  It could mean anything but for Eradan it meant orcs.  Gray too could mean anything but it could also be the remnants of the lost patrol reduced to their woolen tunics and leggings.  There was little choice.  If they didn’t act now, the men, if they were indeed captives, would be lost in an hour.

Zerephath rode up.  “The men are ready”

Eradan nodded and motioned him to accompany him to the cavalry forming on the dusty plain.

“Men of Gondor! You have ridden long and hard.  Our foes will reach the forest in a hour on foot.  There may be thirty orcs with captives.”

A murmur rose among the assembled men.

“Yes…they may be our lost comrades.  So have a care with bow, sword, and axe.  We will envelop them from the wings pivoting forward.  The center will finish them off if any are left standing.  Any questions!?”

Eradan released the haft to his mace from its traveling strap and railed the great studded ball high in the air.  A hoarse roar emerged form the men, many brandishing swords.  The horses pawed the dusty brown dirt, sensing the swelling energy among the men.  He turned to Zerephath, nodded and flipped down his battle visor.  Zerephath gave the command.

“Attack formation…forward!”

As if released from a starting gate, the steeds sprang forward.  A great cloud of dust billowed up behind them, the ground thrumming from the impact of nearly a thousand hooves at full gallop.  There was little pretense now, just a matter of speed and hungry swords.

In half an hour they could see them ahead, a black spot on the plain struggling to reach the security of the forest.  To the north the low clouds were now moving in over their heads, dimming the light.  A darker smudge fluctuated along the northern horizon, above the line of trees, the advance guard of a coming storm.  Above, between gaps in the low scud, a hawk flew, just underneath the canopy of the milky high overcast.

The land began to change now that they neared the forest.  Wan sparse grass and scattered scrub gave way to thickening patches of coarse grass, brown with spots of black.  Occasional low shrubs now hugged the ground, gnarled branches sporting thorns and gray dusty leaves.  Further off the first wretched stumps of long dead trees poked up from the plain. 

Eradan gauged the distance now.  Two leagues from the forest, a league and half from the orcs and their captives.  The horses were tiring, much of their stamina left on the long barrens of the ride over the Brown Lands.  Still it didn’t matter, they far outnumbered their foes.  The end would be swift and the ride back easier with rescued comrades. They would head due west for the Anduin and water, then south recouping their strength.

This was he part he liked, the close.  Eradan glanced at Zerephath, gave the signal.  Zerephath separated from the reserve group and rode out ahead of the left flank while Eradan moved out to the right.  The two wings were still in position, trailing the center company which rode at the head of the arrow of the cavalry formation.  The old warrior raised his right fist and pointed it forward.  The 40 man company on the extreme left began the swing forward, followed by the next cohort to their right.  Two hundred yards to the east Eradan led the right rear flank of the arrow forward.  In moments the five companies were in a straight line parallel with the forest now only a league and a half away. 

The coarse grass was now heavily mixed with thorny shrubs, grown higher and stronger as they neared the forest.  Some of the horses flanks were streaked with blood as they galloped through the clawing vegetation.  The stumps of dead trees were now more frequent, taller, blackened trunks with remnants of primary branches futilely reaching for the sun.  The formations were becoming more difficult to maintain.  Ahead the orcs were waist deep in shrubs, disappearing from time to time behind the taller shells of the dead trees, just a few hundred yards from the forest.

It was getting darker now, the clouds lowering, a darker skein of black hovering just over the forward edge of the living wood.  Eradan and Zerephath lead the outer wings forward now, dispersing the formed wing companies into an elongated formation like the embrace of two outstretched arms trying to clutch their foes before they reached the forest eaves.

The orcs were still struggling relentlessly on, heading towards a dark hole in the forest, an escape path too narrow for mounted cavalry to follow.  Eradan was less than a league away.  He found it curious that the captives continued on without resistance.  Surely they could hear the thunder of the nearing cavalry, sense the desperation of their captors, see how close freedom was.  He tightened his grip on his mace.  Just a few more minutes now.  It appeared that he and Zerephath, leading the outer points of the closing embrace would meet in front of the orcs, trapping them just yards from the dark hole of sanctuary they sought.

Less than a minute.  Cutting in from the east at the head of the right arm Eradan could see Zerephath at the head of the left charging towards him, rapidly closing the gap.  The orcs and their captives were going to be surrounded.  They were under a hundred yards away, still struggling onward, both they and they grey clad captives seemingly oblivious to their fate.  What was wrong with them, Eradan thought.  Why don’t the captives rebel?  Why don’t the orcs turn and fight…they can’t make the forest now. 

As if reading his thoughts, the orcs abruptly came to a halt in a patch of waist high thorny shrubs, turned and howled out a challenge to the closing pincers of cavalry.  A sudden fear struck Eradan, just 50 yards away, fear that the orcs, brandishing swords, were preparing to slay their captives.  A shout of rage off to his left told him that Zerephath, at the head of the closing left pincer, had come to the same conclusion.

Then the captives stirred at last, hunched over, fumbling with their grey tunics, they straightened and turned, wielding swords of Gondor in claw like hands.  An unholy ululation screeched out from their twisted faces, visages that exactly matched those of their ‘captors’.

The lead ends of the elongated cavalry pincers met, surrounding their quarry, but momentarily stunned at the turnabout of events.  Before they could gather their wits a returning howl rose from the eaves of the forest.  Scores of orcs poured out between the gnarled trunks of the great towering trees, running headlong towards the exposed flanks of the cavalry.

“It’s a trap!” Zerephath roared above the unearthly howl

“Regroup the men Zerephath! Form the center three hundred yards back! Then prepare to charge!” Eradan shouted, instinctively ducking as a black shafted arrow shot by his ear.

The orders were shouted out, but there was confusion and the first wave of black clad orcs were almost upon them.  Some of the outer ring of horses already bore arrow shafts in their flanks.  Heedless of the danger, Eradan rode out between the advancing orcs and the retreating cavalry.  Like a grim reaper of death he wielded his terrifying mace, striking down a pair of orcs that had managed to waylay a rider straggling behind on a badly wounded steed.  He wheeled his mount and charged along the perimeter of the regrouping horsemen, littering the field with broken and dismembered orcs sent to their doom with sweeping blows of his deadly mace. 

More orcs continued to flood out of the blackness of the shadowed forest in the dimming early evening light.  Their forward elements slowed momentarily, perhaps cowed by Eradan’s desperate ferocity, but nonetheless allowing the cavalry crucial time to escape and form up.

Eradan yanked the head of his mace from the collapsed skull of an orc and galloped south, taking the window of opportunity the enemy had unaccountably offered.  Ahead he could see the cavalry regrouping around the center reserve company.  Zerephath and the company commanders were bellowing orders spreading the men into a broad wedge that would sweep the field, using the advantage of their speed and power.  Even outnumbered three to one, they could still carry the day.   They would need to if they were to survive.

Just as Eradan was nearing the formation it seemed that night had suddenly fallen upon them.  A blackness filled the air, along with the rush of wind and the sound of leathery wings flapping, thousands upon thousands of them.  A high pitched mad chittering rang in his ears.

Bats, swarming over the horses, clustering about their faces, gathering between their hind legs.  Eradan could feel his horse bucking, hear it whining as the bats tore into its ears, nose, eyelids, sank their evil teeth into the stallion’s unprotected loins.  Around him men were shouting, desperately trying to brush the vermin off their steeds, only to see dozens more take their place.  Protected by helm, visor, plate armor and light chain mail, the men were largely immune, but rapidly losing control of the horses.   

Some now reached a state of panic, throwing their riders, galloping off erratically in all directions, trying futilely to shake off their tormentors.  Men were being trampled under their hooves or borne off half saddled at high speed, not sure whether to drop off or attempt one last time to wrestle control of their mounts.

The tactical superiority of cavalry over infantry had evaporated.  Now the numbers favored the orcs, who let out a horrific inhuman roar and resumed their charge into the chaos created by the bats.  Eradan managed to dismount, half thrown by the horse, now streaked with its own blood, pawing the air.  He smacked its hindquarters hard, a last, perhaps useless attempt to spur it on to some kind of escape.

Off it ran, white coat splotched with red, aiming for the forest and the advancing adversary making their way through the thorny shrubs and dead trees.  A deep hole opened in their ranks, black armored figures crushed under its flying hooves.  A final glimpse of its braided white tail, then it was gone, absorbed by the forest’s edge

Eradan picked up his mace and shield off the ground.  It was near sunset now, the cloud deck making it more like dusk.  The bats had suddenly lifted, an angry black swarm pursuing the horses dispersing madly across the sparse grass and brush.

His men were scattered in clumps, some writhing on the ground, thrown and trampled by their mounts, others standing, momentarily dazed.  Zerephath was going from group to group, rallying those capable of fighting, exhorting the company commanders to mass the troops in some semblance of a fighting position.

Zerephath ran over, breathing heavily, blood trickling out from under his helm, dented on one side from the impact of a flying hoove.

“Barely seven score able to fight!” he rasped, leaning on his sword.

“Set up for a charge…make for the forest, then have the men disperse in small groups” Eradan shouted, the first wave of orcs now just over a hundred yards away.

“The forest?!” Zerephath shot back questioningly.

“We’re all dead if we stay on the plain old friend.  In the wood perhaps some elude, some survive and make it back.  Now hurry, quickly, see that it is done!”

Zerephath saluted, then ran off barking orders over the sounds hundreds of black shod feet thudding through the scrub, almost upon them.  The shriek of the orcs was met by a deep throated roar and the shing of broadswords withdrawn from scabbards.  Gondors’s remaining forces charged, a compact wedge of shield and steel, Eradan at the lead, Crusher whooshing through the air sending broken orcs flying like mangled dolls.

The front line of orcs wavered, fell back, momentarily addled by the unexpected attack.  Then a strange howling poured out of the black forest.  Just over a hundred yards from the wall of trees, Eradan glimpsed dark, bounding furred shapes cutting through the ranks of the orcs at high speed.  One hurtled through the air to his right, bowling over two men , tearing at an unprotected throat with long, canine jaws.  Eradan ducked another and stove in its ribcage as it flew overhead, yelping once in pain before landing in a heap, blood pouring from its side, paws twitching.

The attack of the wolves re-energized the orcs, who pressed forward, hemming and slowing the diminishing wedge of men.  The woods were a bare fifty yards away, but might just have been fifty leagues.  They had not the mass of men to piece the wall of ravening wolves and orcs.

Now it was a business of grim butchery, the thack of notched blades on flesh, the grunt of pain as axe pierced armor, the wheeze of labored breathing and the ache of leaden arms.  In a few minutes there were but twenty left, ringed with a mound of dead nearly six feet high.  Eradan had not tired.  His eyes glittered strangely beneath his visor, his mouth twisted in a savage, toothy grin.  Crusher still whipped around wildly, its spikes laden with fragments of armor and streamers of bloody gore.  The fire in his veins sought more deaths and many an orc obliged, clambering over the mound of the dead only to be added to the pile, smashed and writhing.

Less than a minute later the attack suddenly stopped, the orcs falling back, scuttling over the dead.  In the deepening dusk all was eerily quiet, save the heavy breathing of a handful of exhausted men and the random clank and creak as weapons fell from dead hands.  A cloud lifted from Eradan’s brain and he became aware of Zerephath, barely able to stand, breastplate rent in half a dozen places, shield studded with knives and axe heads.  Beyond, on the other side of the mounded dead they heard a curious apprehensive murmuring, the movement of many feet and the sound of something big advancing up the wall of broken orcs and men.

A huge black form emerged atop the pile, wolflike in shape, eyes glowing a dull red.  The surviving men backed away instinctively as the beast picked its way down the carrion slope towards them.

It was a beast of another age.  Thick, nightshade black shaggy fur, long, lean, hard body built for running down prey.  Its red eyes glowed with a supremely confident intelligence over long jaws of razor white fangs unable to hem in a fat deep purple tongue lolling rakishly out the side of its mouth.

Eradan was momentarily transfixed by the eyes, hovering just two feet away, level with his own.

“An extraordinary creature, wouldn’t you say?” a deep resonant voice mocked, emerging simultaneously from the animal’s mouth and seemingly inside Eradan’s head.

Eradan let out a gasp of astonishment, unready for the fell beast and even less so for it speaking.

“But I am forgetting my manners, young Steward’s son.  Forgetting to thank you and your…friends…for accepting my invitation.  You remember it don’t you?  Attached to the logs bobbing in the river?”  The voice broke into a harsh growling laugh, gradually subsiding.

The memory of those dead sparked an unburied rage, breaking the temporary spell of the beast’s presence.  Eradan surreptitiously tightened his hand on the grip of his mace.  The thing was close.  One good stroke with all that he had left.  He took in a deep breath, but was abruptly staggered back as a huge clawed black paw whipped, slapping the mace from his hand in a blow that numbed his arm.

“You’ve done enough with that already” the voice snarled, eyes firing up menacingly.

“Not as much as the host of Gondor will do to avenge this!” Eradan replied defiantly, gripping his stunned right arm with his left hand.

“They will avenge nothing!” the voice roared, then sunk to a low gravelly self amused laugh.  The great black wolf eased forward, its massive head sidling up next to Eradan’s as if to whisper conspiratorially into his ear.

“…because they will find nothing” the voice hissed.  “By morning there will be no trace of this battle, your scattered horses, even the last riders you sent south with the news of your sighting earlier today.  As far as Gondor will know, you and your men just vanished from the earth east of the Anduin.”

“And our fate?” Eradan demanded, unbowed.  “Captives for you master, the Witch King?”

The wolf drew back and laughed scornfully, red eyes flaring to dark orange.

“The Witch King serves Me little fool! As will you and the rest of your rabble.”

The wolf leapt to the top of the pile of dead.  Other smaller forms soon joined it in silhouette against the cloud wracked evening sky.  Eradan braced for a final attack, but no steel came his way, only nets hurled by the orcs, great webs of coarse stout rope weighed down by stones.  The orcs leapt on top, subduing the men with a merciless clubbing, then dragged them off in a feebly struggling knotted ball. 

They were dumped unceremoniously into a low wide wooden cart harnessed to a brace of black horses.  Though a haze of pain and exhaustion, Eradan could hear the orcs cackling, felt the first spat of raindrops from the low cloud deck, then faded into unconsciousness as the rough cart entered the deeper blackness of Mirkwood.