Cirion looked across the glistening waters of the Limlight to the far shore one hundred yards south.  Already the Easterners were marshalling, massing for a final assault.  Their front ranks were clad in stolen mail, shouting, wildly gesticulating with swords.  Of late such weapons had been the province of Gondor’s soldiers.  Such was the fate of the unlucky dead to yield up to the victor.  It might be his fate as well.

Gondor’s army had slogged across the waist deep water yesterday afternoon, drenched and buffeted by the storm.  Then to a man they simply collapsed, utterly exhausted from a days battle followed by a forced march in a raging gale.  Like the dead they had slept. 

In the morning Cirion had seen to the distribution of food.  There was little more than each man had carried with him.  Some escaped with their lives only.  All would share so that no man fought his last battle on an empty stomach. The rest of the morning had been spent tending wounds, taking stock of what weapons they still had and planning their defense. 

It was not a matter of great subtlety.  He had eight thousand men left, including nine hundred archers.  Many arrows had been spent in the battle and now they had but six per bowman.  The archers would be arrayed at the river’s edge.  As the Balchoth made their way across the Limlight, they would make their arrows count.

Once they were spent the archers would go to the rear. They were not swordsmen though they would draw them at the end.  No, five thousand of his front line soldiers would take the line at the river’s edge.  The rest would act as reserves to reinforce the line, prevent attacks on the flank, and provide the final guard to the Steward.

Barring a miracle they would all be dead by dusk.  Their task was to take as many with them as possible, reducing the magnitude of the remaining threat to Gondor.  A threat his son Hallas in Minas Tirith would have no direct knowledge, only the dull ache of growing certainty by the silence in the north. 

Finally, he thought of Borondir.  Loyal, brave Borondir who had ridden north against all hope and succeeded.   

Cirion looked out across the Limlight again, at the massing hordes on the other side, listening to them shout and roar like beasts.  All would be decided in a matter of hours now.  Would he see Borondir again, galloping ahead in the vanguard of seven thousand spears and swords thundering across the plain.  Or would Borondir find him dead and broken with all of Calenardhon overrun.

He dismissed that thought from his head.  Speculation was no longer relevant. The wheels of fate had led to this moment which would not be forsaken.  A battle was upon them.  They would oblige by wreaking slaughter on their foes with all the strength that remained in them.  Nothing else mattered.

Cirion turned his horse around and made for a small tent where General Vorandur was giving final orders.  He looked at the men gathering into formations.  There was little talk.  Their eyes were serious, faces hard.  Fear did not find any purchase. 

We are all of one purpose then, he thought, appraising them.  This is the way.  Let them come.