Leofric approached the low bluff at full gallop, then hurtled in midair down the riverbank towards the Limlight.  Behind him he heard the thrum of bowstrings and the fft…fft…fft of hundreds of arrows let loose by the company of archers.  Their sharp steel points glistened in the sunlight as they descended in a power arc towards the unsuspecting backs of the Balchoth on the far side of the river.

He was on the far end of the right wing, a half mile wide wall of thundering death surging down the riverbank, about to break upon the unprotected rear of the right flank of the Balchoth army already across the river.  Ahead Leofric could see the chaos breaking out in their lines as the arrows fell, Balchoth toppling all along it, impaled with a startled death.  Their ragged comrades turned to see what manner of madness this was, only to see the waving swords and fierce countenances of over two thousand riders bringing their doom.

Now he was upon the first of them, stragglers still crossing the river, flailing in panic.  For those he didn’t trample into a watery red pulp, his sword hissed through the air sending heads spinning from shoulders, blood spraying in red pinwheels out of severed arteries from astonished heads.

Soon he and his five eoreds were across the Limlight, charging up the far bank into the rear ranks of the Balchoth that pressed on Gondor’s shrinking perimeter.  Flashing swords rose and fell cleaving through flesh and bone.  Spears thacked into exposed backs.  Flying hooves cracked skulls and crushed the fallen wounded. 

Amidst the bedlam of horses screaming and snorting, wild men wailing and shouting, Leofric heard a great roar sound out all along the battle line.  It came not from the Eotheod, but from the throats of Gondor’s beleaguered army, men who now realized that the Balchoth were trapped between their stout shield wall and the remorseless hooves and swords of the Eotheod.

There was no way out for them.  No quarter would be given. 

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In the center wing Borondir rode at the van with Eorl and Aragost.  Several thousand Balchoth had been milling and jostling at the low bluff overlooking the river, awaiting their turn to cross.  Now they were wide eyed with fear, scattering like ants caught at a picnic.  He rode through the masses slashing right and left, eyes fixed on the far bank of the river and beyond where the Steward’s standard still stood.  Across the river he plunged along with two thousand of the Eotheod’s finest riders carving a wide swath through the heart of the Balchoth ranks.

Off to his right the far end of the Eotheod center wing was soon to link with the advancing flank of the right wing to form a mile long wall of hooves and steel pressing the Balchoth into an alley of death between Gondor’s shield wall and the army of the Eotheod.

To the west the Eotheod’s left wing began to envelop and pursue clumps of Easterners fleeing the carnage at the river.  They were also closing on the band of orcs.

But Borondir cared not for strategy at this point.  He was fixated on the Steward’s banner now only one hundred yards away, separated from him only by a maddened crush of trapped Balchoth flailing their clubs and stolen spears.  On he rode carving a lane of death into their ranks, sword flashing, whirring through the air.  And they fell back from him seeing their doom in his eyes.  But not in full disarray as they surged towards the Steward and the last of his personal guard, hoping in one final charge to take him to his death along with their own. 

The suicidal sea of club wielding wild men broke upon the Stewards's guard dragging them from their mounts one by one even as they died in the act.  Ahead Borondir saw the Steward’s banner waver and fall, then Cirion himself topple from his mount.  Borondir desperately urged his horse forward, its flying hooves tearing into the Balchoth mob.  With a roar he reached Cirion, dismounted and carved a circle of death with his sword, standing bestride the Steward.

But in his zeal he had outdistanced the wave of Eotheod riders behind him.  He was surrounded, isolated in a sea of snarling Balchoth, enraged at the turning of their fortunes.  Though only rudely armed they still had numbers and began to hem him in.  His sword could not ward off every blow of their clubs.

 Aragost saw his plight and shouted to Eorl.

“My lord!  Ahead it goes poorly for Borondir!  Time is short!”

Eorl saw at once.  Felarof raised up on his hind legs, hooved forlegs clawing the air, plunging down to crush skulls, stove in ribcages and break backs.  Then he leapt forward churning Balchoth into pulpy mire as Eorl cut through their ranks like wheat before a sharp scythe.  Aragost spurred his mount on to join him, a long dormant wild fire of battle bringing fury to his face and death to his sword, now a silvery blur of elven taught skill. 

Though they outnumbered the two riders, the wild men screamed in retreat before the fell swordsmen who rode like fierce warriors of men from the age of Numenor. Fifty yards, forty, thirty, they closed on embattled Borondir.  But then a mighty blow sent him to his knees.  Aragost saw clubs rising and falling over their fallen comrade who was shielding the Steward with his body. 

In seconds Aragost and Eorl had reached him, scattering the mob.  Behind them, Eorl’s personal guard closed the gap and pushed the Balchoth away towards their final doom. 

But it was too late.  Borondir had been severely battered, his helmet dented, body oozing blood through his chain mail.  Aragost and Eorl knelt next to him.  His eyes were half open, breath coming in ragged gasps, blood trickling out of the side of his mouth. 

“The Steward…?”, he managed to rasp through broken teeth.

“I am safe”, Cirion replied thickly, struggling to a sitting position, holding Borondir’s head in his hands.  “We have won a great victory and live another day thanks to you.”

But Borondir had no reply, just a long sigh and a smile on his face as he left the land of the living.  Cirion closed Borondir’s eyes.  Eorl and Aragost met the Steward’s gaze and saw the depth of gratitude and grief intermingling.

Then they took their leave, mounted their horses and galloped off to the last pockets of Balchoth resistance, allowing Cirion his privacy to grieve for Borondir’s sacrifice.