o it saith in the Annals of the Kings of Gondor: King Narmacil II of Gondor led a great army north to the south of Mirkwood, where our countrymen suffered a tragic defeat and saw the death of King Narmacil II.

any have said that the Great Plague was sent on an evil wind out of the Black Land, laying waste to many in Minas Tirith. Through those grievous days and through the after years, the light of Gondor burned low. Yet the White City had not drained the cup of woe measured out for it by the cruel designs of the Dark Enemy. In 1856, word came to the King that a great army of Wainriders was invading the northern lands. Despite the valour of the Northmen, whose numbers too had dwindled from the Plague, the Wainriders were not halted. Without succour from the Mundburg, the northern messengers said, the Northmen would be no more and the House of Hador in Rhovanion would be ended. Without the bright swords of the Northmen to stop them, the Wainriders would soon arrive on Gondor's northern frontier. So the King called for a great muster of soldiers and arms. When the appointed day arrived, some five thousand swords and some thirty-score horse were assembled on the Pelennor and began the march towards doom. Among them were veterans and untried youths alike; guards in the black-and-silver livery of the Tower of Ecthelion, farmers from Lossarnach, longshoremen from the wharves at Pelargir, grim captainless hillmen from the White Mountains - all marching to answer the threat of the Wainriders.

Long days of marching saw them crossing the springy green turf of Calenardhon, fording the Entwash, arriving at the confluence of the Limlight and Anduin the Great. Then for several days, axes rang among the outriding chestnuts and beeches of Fangorn Forest, hewing timber with which to fashion the ferries needed to cross the swift waters. Many had been uneasy under the eaves of that haunted wood and more than one sturdy swordsman swore he saw eyes glaring balefully at him as he wielded his axe. But a great purpose lay before them and the King's will drove them on and in three days all the ferries were built. They crossed the Great River at night, the sickle moon gleaming thinly on the waters after sundown. As his ferry crossed the river, one youth said softly, "Look! Earendil hangs bright in the west tonight. He watches our back and Menelmacar rises to greet us in the east. With such friends before and behind, how can there be aught but victory?"

The army was heartened by these omens. By the time all their great number had crossed the river, the grey hour before dawn had arrived and they resumed their march. The order was given to head east-nor'east, far enough from accursed Dol Gulder, yet close enough to grim Mirkwood that the enemy could not flank them from the north. All that day they marched, and well past dusk. It was nearly midnight when a mounted scout, horse lathered, came galloping into their fireless camp. Her report to the King was brief - she had seen the enemy some eight leagues distant, hidden from their own forces by the rolling hills that lay between. The sentries were doubled and the King called his generals to him. From his plain but well-guarded tent, only the murmur of low voices could be heard as they debated strategy.

Those Tower Guards and other veterans of the unceasing strife with Umbar who were not on sentry duty were able to roll themselves in their blankets and slept calmly, though with weapons near. Those unexperienced in martial strife found themselves too anxious for sleep. They gathered together in pairs or small groups, speaking of battle in hushed tones. The lad who had heralded the rising of Menelmacar found himself sharing a pipe with a farmer as they conversed with two longshoremen, brothers from Pelargir. One brother, a strapping, muscular giant aptly named Târik boasted of fights he'd won on the docks. "Took on two smiths a' once," he said, though quietly so as not to rouse the ire of a nearby captain. "One had a gurl on 'is arm what I fancied, d'y'see. Drop 'im wi' one buffet to the ear, didn't I joost? Anither lad from the smithy coom alang to help his fellow hammer-man and I knock 'im doon, too. An' I banged their haids togither, told 'em to run alang, scat! Thin I offered that gurly me awn arm and took 'er doon pub an'..."he winked broadly and the others laughed knowingly.

The star-watcher, Ursûl, was still young enough to have never had a sweetheart but he did not want the others to know he had no such stories to share. He hoped he wouldn't be called upon to tell a tale; he'd never been a good liar. His worries eased, though as the other dockworker, Nâlo, basking in his elder brother's glory, said, "Eh, Târik, 'member that fight in The Black Barnacle? Didn' we have a guid neet then, joost!" Târik laughed, "There's this tavern near waterfront, see," and spun a long yarn about a fight over dice that grew into a joyous tavern brawl, "we busted 'is 'ead, thin, see, wi' the same stool what 'e'd bin setting on!"

His tale had drawn other listeners, among them a slim, dark figure that stood somewhat apart from the others. Though Târik's tale was growing ever more improbable, the figure did not intervene until Nâlo elbowed Moreden, the farmer and sniggered, "'ear that, lad? She took us both upstairs!" and guffawed. Then they were interrupted by a quiet, commanding voice. "The enemy is not deaf. And, valiant though your deeds in Pelargir doubtless have been, if you can't sleep, then check your gear. A careless soldier is a very dead one."

The crowd dispersed, leaving the brothers grumbling under their breath. "Didn' ask for 'is view on things, noo did we?" muttered Nâlo. "An' reet at best part o' the story, too. Damn lifers."

Moreden hissed as him to keep his voice down. "That's no "he," lad, and not no ordinary lifer, neither. I heard another captain talking earlier. That was a real Ranger and not just any. Don't know her right name, but the Tower Guards call her Heron. She's the First Hyandaner and leads the Center Wing of the army."

Ursûl, proud that he could tell his comrades something they didn't already know, added, "My cousin Thorondú is in the Tower Guard. He told me that she was with the Assassins before she became a bladesman and knows threescore ways to kill with her bare hands alone. He said she uses explosives, and poisons, and some kinds of sharp throwing daggers shaped like stars. He said that she was promoted to bladesman for sneaking into the palace of the Pashah of Umbar and garroting him in his sleep. She left his head but took his ears and his...well, you know..." Ursûl blushed, unable to say the words, "and nailed them to the main gates of Umbar. Got away without a scratch!"

His newfound friends just grunted at his enthusiasm. "A woman!" muttered Târik under his breath. "Leading the Center Wing! Reckon that's the wing takes the worst damage while the others coom round from the sides. No Pelargir fisherman in 'is reet mind 'd take a woman on board. Bad luck, see! Don't know but this ain't the same. Bad luck. An' ain't natcherl, a woman fightin. Not that kind, anyway!" He nudged Ursûl. Nâlo guffawed again, taking care, this time, to keep it quiet. Ursûl didn't answer, he just checked the straps on his shield, his helm and his boots. When the brothers had finally settled down somewhat to sleep, he ventured to ask Moreden the question that had been burning in his mind. "What do you think it's like, battle?" He shivered a little and Moreden smiled, though not unkindly. "Bit like the slaughterhouse at home, I reckon. Blood, noise. But look at the captains we have. Not a one of them not valiant and strong. And the King! His Majesty is a real warrior, they say. You'll see, Ursûl. Tomorrow evening we'll be sitting round roaring fires, eating the Wainriders' livestock and looking forward to an easy ride home on their horses."

Dawn came slowly, first a slight fading of the stars. Menelmacar strode boldly towards the western horizon, paling as he did so. Then the sky slowly turned a faint, clear grey. High, thin clouds were touched with rose and gold. Heron swung through the camp, quietly rousing sleepers, conferring with the sentries. As she approached the eastern perimeter of the camp, she stood, staring intently towards the dawning horizon. On the crest of the nearest hill there was a riffle of movement in the thick grass. Heron swiftly strung her bow and nocked an arrow, then eased the bow down as she heard the soft call of a meadowlark. A scout appeared where the grass had quivered a moment before and swiftly ran to Heron's side. "The enemy has advanced during the night," he reported quietly. "They travel in their wagons, lighting their way with torches."

"How close are they now?"

"About three leagues."

The First Hyandaner nodded and turned to inform the King. The scout touched her shoulder. "Heron," he said grimly. "There is something else."

She turned back to him, waiting, schooling her face to impassivity. He looked down at his feet, then back into her dark grey eyes. "There are far more of them than we were told. It seems that the northern messengers saw but a part of their strength. These are not just the young warriors riding to battle, Hyandaner. All their folk are moving westward. Their wagons alone number over four hundred score."

Heron's breath hissed out from between her teeth. Eight thousand wagons! So sure the Wainriders must be of victory. And, indeed, with their homes so close, these nomads would fight the fiercer. She grasped the scout's shoulder. "I will inform His Majesty. It is our part to stop them, Dûrthôl. Here. Today. Even had we known the extent of their numbers, all the forces we have are mustered here. We will stop them. We must."

In his tent, King Narmacil II stood, still conferring with his generals as his squire strapped on his greaves and bracers. One of the commanders, Dîndraug, as shaggy-headed and grizzled as his namesake, looked up as Heron entered. "News from the scouts?" he asked. The Hyandaner nodded. Gauging from her expression that her tidings were not good, the King dismissed his squire. Heron repeated what Dûrthôl had told her. For a moment, there was silence. Then the king held out one mailed hand. "My sword," he commanded. Dîndraug dropped to one knee, buckled the sword-belt about the king's waist, and offered the hilts to his liege. Task done, he stood and backed up a pace. Narmacil looked from one grim face to the next, his glance piercing. "My lords and lady," he said. "You all know how crucial is our task here. True, our strength is half what it was before the Plague. But it is also true that there can be no failure here. The Northmen, the Elves of Lothlorien, the farmers and homesteaders of East Emnet and our own folk in the White City - their lives, their children's lives, our own children's lives - depend on what we do here today. We may not fail. We must not fail. We shall not fail."

"We shall not fail!" they cried, saluting their king and lord. He turned and walked from the tent. To the guards, he said, "Sound the call!" The standard-bearers and heralds sprang to his sides and the clear ringing of silver trumpets summoned the army into formation. In a few short moments, the Left, Right and Center Wings were assembled. Heron and Dîndraug clasped hands and then parted, each to the head of their wings.

The king took his place in front of a company of noble Dol Amroth knights, gallant, fierce and keen for battle. He looked out over the armed company and as the rising sun's rays flashed off helms and spear-tips, it seemed to him that a great sea stood before him, rolling breakers sparkling in the dawn. His heart, burdened by Dolthor's news, lightened as he saw the soldiers before him. But, like rolling surf, this sea too murmured. The tidings of the enemy's number had spread, it seemed, and one young soldier's clear voice carried to the king. "They are too many and we too few..." Narmacil fixed the speaker with a keen glance and his voice, pitched to carry over the furor of war, spoke even to the farthest ranks.

"Too few?" he cried. "Nay, for if we are marked by Eru to die this day, we are enough of a loss for Gondor to bear. And if marked to live victorious, the fewer of us, then the greater share of glory shall each man carry home. Wish not for one man more! We descendents of fair Numenor have not avaricious souls. For gold and gems we care not; does another need what we have? We give it freely! But of honor! That, we of Gondor covet most highly. Brave hearts, wish not for one man more! Rather, I proclaim aloud, that any who have no stomach for this fight - you may depart. We would not die in the company of any man who will not, of his fellowship, die with us."

"Today is called the feast of Yáviérë, and he that comes victorious home from this day will stand and rouse himself at the name of Yáviérë. He that shall outlive this day and see advancing age, will yearly on this eve feast his kith and kin and say, 'tomorrow is Yáviérë.' Then will he doff his shirt and show his scars, and say, 'these wounds I got on Yáviérë-day.' Then shall the deeds we do today be remembered afresh in his o'erflowing cup; then shall our names live again in his mouth and by this story of what we win here today, shall the man who comes home victorious teach his children. Yáviérë shall never pass, from this day until the Day of Days but that we here gathered shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of comrades. And you of humble name, of quiet lineage, shall be as nobles of this day. And nobles not yet born, nobles not here gathered, shall hold themselves accursed that they were not here. They shall hold their manhood cheap when any sing of us here fighting on Yáviérë day."

When the king had finished speaking, there was a moment of silence. Then, as though the sea was gathering for a storm, there was a growing rumble that erupted into cheers and shouts. "Yáviérë!" the company shouted as one. "For Gondor!" Narmacil leaped to his saddle and wheeled his horse around, facing the gleaming dawn. "Yáviérë and Gondor!" he shouted and he and his horse leaped forward like a crushing wave. Flanked by the knights of Dol Amroth and by the Royal Guard, their high-winged silver helms surmounting sable coats over gleaming mail, the king and his van rode to the crest of the hill east of the camp. The rest of the army followed in good order, the Left Wing under Dîndraug, the Center under Heron and the Right under a commander named Daecris. The archers were divided into four groups, which were spread along the hilltop. Slightly below them on the eastern slope were the rawest recruits, each with a blade and shield. The main wings of the army were somewhat further downslope, the Center Wing advanced somewhat further than the other two, which would hold the flanks. The king, at the insistence of his guard and commanders, was in the most protected position behind the central group of archers. The knights and other horse were between the outer two groups of archers and the Left and Right wings. From here, they could move swiftly to delay any enemies attempting to flank the army. The pitch of the hill was enough to give their charge extra force but not so steep that the horses would gain too much speed and fall.

From their position guarding the archers, Ursûl, Moreden, Nâlo and Târik fidgeted a bit. There was a light breeze blowing over the green grass, the air was fresh and cool. They had a good view of wisps of golden cloud high in the morning sky and of the rolling plains before them. It seemed the King and his commanders had chosen well; the hill on which they stood was a good 50 rangas higher than the others around it. The Wainriders would have to attack uphill. The foursome could overhear the archers talking quietly among themselves as they waited, gauging the wind and the light. One nearby bowman was griping about the sun, which was still low enough to be shining into their eyes. Another said, "Eh, Culcú, enough! Sun'll be high enough soon."

At the head of the Center Wing, Heron was shading her eyes as well, straining for the first glimpse of the enemy approaching over the next hill eastward. A thought suddenly struck her of a way to turn this to their advantage. She called over one of her lieutenants and gave him instructions. He ran back to the rear ranks of the three main wings and to the recruits guarding the archers and passed along her message. When he returned, panting, to her side, Faroth said, "His Majesty bade me tell you that he knew you would have some surprises up your sleeve." Heron glanced sideways at him but said nothing, though her hand went to her pocket as though ensuring something was there.

All too soon, the far-sighted among the company espied movement along the plain about a league distant. As they watched, masses of large wagons, looking like ants at this distance, began to spill over first one ridge, then another. Soon, only one hill was left between the enemy and the forces of Gondor. The ground underfoot began to rumble slightly; the waiting company could feel the vibrations of the Wainriders' massive wagons. The king suddenly seized the Tree-and-Stars from his standard-bearer; brandishing it aloft, he spurred his horse and cantered through the ranks. He shouted, "Utúlie'n aurë! Aiya Atani, utúlie'n aurë! Yáviérë! For Gondor!" In his wake, the soldiers cheered and clashed sword on shield; the heralds sent up a ringing blast on their trumpets, the horses reared and pawed the air, and in that moment, victory seemed sure.

Then the Wainriders surged over the crest of the hill immediately eastward of the Gondorian army's position. Their chiefs and captains rode in chariots with wicked scything blades spinning from the hubs. After them strode muscular swordsmen, armed with swords, spears and enormous mace-like clubs, armored in black, boiled leather. Their faces were grotesquely tatooed, more than one wore human knucklebones threaded through their hair or rotting ears and noses threaded one thongs around their necks. The smell was borne towards the waiting Gondorians on the breeze.

"Archers nock!" shouted Maeglar, the archers' captain. All four squads of bowmen nocked arrows and bent their bows. "Loose!" A cloud of wickedly sharp shafts, hissing like a swarm of deadly hornets, rained onto the advancing enemy. Dozens dropped where they stood, arrows stabbing deep into throats, chests, faces. One man, pierced simultaneously by three bolts, screamed his defiance, and then fell, choking on his own blood. Again the commands came. "Nock! Loose!" A second cloud of singing arrows cut the sky, thudding home through leather and steel. The next line of advancing Wainriders marched over their own dead, layering the ground like autumn leaves.

The chariots raced down the hill and towards Narmacil's army even as the Gondorian archers rained destruction on the infantry marching behind. "Hold!" shouted Heron. "Wait my signal!" Then, as the lead chariots reached the bottom of the hill and charged up the slope on which the Center Wing stood, Heron reached into her pocket and hurled something about the size of a large egg directly at the closest chariot. The missile exploded with a deafening bass roar as it hit the ground about 4 rangas in front of the chariot. A cloud of greasy black smoke rose, engulfing the rearing horse, which panicked and tried to fling itself sideways. The charioteer was entangled in the traces and tumbled sideways with the chariot. The shafts snapped and the heavy car rolled onto the Wainrider, pinning him to the ground.

This first missile was the signal. No sooner had it exploded than all the soldiers in the front ranks of the Center Wing were hurling similar missiles with devastating effect. The noise was horrendous, the explosions rocked the ground underfoot. One chariot was hit directly. Parts of the charioteer were blown in all directions. His head landed upright, mouth still gaping open, looking back towards the advancing Wainriders. Horses screamed in panic, bolting off as their riders cursed and tried to slow their stampede. Some chariots overturned; others careened into the wreckage and flipped or broke apart. One Wainrider was cut in half by the blades on his own wheels as he was thrown over the side of his car. Another was run over by a runaway vehicle; it crushed his abdomen and left him flailing weakly on the ground like a dying beetle.

The initial momentum of the Wainriders' charge was broken, but their forces were only slowed, not thrown back. Despite the damage wreaked on the first wave of infantry, more Wainriders continued to march down the slope. Their front line was nearly upon the Center Wing when Heron gave the second signal. Faroth shot a blazing arrow high into the air. Immediately, all the soldiers on the higher slopes turned the burnished inner surfaces of their shields outward. They caught the sun's rays and reflected them directly into the faces of the infantry marching through the wreckage of their dead and dying charioteers. The Wainriders did not stop advancing, but they squinted and turned their heads, trying to avoid the blinding beams.

"Now, sons of Gondor!" shouted Heron, and the Center Wing leaped forward. Heron's blade flashed in the sun and then its sheen turned a glossy red. One enemy's head flew from his shoulders, she parried the blow of another and ran him through. At her side, Faroth was roaring his battle cry, the words indistinguishable in the clamour. Parry, slash, block, stab. A Wainrider raised his sword in both hands, trying to slash downward through her helm. She blocked it, though the force nearly sent her to her knees. He closed in, she pulled her dagger from her belt and buried it in his abdomen. She gave it a hard twist as she yanked it out. He screamed, gore running over both hands as he vainly tried to hold his viscera together. She leaped over his body and fought her way back to Faroth's side.

Upslope, Maeglar shouted again to his archers. The arrows continued to cut down the Wainriders like corn. And the Wainriders continued to pour over the edge of the far hill, march down slope and hurl themselves against the embattled ranks of the Center Wing. The King gave a command to his heralds and they blew a ringing blast on their trumpets, signaling the Center Wing to fall back and the flanks to move up. "Good!" snarled Dîndraug. "My blade thirsts!" He pulled his sword from its sheath and brandished it. "Left Wing! Forward!" Followed by veteran Tower Guardsmen and hill-men accustomed to battle through the long wars with Umbar, he ran down the slope. They smashed into the side of the Wainriders' force. Within moments, Dîndraug's sword was slick and dripping. He ran an enemy through then ripped his blade free and hewed another Wainrider's legs out from under him. He felt a howl rise in his throat; he tilted his head back and bayed at the sky. "For Gondor!"

Daecris and his force slammed against the Wainriders on the other side, hewing, stabbing, slashing. The young veteran ducked an oncoming blade, blocked the return swing, then grabbed his enemy by the throat and slammed his helm into the foe-man's face. He turned just in time to duck the vicious hissing swing of a long-hafted axe and hurled his dagger into the axeman's throat. A scream sounded beside him and he saw a young Gondorian soldier fall to a tall, massively built Wainrider who grinned evilly. The Wainrider lifted the dying soldier effortlessly and tore out his throat with his filed teeth. Filled with rage, Daecris sprang at the Wainrider, only to fall under the body of his dead comrade as the enemy hurled it at him. The Wainrider stepped forward and, smiling evilly, thrust his sword deep into Daecris' stomach. The Gondorian gasped, then screamed as the blade ripped through his vitals. Moaning, pain his only world, he saw his foe's face loom closer. Then a sharp, choking pain in his throat, a brutal tearing, and Daecris died, throat ripped open, eyes staring blindly at the sky.

The clamor of screams, clashing of sword on shield, twanging of bowstrings, hissing of falling arrows, panicked squeals of horses, and shouts of defiance rose from the slopes below Ursûl and his three comrades. Nâlo was looking uneasy. "So many," he muttered. "They just keep coming." Târik clapped his younger brother on the shoulder. "Aye, but look how many of theirs fall to each of ours," he said heartily, but his eyes strayed to carnage of the Center Wing. There were many in black-and-silver lying on the slick crimson grass. Even as he watched, he saw one tall Gondorian fall to his knees, a Wainrider sword through his chest. Next to him, a slim figure screamed in rage and wheeled, sword a blur. The Wainrider dropped, nearly cut in two, but another strode forward to take his fellow's place.

Moreden's glance strayed from the combat below to the ridgeline over which the Wainriders continued to advance. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat. "Eru preserve us," he moaned aloud. More chariots had crested the hill and were racing towards the Gondorian army in two lines, one towards each flank. The trumpets rang out from the King's guard, signaling the charge. With a brave shout, the knights and other cavalry thundered down the hill to meet this new threat. Cavalry and chariots collided with an earth-shaking crash. The knights with their longer reach managed to knock the charioteers from their cars, or jam the wheel-spokes, which forced other chariots out of their formation to avoid the wreckage. The blades on the chariot wheel-hubs, though, caused horrible damage to the knights' horses. Hamstrung, knees broken or with legs cut out from under them, the horses screamed and threw their riders. The knights regrouped and fought together on foot, cutting their way through the Wainriders to the Left and Right Wings.

The valour of those soldiers on the flanks and the knights' gallant charge, despite its terrible cost, had bought the Center Wing enough time to retreat. The Wainriders, their second chariot-charge foiled, now faced a solid phalanx. The Gondorian archers continued their deadly fire, but their arrows were dwindling. The three wings slowly retreated back upslope, one reluctant foot at a time. More Wainriders continued to march down the hill in front of them, seemingly unperturbed by the killing field through which they waded to reach the Gondorians. Shouting defiance and insults in their uncouth tongue, they threw themselves against the wall of Gondorian shields and swords.

Heron was weary but her rage at Foroth's death scorched through her veins, giving her the strength to block, stab, block, slice, block, parry, slash. A Wainrider fell to her sword, throat gushing. Another took his place. This one, too eager, rushed at her and all she had to do was steady her sword. He impaled himself on it, screaming, but his fellow leaped at her while her blade was still entangled in the first. He slashed at her with vicious speed and she had to release her blade to leap out of the way. She hurled her last throwing knife at his face and yelled with satisfaction when it pierced his eye. She yanked her blade free from the guts of the other enemy soldier and continued the slow retreat with her comrades.

On the crest of the hill, Narmacil strove to hide his mounting fear from his soldiers. The Gondorians were fighting valiantly and inflicting heavy losses on the foe. The Wainriders kept coming, however, replacing their own as quickly as the Gondorians cut them down. The King was keenly aware that his forces could not replace their own casualties. And, on this open plain, a running retreat would only give the Wainriders more opportunity to slay his men.

Then his heart grew cold, though he kept his face impassive. A third wave of chariots topped the opposite ridge and charged both flanks and the front of his army simultaneously. With no heavy cavalry to challenge them, the wickedly bladed wheels, heavy cars and iron-shod horses were trampling the Gondorians. Below him, the hiss of loosed arrows ceased as the archers used their last bolts. Maeglar gave the order, "Out swords!" He, too, could see their impending doom in the spinning wheels of the chariots. He ran over to Narmacil.

"My liege, you must fly. Gondor must have her king. Our people will need you to lead them through the coming days. Please, my lord, I beg you. We can hold this rabble long enough for you to ride to the river."

Narmacil looked over the battle which was turning into a slaughter. "My place is here."

"No, lord, your place is guiding the helm of Gondor! Go, now, my lord, or it is all in vain!"

The King nodded slowly and gathered the reins. But even as he turned, a group of chariots hurtled past the archers and slammed into the knot of guards and knights protecting him.

Downslope, Heron and Dîndraug had gathered the remnants of the Left, Center and Right wings into a knot protecting the archers. Back to back, the two commanders wielded their swords as though possessed. Dîndraug was deep in the battle-fury now, howling as he swung his massive two-handed blade. He hewed arms, legs, heads and torsos in a deadly harvest, the ground slick underfoot. Then he lost his footing on the intestines of a downed opponent and in a moment his foes were upon him. He screamed once in rage and then was silent as their blades struck home. Heron leapt backwards towards the archers and their remaining guards and found herself next Maeglar. "The King," she shouted. "How fares the King?" Maeglar opened his mouth to answer but the fell rumbling of chariots behind them answered Heron's question. She cursed and they retreated, step by wary step, back towards the King's guard.

The four squads of archers, swords drawn, had pulled close together as soon as their ammunition ran out. Shoulder to shoulder with the raw recruits who were their last defence, they braced themselves for the attack. Culcú shouted, "Back to back!" and the recruits obeyed. Moreden gave Ursûl one last grin and a "Good luck, lad," and then the Wainriders were upon them. Moreden killed his man with a quick thrust but fell to a brutal blow that split his head from crown to jaw. Târik, looking like a man who had woken to nightmare, slashed and parried. He left himself too open and a Wainrider sword slid easily past his guard and deep into his side. He cried out and fell. Nâlo screamed his brother's name and leaped at the foe-man who'd dealt the blow. A heavy club crashed into his chest, crushing it. Vomiting blood, he collapsed on his brother's body. Ursûl, sword extended, kept backing up. He was panicking, he couldn't breathe, there was a roaring in his ears. He bumped into someone and realized it was Heron, nearly unrecognizable through the dirt and blood.

From behind them, there was a shout; the King's voice though hoarse and ragged. "Aurë entuluva!" he cried out, sword flashing. He was hemmed in by circling chariots but still he fought on. His blade beheaded one Wainrider that dared get too close and slashed the throat of one charioteer's horse. But the sharp blades mounted on the chariot wheel-hubs did their work well; the King's steed collapsed screaming as its hamstrings were severed. The King sprang from his steed's back, but even as he did so, a Wainrider wearing a narrow iron crown leaned from his car and took Narmacil's head with a sweep of his sword.

There were a dozen foes between Heron and the King as his horse fell, she howled in grief and rage and tried to slash her way through them. Her voice carried to the crowned charioteer, who grunted in surprise and drove over to her. "Woman!" he said in his guttural language. "My trophy!" Heron stabbed at him; he blocked her blade and laughed at her. Behind her she heard a ringing blow and Ursûl's cry as he was mortally wounded. Before her, she saw the King's headless body, the standard of Gondor trampled into the bloody ground. "Aurë entuluva," she whispered. She slowly reached into the thick knot of hair tucked into her helmet and pulled out her last explosive. "Aurë entuluva!" she cried and slammed it into the gore-splattered dirt.

The explosion rocked the ground, horses panicked and stampeded away. When the Wainriders had their steeds under control enough to return to where their leader had stood, they found only the wheel from his chariot and his bloody crown. Of the witch-woman who had killed him, they found only pieces. Nearby, there was one last Gondorian, a youth, trying to hold together his opened abdomen. They did not bother with him; instead, screaming their victory cry, the chariots thundered down the hillside and back to the wagons that were still advancing towards the battlefield, moving like a tide of black ants across the green plains.

Alone on the hillside, Ursûl moaned a little in his agony. He hurt so much...he was so thirsty. Where was Moreden? Was the battle still raging? Had Gondor won? It seemed to be getting dark. Had the fight lasted all day? Was night falling? Perhaps he would have one last look at Earendil before he died.

Hours later, as that brightest of stars rose above the eastern horizon, it shone on Ursûl's death-glazed eyes. The only sound was the cool evening breeze whispering through the grass as it blew lightly over stiffening bodies and into the revelling camp of the Wainriders.

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