Sword Maiden of Rohan | Of Every Race Saga Book IV

Chapter 24: The Battle of Pelennor Fields

The chaos of the battle that was raging against Minas Tirith could be heard leagues away. A cold fear rose up in Déorhild as the din reached her ears, but she suppressed it as well as she could. 

Within moments, they had crested the rise and gazed down at the plain filled with orcs and slain bodies and towers pulled by trolls attacking the breaking city of Minas Tirith. 

King Théoden, after surveying the damage, began to give orders. "Éomer, take your Éored down the left flank."

Déorhild, being one of that company, followed the rest as they fell into position, raising their spears in preparation for a charge. 

King Théoden spoke again, his voice without seeming to be forced to be louder, carrying across the length of the battle-field and making perfect sense to all. "Forth and fear no darkness! Arise! Arise, riders of Théoden. Spears shall be shaken! Shields shall be splintered! A sword day, a red day e'er the sun rises! Ride now! Ride now! Ride! Ride for ruin and the world's ending! Death!"

The cry was taken up and repeated til the very mountains across the river rang with the sound. DEATH!

"Forth Eorlingas!" 

Then they charged, speeding across the plain, some to instant death and and others to undying glory. 

In the space of less than half an hour, many lay dead on both sides. But the main goal was achieved. The enemy had its attention on razing Minas Tirith disrupted and now focused on bringing down the Rohirrim. 

"Drive them to the river!" Éomer's voice rang out. 

Déorhild hastened to fulfill the order, charging with so many others in direction of the Anduin, until something completely unexpected caused them all to halt in their tracks. 

Mâmakil. 

At least a hundred of them slowly plodded onward, soldiers upon their backs and the tusks adorned with sharp things to cut victims to shreds. 

But the Rohirrim did not pause for long. 

Without a word spoken, they sped onward, laboring hard to bring the massive beasts down. Many more of the men of Rohan fell to their deaths. Arrows were useless on the thick hides of the monsters. Spears could do some damage, if aimed into the vulnerable places. Éomer brought one down with a solitary spear, firing it into the stomach of one such creature. 

Gradually, Déorhild began to be aware of fellow Rohirrim no longer around her. Most of them lay dead. Glancing around her frantically, she perceived that she was cut off from outside help. Around her tramped Mâmakil. In front, a few hundred feet away, lay the river. Ships with black sails were coming. There was no one to help her now. 

Gritting her teeth, she tightened her slipping grip on the bloody handle of her sword and fought on for what seemed like an eternity. The very struggle to keep herself alive seemed to last on forever until she heard a shout picked up and carried onward until it seemed to thunder from heaven itself. 

Looking up, her ears began to ring with a high pitched scream that seemed to melt her flesh off her bones. She struggled to keep her hands over her ears, guide her horse, and fight off Haradrim coming from every side. 

"Is this how it's supposed to end?" she called out, not expecting an answer. 

Then the surge swept to the river to welcome the coming enemy hosts aboard the black ships. 

Déorhild welcomed the breathing space, but her feeling of utter defeat was changed when she saw Aragorn, the two Elves, and Gimli, followed by a ghastly, green army disembarked. Another fleet of ships arrived as well, these bearing silver sails with a design Déorhild remembered faintly from her past. 

Could it be?

Running forward, she slew the Haradrim running towards her away from the hosts pursuing them from the ships. 

Fighting her way slowly forward, she reached at last the armored men who had come from the silver ships and searched among them. 

"Who leads you?" she asked of one amidst the din around them. 

"Prince Imrahil!" was the eager reply. 

The world seemed to stop around her. 

Father.

Feeling an energy she never thought she possessed, she charged with the rest, annihilating the enemy and ever searching for a face she had not seen in years. 

They gradually fought their way back to the center of the battle field, littered with dead bodies and bits of rubble. 

Though it had seemed all was lost, the tide had turned with the coming of Aragorn's ghost army and those from Dol Amroth. 

As the noise slowly died down and the orcish prisoners disposed of, Déorhild made her way wearily across the wreck of bodies to the city, lending a hand when she could and search for familiar faces. Éomer was alive, but of the rest of the royal family of Rohan, she could not see. 

Then, turning around, she stopped. "Father?"

The tall man, his ebony beard streaked with silver, was directing his men in bringing in the wounded to be tended too. 

Déorhild hastened to him. "Father?" she called. 

The man looked at her, bewildered. 

Then she took her helmet off, her sweaty, matted hair falling limply down around her shoulders. 

"Lothiríel?" was the astonished response. 

"Father!" she ran to him and embraced him tightly. 

"Lothiríel! I had thought you lost!" were his words. 

"Nay, Father, but I am here."

"Your mother?"

"Died many years ago."

"Your brothers?"

"Died a year past, in an orc attack on our village from Isenguard. I alone am left." Her voice broke. 

Imrahil was visibly grieved, but he put it aside for that moment. The time for tears would be later. For now, the wounded must needs be tended to. "At least life has left me something. Come, I must speak with you, but first, these need to be brought into the city for healing."

Short chapter, I'm sorry. This was so hard to write. Hopefully I'll get the next ones out soon and finish this book before September. (Nice to have goals, right? XD)

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a vote and comment; I very much value your support. 

Thank you all so much for 4k reads and 200 votes!

~ Gwynnedd