#2 How Did It Come to This?

As if within a dream I watched the black mass of orcs pulse and surge like a living, breathing creature upon the field below. The white city of Minas Tirith rose above the battlefield, but only just: the curve of the lower levels were smudged with a thick black smoke that climbed steadily up the stone walls. Although it was not my own home I felt a helpless rage at this terrible act against the race of Men.

Culwyn shifted uneasily beneath me; I patted her copper shoulder reassuringly but could not control the trembling of my hand. Before any battle I could feel nervous energy coursing through my limbs, making them quiver in anticipation. Although I was a few rows back in the press of men and horses I could see the King Théoden galloping his white horse Snowmane and shouting out encouragement. I caught a few words, such as “arise”, “shields”, and “death”. But whose , I wondered, ours or theirs?

“Death!” the king shouted again. We Riders echoed him, but my voice seemed to catch. A terrible fear that I was putting some sort of jinx on myself withered the cry in my throat. With the third ‘death’ I pulled my sword from its sheath; my limbs were trembling even worse. ‘Steady, Eoleth!’ I snapped inwardly. ‘You can do this, simple. You’re just running Culwyn at those dummies you’ve practiced on so much.’

The first few rows of horses began to move—the whole sluggish mass surged ponderously forward until it found a rhythm. The faster horses pulled forward, separating into a wedge aimed directly for the center of the orc-mass. Culwyn leaped forward eagerly, her long stride eating up the grassy field.

Something whistled past; to my horror a horse next to me stumbled and fell. Those dirty fiends were arrows—I yelled fiercely, first to dispel my anger and second to instill fear in the hearts of the foe. Before I knew it we had reached the first lines.

A chop with my sword knocked down the first Orc I saw. Another tried to swing a crude poleax at me, but missed and I brought my sword across the back of his neck. I was still galloping Culwyn, who—brave mare that she is—brushed past the enemies as if they were blades of grass beneath her hooves.

Something struck my wooden shield. I grunted as I felt it shatter and the force shoved me off Culwyn’s back. I hit the ground in a tumble, absorbing most of the shock in my shoulders, arms, and legs. Even with those precautions and armour it hurt. A lot. But I wasn’t about to just lie down and surrender. I shook off the useless shield remnants and stood in time to miss getting hit with an orc-sword. The sword buried itself in the ground, providing me enough time to get rid of that orc (he had a head shaped vaguely like a potato). Then something struck me on the back of the neck and my world went dark.

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Pain. Throbbing, beating, like drums. I my eyelids with a faint groan.
“Good, you’re awake,” a voice said. It sounded like a kind voice, the sort that is associated with a kindly grandmother or the like. I opened my eyes the rest of the way to see a very wrinkled, very old, and very homely face. She looked like someone had stretched her face out and let it relax. And there was a large mole right on the tip of her chin.

“Here, drink this,” she said, dipping something out of a small black cauldron and putting it to my lips. The drink wasn’t unpleasant; rather, it was refreshing and sweet, so I drank it down without much difficulty. After the brew disappeared she said, “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve crawled to Angband and back,” I croaked. I didn’t really know where Angband was, but it sounded far away and unpleasant. “Did we win?”

“Aye, I’m here, aren’t I? You’re alive, aren’t you?” Without waiting for a reply she ambled off to another wounded soldier. I couldn’t help a small grin and winced as my lip split under the strain. By the seven Palantir, what luck do we live by? There was no logical reason as to how we won, but it didn’t really matter right now. I closed my eyes in contented ease—at last we could leave this war behind, and I could rest without fear for tomorrow.

THE END