The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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The Assault on Hithlum - Part 4

Back to Morelen's POV.  

14)  The Assault on Hithlum Part 4 – Year of the Sun 155 Quellë (Fading)

 

Morelen

The waiting was the hardest part.  The darkness of the predawn kept the woods in a tense silence of anticipation.  The force of six hundred Noldor lay in wait, shielded by the forest along the coastal road to Lammoth.  Mounted scouts had been coming in all night with reports of five thousand orcs marching south.  Notaldo rode in and reined in his horse.  “The enemy is up the road and will appear within the hour!” he called to the group of elves gathered in front of a blue and silver tent, Fingon’s headquarters.

Morelen’s heart quickened at the news.  This would be her first battle.  What would she face?  Would she acquit herself with honor?  She fingered her sword, Melima, nervously, her mind racing about what she would face.  She watched as the scout, Notaldo, entered the tent to meet with Fingon and, to her amazement, she could hear every word that was being said.

“The enemy marches southward along the road,” Notaldo announced clearly.  “I count just over five thousand strung out in a loose column.  They are led by two elves and, I fear, a balrog. There are about fifty trolls among them. They should be in view within the hour.”

“Excellent work,” Fingon replied.  “Get yourself some refreshment and prepare for battle.”

Morelen felt a tinge of fear and leaned over to her father.  “Notaldo says that there are over five thousand orcs and fifty trolls. We are far fewer.  How will we…?” she asked, never taking her eyes off of the road, almost expecting the enemy to appear.

Fëatur furrowed his brows and then looked over to the distant command tent.  “How did you hear that?  Nevermind.  We are Noldor.  Our power lies not in numbers but in the strength of our character, our training and our magic.  I fought in the Dagor Aglareb where we were outnumbered many times over and we won a glorious victory.  No orc or troll is a match for Fingon.”

They saw Fingon emerge from the tent with his commanders.  “Captains!” he called out.  “To your posts.  You have your orders!”  The group leaders fanned out to their respective units and troops readied armor and weapons for battle, archers with their bows, infantry with their glaives and the cavalry with spears and bows.  She had been assigned to ride with the horse archers under Captain Ruscano.  She watched the seasoned veterans and then pulled out her recurve bow, Luinë, and tested its string and then counted the arrows in her quiver.  Satisfied, she placed it back in a saddle case.  Then, she drew Melima, her curved sword.  The single edge was finely honed and sharp with a mallorn wood handle wrapped in fine leather.  There were etchings of life in Valinor along the side of the blade and in the leather wrapping.  Forged in the Undying Lands, the weapon was a work of art as well as an instrument of death. She would be forever grateful for this gift from Fingon.

Then, she heard a whisper that sounded like a thunderclap.  “The enemy is in sight.  Archers, stand up and make ready,” Fingon said calmly, his soft voice clear to elven troops.  The sky had gone from a starlit night to a deep purple, heralding in the coming dawn. Her heart quickened with a desire to prove herself.  She led a sheltered life at Ty-Ar-Rana, one of study, reflection and training which was boring to her.  Even the singing and dancing that she learned seemed tedious and stale.  Her blood itched for adventure and excitement and that seemed to all be in Beleriand.  With the Siege of Angband it seemed that a long peace was at hand but raids were still frequent.

The foot archers interspersed themselves among the trees and set up large mobile shields, called pavises, for defense.  Then, as one they knocked arrows and aimed high.  The captain of foot archers raised his hand and then dropped it, and the sound of bowstrings filled the forest.  Morelen stood up to see over a bush and could make out the arrows falling like rain on the orcs where many fell.  One large group surged forward in a charge and the captain called out, “Fire at will!” The archers began to smoothly pour arrows into the orc tribe, and they fell by the score, falling over or sinking to their knees, grasping at feathered shafts protruding from their bodies. Morelen admired the discipline and training that was being displayed by the Noldor.  In just a few minutes, the tribe was stopped, and they broke down into chaos, some orcs running, others throwing down their weapons and more hiding behind dead or wounded orcs, trying not to get hit.

A second wave now surged forward, scrambling over the scraggly grass, howling for blood.  But orcs fleeing from the first wave slammed into the second, orcs falling over and tripping, throwing the whole attack into disarray.  Arrows continued to fall on both groups and the ground was littered with broken bodies and black blood.  Morelen knew that the call to the cavalry would come soon.  Still kneeling, she stroked Lindarion’s nose with a shaky hand.  “Good girl,” she cooed.

She then saw something that struck her.  A third wave of orcs shot forward, but this one was being led by an elf and a few trolls. “Father, why is an elf leading them? Is he a traitor?  Why is he doing that?”

Fëatur tightened his mask and hesitated before answering.  “Umm, yes…yes, he is a traitor.  But the Dark Lord swayed many elves with his deceit.  He knew what to say, what to do to convince good elves to go to him.  He could twist the truth to his advantage and made elves feel like he had their best interest at heart, but Morgoth has always been all about Morgoth.”

“I cannot think of a single thing that Morgoth would say that would sway me.  His evil is plain to see.”

Fëatur shifted uncomfortably.  “Do not think it so simple Morelen.  Morgoth painted a picture where the Valar were the evil ones and he, alone, could fix it. He presented himself as the savior against dark forces that were corrupting all of elvenkind.  The Valar could be strict, but Morgoth wove a tale of their oppression and control and we were deceived.”

Morelen looked at him and narrowed her eyes.  “We? What are you talking about, father?” There was something in his expression. Something that he was holding back.

He shook his head. “There will be a time for me to tell you, but that time is not now.”  He started to say something else, but an archer near him cried out and then fell, a crossbow bolt protruding from his neck.

Then, Fingon walked among them, shouting, “Cavalry, mount up!  Mount up!  Prepare to ride.”  He strode up to them, the picture of valor and confidence and extended a hand to Morelen. “Fight bravely today.  We defend our people.”

She took his hand and pulled herself up and then Fingon checked her armor, tightening straps.  His grip was electrifying and she stood, transfixed.  He gave her two taps on her shoulder and smiled at her.  “You’re ready.  Prepare to ride.”

Morelen tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.  It was a small gesture, but she was stunned that the prince, who was so great a commander would do something like this for her, a nobody in the ranks. She watched Fingon moving among the troops, checking their weapons and armor and giving words of encouragement. She took the reins of her white stallion and took a deep breath.  Then, she looked to her father and nodded, trying to steel her nerves.

Fëatur gave her a tense smile and nodded back.  “I am with you daughter.  Stay with me.”

Fingon’s herald blew a horn, and the prince raised his sword.  “Mount up!  Mount up!” he called and swung into his saddle followed by the cavalry.  A warrior handed him a long spear and he pointed to the horde of orcs that had been shattered by the volleys of the Noldor. “Forward!”

It was the moment Morelen had been waiting for.  A chance to prove herself as worthy.  To show her father and the prince her skill and bravery.  Her throat and stomach tightened, and she tapped her spurs on her horse to follow the prince.  Lindarion’s ears perked up and she started out in a trot.  The line of cavalry emerged from the woods as two groups, the spears and the horse archers.  Morelen drew her blue bow from a saddle holster and brought out an arrow from her quiver.  She could see orcs fleeing in all directions, but there was one group still holding firm, being led by the elf she saw earlier.  The elf’s helmet was off, and his sandy hair was blowing in the wind as he fired wildly with his crossbow.  One bolt found a rider and he tumbled from the saddle and was gone in the dust left by the passing of the horses.

Captain Ruscano stood up in his stirrups and signaled to the left.  As one, the archers veered left, and the spears drove ahead straight towards the orcs.  Arrows were nocked, and bowstrings pulled and released.  A cloud of shafts flew into the group of orcs and dozens fell.  Others fled, trying to find safety in the main force further back that had not yet been engaged.  Still on his mount, the elf with the crossbow fired again and another rider fell from the saddle.  Ruscano then pointed to the last group of orcs that appeared to be falling back and the horse archers accelerated into a gallop, the thundering of hooves drowning out screams and cries.  Morelen glanced back one last time to see Fingon leading the spears into the elf’s force of orcs.  Fingon’s spear drove through an orc chief and then he drew his glittering sword to cleave another two.  She thought she saw the sandy-haired elf riding away from the rout before she turned her attention back to charge.

As they neared the final group of orcs, Morelen saw another mounted elf, clad in black plate armor, leading the remains of the enemy army back, about two thousand orcs and a smattering of trolls.  Next to him was a tall man with red skin, drawing a massive two-handed sword and taking a fighting stance.  In complete sync with Lindarion, she drew the bowstring with her thumb and fired two quick arrows into orcs, who fell where they were shot.  It was the fusion of horse, rider and bow.   A constant stream of arrows now poured from the horse archers into the enemy ranks, thinning out the two thousand orcs.  Bodies lay twisted on the ground along with arrows sticking up out of the grass.

Standing tall in the stirrups, she searched for the elf and found him trying to issue orders to an increasingly disorganized mob.  Who could be such a traitor to his people?  With a sense of determination she took aim at the elf and fired.  With inhuman speed, he dodged the arrow, something she had not expected.  Without another thought she switched to nearby orcs and put arrows into their throats.

The elf wheeled his horse about and drew a sword that looked more like a spike of ice and Morelen saw an opportunity.  He looked right at her and spurred his horse to charge, pointing his sword straight at her face.  Her eyes widened and her breath came in a shaky gasp, but she drew the bowstring back with her thumb and released, sending an arrow deep into the horse’s neck and it reared up with a cry and then fell, landing on the elf’s leg.

Morelen pulled the reins, stopping her mount.  “Easy girl,” she said to Lindarion as she dismounted, putting her bow in the holster on her saddle.  She would take the head off of the snake and the battle would be over.  She drew Melima and strode confidently up to the elf, who was struggling to free himself from the weight of his dead horse.  “Traitor!” she called to him as she drew the sword back for a thrust into his face.  His visor was up, and she could see that he was panicking.  Good.

He extended his hand and started to say something and the palm of his hand glowed with power, but he hesitated and it faded away.  His mouth fell open, and he squeaked out a, “No!  Please!”  He closed his eyes and tried to look away, his black hair falling across his face.  His terrified expression gave her pause. Should she kill the helpless enemy? Should she show mercy?  Her mouth fell slack and she stopped herself from finishing him.  A moment passed and then he looked back at her, his eyes more intent.  “Why are you fighting me?  We are both elves.  We bring peace and order to the world under the chosen one!” he said more confidently.

Was this a trick?  What did he hope to gain with this deception? Her heart and her mind were now torn. “That’s ridiculous!  You serve a monster!  Yield and I will show you mercy!”  She shook the tip of her sword in his face.

It looked like he was about to speak again when he grasped an octagonal brooch around his neck and cried out, “Father!  I need your power!”  His whole being cracked with dark energy, pulsing outwards and his eyes glowed red. Morelen knew she had made a fatal mistake.  She barely had time to brace herself when he waved his hand and flung her backwards. She landed hard with a grunt, the impact knocking her senseless and she barely noticed that her helmet was gone.  She saw the elf close his fist and then it felt as if she were a bug in his grasp.  All of the air left her lungs and her cry was a hoarse whisper.  It felt like her eyes were being pushed in and her limbs were useless.  She would be dead in a few seconds.  Mindless fear gripped her heart.

With fading sight, she saw her father stepping between them.  “Begone, blackguard!” he shouted, and it was like the mountain that was crushing her was gone.  She struggled to her feet, gasping and coughing and Fëatur rushed to her side to steady her.  Why didn’t she listen to him?  Why did she charge in like that?  Stupid. So stupid.

She stood up and brought her sword back to guard and saw the elf still struggling under his dead horse and she thought to finish it.  She took a furtive step forward when Fëatur held her fast.  “No!” he shouted, “Let it be.”  She stopped and a moment later a pillar of flame erupted next to the elf, which faded into the form of a balrog.  It had the face of a bull with curved, pointed horns and a bull’s snout along with cloven hooves for feet.  It picked up the horse with one hand and flung it into a group of Noldor who were moving in.  The balrog roared, spitting flame from its mouth.  He brandished a massive flaming sword, causing the elves to freeze in fear. Morelen was struck with terror, and she clung to her father.  In another moment, the balrog took the elf under his arm and leapt into the air to fly away, his batlike wings beating downwards to leave a powerful blast of dust and heat.  There was a collective sigh of relief.

But the battle wasn’t over yet.  Orcs were fleeing in all directions, but a few trolls remained, and the fight wasn’t out of them yet.  Arrows flew into the shambling trolls, many of them falling over and collapsing on the grass, their black blood spilling on the ground.  Several broke through and charged the line of dismounted elves.  Notaldo pointed at Morelen.  “Keep firing!  Keep firing!” he yelled and then launched an arrow into a troll, staggering it.  She blinked hard and shook her head to clear it.

Another volley brought down all but three and these crashed into the elves, scattering them.  One turned to Fëatur and bellowed, blood and spit flying into the air.  It raised a huge spiked club to crush he and Morelen where they stood, but Fëatur waved his hand with a spell and the troll smashed an empty spot of grass instead.  He looked over to his daughter and said, “I’d tell you to run, but you won’t listen so flank him.”  He stabbed the troll in the leg with his kynac and the beast roared in pain.

Morelen’s mind cleared and she sprinted to the side, moving as swift as a deer.  It suddenly became like she was light as air and the world moved in slow motion.  She leapt over fallen orcs and sliced the back of the troll’s leg with Melima. It tried to turn and face her, but Fëatur stabbed it again from the front.  The troll howled in pain and confusion, not knowing which attacker was more of a threat.  Morelen thrust her sword into the same leg and the troll fell to its knees.   A blinding light shot from Fëatur’s palm right into the troll’s face and it recoiled, shielding its eyes.  Morelen scrambled up the troll’s back and thrust Melima into the back of its neck. It reared up and threw her back onto the ground, but then shrieked and fell forward, dead.

Morelen sat on her backside for a moment, stunned.  The world came sharply back in focus and time seemed normal again.  Then she looked around to see the field strewn with dead orcs and trolls and started laughing amid the sudden silence.  Not a joyous laugh, but one of nervousness and relief.  The battle was over.  She could see the balrog flying away with the elf, its back a pincushion of arrows.  Then, tears streamed down her face, soaking her collar.  She thought for a moment, unable to decide if she should be laughing or crying so she did both while rocking forward and back, holding her knees. The horror of the battle and the aftermath was overwhelming.  Then, strong arms grasped her from behind with a firm, but loving grip.

“Easy.  Easy now Morelen.  It’s over.  Easy now,” Fëatur said as he sat down beside her.  “My first battle was much the same.  Even in victory the horror of the death and destruction is so powerful.”

She looked at him but was unable to speak so she just bit her lower lip and nodded.  She scanned the battlefield and saw dead orcs and a few dead elves as far as the eye could see.  Spears and arrows poked upwards along with swords, axes and maces that were scattered on the ground.  The smell of blood and death wafted up from the battlefield and Morelen covered her nostrils with the back of her hand.

Fëatur continued, “My first battle was the Dagor Aglareb.  It was a great victory but hard fought.  I stood with Chrys Menelrana on the heights, repelling wave after wave. We were the lynchpin between Fingolfin and Maedhros for the final push.  Had we failed, the counterattack would have been much harder with far more casualties.  When you meet Chrys, he will tell you more about the horror of battle.  It never goes away, but it does get less.”

Morelen found the presence of mind to speak now.  She choked down some bile rising in her throat.  “This was nothing like I imagined.  The blood, the screams, bodies everywhere.  I…I don’t know.  I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”

“We will…we will cross that bridge when we get to it daughter.  You fought well and bravely.  I just wish that, in this world, you didn’t have to.  You sing and dance as well as any Vala and I wish that would be your fate in this world.”

Notaldo came up to her and bowed.  She looked up and saw that he was a tall Noldo with a warm smile, chisled features and dark brown hair.  His breastplate was covered in black blood.  “You two fought well.  Taking down that troll…I was impressed.  I crossed the grinding ice and fought before the Sun and the Moon and I am glad to have you among us.  At your service,” he said, a mischievous grin crossing his lips.

Morelen smiled back and tilted her head down, feeling a flush in her cheeks.  “Thank you, sir.  Morelen, at yours.”

Notaldo pointed over to some of the horse archers.  “As I mentioned before, that is our company, the Telepta, the Silvers.  Ruscano is our captain and that,” he said, pointing to another elf who waved back, “is my good for nothing friend, Líreno in case you didn’t remember.”

Morelen was about to answer when Fingon and his herald approached.  Once again, he extended his hand to the two and to Notaldo.  They pulled themselves up and stood upright, facing the prince.  He patted them all on the shoulder and straightened Morelen’s armor.  “You have a few dents,” he said with a warm smile.  “My smiths will fix that up right away.  You all both fought bravely and are assets to our cause.” He gestured to Morelen and her father. “You are both welcome to ride in my company.”

Morelen bowed her head low. “I am honored, my prince.”  Her eyes misted up and she wiped her face with a cloth.

Fingon tapped her on the cheek and lifted her head.  “Return to camp and rest now.  I have people gathering our wounded and burying our dead.  The orcs we leave to the crows,” he said as he turned to walk away.

“Are orcs truly corrupted elves?” she asked boldly, her earlier nervousness evaporating.  She always had a tendency to blurt out questions to her father and the three.  But then, she realized that this was Fingon that she was talking to.

Fingon turned back and looked at her.  He sighed deeply.  “It is true. The Dark Lord Morgoth cannot create new life.  That is the province of Eru, the One.  Morgoth can only warp and debase.  He imprisoned many elves who hid from Oromë and perverted them in the dungeons of Utumno. The trolls are perversions of ents. Giant spiders, balrogs, wargs, vampires and other nameless things that he breeds in his pits,” he said and then scrunched up his face in disgust.  “If Morgoth were ever to have…issue, I would fear for the world.  Such a vile perversion of life would be a horror indeed.”

Morelen furrowed her brows. “A Vala can have…offspring?”

“Their powers are beyond our imagining, but they can assume physical form and flesh is flesh,” he added with a nod.  “The evil of his spirit would corrupt any child.”

Fëatur stepped forward and took Morelen by the shoulders.  He seemed to be in a great hurry suddenly.  “Come daughter.  We have taken enough of the prince’s time.  We have much to attend to.  Excuse us, my prince.”

She was guided away by her father’s hands, and he spun her to face him.  She pursed her lips in thought.  “I can see Fingon’s wisdom,” she said, nodding in agreement with the prince. “The creations of Morgoth are corrupt and evil.  I do pity them though.”

Her father’s face became serious.  “He is not…entirely correct.  Orcs are naturally aggressive and combative but, with the right learning, they can be…friendly.  And know this.  Any child of Morgoth is an empty vessel.  Evil can be inherent, but it is mostly learned.  That child, raised in Angband, would likely be evil.  Another child, raised in love and nurturing would likely be good.  Few things are absolutely set in stone.”

Morelen took a deep breath at the words.  “I will…I will remember that.”  Lindarion came up beside her and gave her a push.  Morelen turned and then chuckled, a smile returning to her lips. She pulled out an apple and let the horse take a big bite, its teeth chomping down on the fruit.  She felt another presence besides them and looked to see Notaldo approach.

“She loves those apples,” he said with a knowing grin.  Then, a far off look came over his face and he seemed sad.  “I knew her previous rider.  He was…a good man and a good friend.  You gave her an excellent name, Lindarion.  I like that. She will serve you well.”  He extended his hand to her and she took it. “I heard the prince offer you a spot in the company.  Congratulations and I hope you decide to remain with us.”

Morelen’s heart filled with pride at being accepted.  She had lived up to her training and her father’s teaching.  She looked to Fëatur and give her most innocent smile. “Father, I would like to stay.  I think this is where I belong.”

Chapter End Notes

Thought Moran and Morelen are half Vala and will have significant powers, I don't want to write them as Mary Sues so they will have significant flaws and weaknesses.

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