The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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Unnumbered Tears - Part 2

The battle begins, but not as expected.  Fingon is hard pressed but Turgon moves to reinforce him as Maedhros tries to join them from the east.  

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36)  Unnumbered Tears Part 2 - Year of the Sun 472 Lairë (Summer)

 

Morelen

 

It was Day 4 since the Western Army set forth.  They were encamped in the woods and valley east of Ered Wethrin, in the foothills before Barad Eithel.  The fortifications were complete: pits, spikes, mounds and berms would slow the enemy attack and cause casualties.  A counterattack was designed to sweep them from the field after.  Signals from the Eastern Army of Maedhros told them that their army had encountered, “Unforeseeable delays.”

Under the starry night sky, Fingon read the missive with a stern expression, but nodded.  “We can hold until they’re in place.  We have the depth for that.”

Then, a great, gray cloud belched forth from Thangorodrim, shrouding the sky for miles.  Stars vanished as if they were consumed by Ungoliant.  An orange glow could be seen under the fumes.  “Morgoth has taken the bait,” the High King said, some trepidation leaking into his voice.  “Now we wait.”  A chill passed among the army and the temperature sank as the clouds blotted out the sun.

The horses fed as the troops milled about, trying to pass the time, murmurs floating among the trees. “When will the battle start?  Do you think we’ll be victorious?  Do you think we’ll survive?  What are our odds?”

Tintallo and the other captains moved among the men, comforting them and bolstering morale. Tintallo was arrogant and pretentious, but he was a leader.  He spent every waking moment giving people hope.  Notaldo, originally dismissive of him, learned a great deal about leadership from the senior captain.  Lutano, Captain of the Morna, followed him around like a puppy.  Morelen and Líreno walked alongside, providing scouting reports and updates that would go to the High King.  Riders came and went from the camp, bringing messages from the Eastern Army and the results of any reconnaissance.

Two riders rushed up and bowed, presenting a message.  “Lieutenants Líreno and Morelen, Martano and Ëarmo reporting.  Morgoth’s army has sallied forth at great speed,” said Martano. “They should be here by late morning.”

Líreno nodded solemnly, but then put on his half smile again.  It seemed a little forced this time.  “Very good.  Any news on the march of the Eastern Army?”

“They cleared the northern marches of orcs and are now force marching into position so they will be ready.  Maedhros was concerned that some of his Easterling allies were moving slowly.  It seems to have been resolved.”

“Hmmm, we’ve never worked with Easterlings before.  I hope they’re as reliable as the Edain.”

This unknown variable did not sit well with Morelen.  How would these men fight?  Were they well trained.  Maedhros was experienced enough to know so she shouldn’t worry.  “Thank you Martano and Ëarmo.  Please refresh yourselves and rest.  We’ll have your horses tended to,” she said, remembering how well Fingon treated his scouts.  Leadership wasn’t just about screaming and demanding and knowing everything.  It was about people.

The two scouts thanked them and moved to the cantina for food.  Morelen guided the horses to grooms who fed and watered the mounts and worked on them with brushes.  Then came the waiting, which was always the hardest part.  She gnawed on a biscuit, lost in thought for a moment as scouts and messengers came and went.  The signal fire from the east would indicate their movement.  They would feint an attack to draw forces from the east and then let the enemy break themselves on their defenses.  Once the balrogs and dragons were contained or destroyed, the general attack would commence.

Morelen and Líreno continued to survey the fortifications and the battle lines.  Everything looked set and the troops were in high spirits. They came across a familiar face, standing with two Sindarin Elves.  They bowed. “Gwindor,” Morelen said respectfully to the Captain of Nargothrond.  They had crossed paths many times in the past on their visits.  “We had heard that you joined our host.  Thank you for your support.  We need everyone that we can get.”

Gwindor returned the bow, though his face was grave.  “Greetings, Morelen and Líreno.  I would like to introduce you to Beleg, known as Cúthalion, the Strongbow and Mablung, Chief Captain of Doriath.”  Hands were shaken.  “I am sorry that my King, Orodreth, has denied the armies of Nargothrond to fight here. I brought a small company of elves though.  We could not stand by and let our brethren and our allies fight alone.”

Morelen smiled.  “And how is your betrothed, Finduilas?  I miss her.  She was always friendly with us and treated us well.”

“That is who she is. She remains with her father, the king, but I will return to her when we are victorious,” he said and then his expression darkened.  “The main reason I am here though is my brother Gelmir was captured during the Bragollach.  It is my…hope that we can rescue him.”

“We will do our utmost to see that happen,” Líreno answered solemnly.  For all of his edgy humor, he was surprisingly empathic and could change tone when needed.  “And we welcome any aid at all from Doriath,” he said to Beleg and Mablung.  “We have all heard great tales of your prowess.”

Beleg, Warden of the Marches of Doriath, nodded.  “We would not fight under the banner of the House of Fëanor so we thank you for accepting us.  I…understand the position of my King, but we could not just sit back during dark times. I believe that we must all stand as one to defeat Morgoth.  Your High King Fingolfin showed that he is truly a coward.”

Morelen sneered.  “He is.  And I will play my part to destroy all of his creatures and any spawn that he has that infest our world.”

They all nodded and Gwindor brought out a flask, raising it up.  “We will see it done today,” he said and then uncorked the flask, passing it around. Everyone took a drink.  It was strong, a clear, brown liquor that burned on the way down.  Morelen coughed and Gwindor pounded her on the back, clearing her throat.

“Oh, that was…yeah,” she said, her face red and burning.  This must be what being a dragon was.  “Thank you,” she said, and then coughed again.  The crowd chuckled.

Two more scouts rode up, their horses rearing as they leapt off.  Their faces showed urgency.  “Morgoth’s army has made great speed!  They are one hour march away.  Maedhros is further delayed by impending attacks by another force!”

Morelen’s felt a cold prickly in her gut and her eyes widened in surprise.  “This is much sooner than we expected them.  And did we not scout the approaches for Maedhros?  How can he be delayed again?  Where is he getting his information?” she said, her voice much higher.

“Scouting reports from Ulfang indicated that orcs were preparing to attack from Ladros and the Pass of Aglon,” one of the scouts said.

“Ulfang?  Why is he scouting for Maedhros?” Líreno asked, his head cocked, a growing look of suspicion on his face.  “We offered them scouts.  We cleared those areas last week.  I don’t feel good about this at all.”  He gestured to the two riders.  “I know you’re tired, but I need you to ride back to Maedhros and confirm this. Quickly.  Time is running out.”

The riders bowed. “It shall be done, sir,” they said and leapt back on their mounts and wheeled around to ride off, hooves pounding on the grass.

“I don’t like this one bit. It may be nothing, but I don’t like it at all,” he said to the group.

Morelen wasn’t sure what to feel.  This might just be miscommunication.  After all, the fog of war was real, and many things could not be known for certain.  She just had to hope that the reports were just confused.  She sighed heavily and looked down, unable to put the anxiety down.  “It will all be well,” she said softly, mostly to herself.

Gwindor pointed north to the horizon.  “There! I see them!  Morgoth’s army,” he said and then looked around.  “I suggest that we prepare.”

Morelen shook off the dark cloud and adrenaline surged through her blood.  “Telepta Company, to your posts!” she yelled, and horns bellowed out the call to arms.  The camp became a storm of movement, riders rushing to their mounts, counting arrows and stringing bows.  She did a quick check into her quivers, both full of gull-feathered arrows with barbed tips, perfect for penetrating an orc’s lighter armor.  She strapped them to the saddle that was already atop Lindarion and put her bow, Luinë, into its sheath.  Then, she pulled her curved sword, Melima, partly out of its scabbard and tested the edge: very sharp.  She was as ready as she could be, but it didn’t feel like it.

More horns sounded…elven. Another force of Noldor.  Morelen climbed up into the saddle as Notaldo and Tintallo rode up.  There was a look of excitement on their faces, eyes big.  “Look there!” called Notaldo.  “Glistening armor and glittering spears!  The banners of Turgon of Gondolin!”  Morelen raised herself up on the stirrups and peered in the direction that they were pointing.  Thousands upon thousands of Noldorin warriors were marching in unison.  It looked like a forest that was moving onto the plains. Her heart swelled.  Excited murmurs rose from the ranks.  The Army of Gondolin had marched forth.

The thunder of hooves caught their attention.  High King Fingon rode by with his guard, waving his longsword over his head.  The look on his face said it all: his long-lost brother had returned to the field and his expression was electrifying. Eyes beaming bright, he shouted, “Utúlie'n aurë!  Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatári, utúlie'n aurë!  The day has come!  Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!”  His voice carried through the woods and over the plains, such was the power of the Quendi, The Speakers, whose words and songs were power.

The army rose to its feet and riders stood high in their saddles.  “Auta i lómë!  The night is passing!” they called out in unison, the sound echoing through the ranks. Morelen shouted for all she was worth, her eyes misting up, so proud was she of her people.  Even at a distance, the response from Turgon’s army could be heard, the blue and silver banners of Gondolin waving in the morning breeze.

She reached out and grasped Notaldo’s hand.  “This is it! This is the most massive army ever assembled under the banner of the Noldor!  Can you feel it, Notaldo?” she cried over the roar of the troops.  Her eyes were huge, their gray and silver hue reflecting the sunrise.  Her muscles were taut with excitement.

A huge smile spread over his lips.  “Let us finish this!  Riders of the Telepta!  Let us ride to victory!”  A cheer went out through the company.  Only Líreno looked solemn.  Morelen was caught up in the moment and paid it no mind.

They could see orcs deploying into a loose horde as they always did.  Unorganized rabble.  But behind them were legions of trolls, wolves and riders, along with balrogs, keeping the orcs in line.  Other hideous beasts had to be behind them.  The enemy army stretched on as far as the eye could see.  Morelen paused for a second and Líreno caught her attention. “I know the excitement here, but this can still go wrong in a thousand ways.  Be careful.  Stay alive. This will be a hard fight, regardless.”

She wanted to shake it off, to discount his anxiety.  All of her hopes would come true after this one, last battle.  She gave him a wan smile.  “I’m always careful.”  Another cheer went up and she was lost again in that moment.  She wanted to attack now, while the orcs were still deploying. Every nerve in her body felt on fire.

Fingon rode by again with Nandamo carrying the standard.  “Maintain formation!  Let them come to us!  They will break upon our defenses!  Maintain formation!”

She gritted her teeth and held tightly onto her reins.  She wanted to jump out of her skin and slay every last orc by herself.  Then, there was movement at the front of the enemy army. Orcs paraded prisoners out, captured during the Bragollach.  They were a sorry sight…dressed in rags or not at all, some blinded, some barely alive. Slavery in the pits of Angband was not something that many lived to tell about.  She thought for a moment.  What if that happened to her?  She resolved to never be taken alive.  The alternative was just too horrible to imagine.

Gwindor shot up in his saddle, his face twisted in horror, mouth open and eyes wide.  “That’s…that’s Gelmir!  That’s my brother!”  He let out a piercing shriek, full of psychic agony.  His hand went to his sword and gripped it so tight that his whole arm began to shake. Just out of bowshot, the orcs hauled the prisoners into a line.  An orc in a mask, shaped like a snake, drew a huge sword, designed for executions.  A woman’s head was cut off.  Another was gutted and left on the ground, wailing.  One by one, the prisoners were cruelly executed. Morelen bit the back of her gloved hand, hard, holding back a hot feeling in her cheeks and eyes.  Then Gelmir was brought forth, blinded.  He staggered about as the orcs laughed, a horrid, croaking sound.  The executioner lopped his arm off and then the other, followed by both of his legs, Gelmir screaming the entire time.  Morelen’s breath caught in her throat.

With a feral cry of rage, Gwindor dug his heels into his horse, and it bolted off at a gallop, followed by the entire company from Nargothrond.  Fingon waved his arms.  “Hold position!  Hold position!” he shouted, but it was too late.  The company from Doriath surged forward.  Morelen was torn, bow already in hand.

“Hold!  Hold!” Notaldo commanded and the elite riders did not move, but many of the Edain and the infantry began to rush ahead.  It was chaos.

Fingon grunted in frustration.  “Ulmo’s Beard!” he cursed, something exceedingly rare for the High King.  His jaw was taut, and his teeth gritted beneath his tall helm.  Morelen had not seen him like this since the death of his father.  Tintallo and the other captains watched him, trying to anticipate his orders.  Time seemed to stand still.  Fingon grabbed his spear from Nandamo and held it up.  “We will not leave our brothers to die out there!  Riders!  Screen the advance!  Nandamo, signal the attack!”  The High King lowered his visor, his bright eyes blazing.  Nandamo blew a series of blasts on his horn, the signal for the general attack.  The plan was falling apart.

Horns blew and the army began to move forward.  Líreno looked like he had been punched in the gut, but Morelen felt a surge of power through her limbs.  They would pay…every last one of them.  No creation of Morgoth’s deserved to live.  The line of cavalry advanced at the trot, the lancers of Misë and Morna companies flanking the horse archers.  Their training kicked in and all of the riders knew that their task was to cover the advance of the infantry and the Edain, not to directly engage.  Notaldo raised his bow and nocked an arrow and the Telepta followed suit.  Morelen aimed right at the executioner and saw him right down the shaft of the arrow. She relaxed her thumb and the arrow leapt ahead and into the eye of the orc.  It fell backwards as a cloud of arrows fell on the ranks of enemy.

Gwindor and his company crashed into the horde, spears thrusting through bodies.  The shrieks of the orcs rose from the earth and the fear on their faces brought joy to Morelen.  Beleg’s bow sang as arrows flew in rapid succession.  Orcs and even their overlords turned and began to scatter as Gwindor’s fury cut them down like grass.  Morgoth’s army began to melt as the horns of Gondolin sounded.  Far in the distance, Maedhros finally got his army moving forward and onto the Anfauglith.         

As always, Fingon led the attack, his spear and then his sword, slicing through orcs like wheat before a scythe.  Trolls and wolves fell in droves before his wrath.  Orcs began to turn and flee.  Gwindor was an unstoppable force, fueled by rage.  It was like an arrow, piercing through flesh and the army of the Noldor surged ahead.  The Telepta Company could barely keep up and the tip of the spear of the attack moved further and further ahead of them.

Tintallo led the Misë forward, slamming into a horde of orcs and trolls, scattering them like toys. Lutano drove the Morna in next, lances plunging into bodies.  Orcs screamed and fell while others turned and threw down weapons, such was the fury of the charge.  Arrows from Telepta rained down on the enemy.  Trolls collapsed on orcs as wolves writhed on the ground, perforated by arrows.  Gwindor had almost broken free of the enemy masses and rode with his company across the Anfauglith, right at Angband.  Fingon and his personal guard were right behind him.  Morelen put an arrow into the eye of a troll and gave a hoot as it toppled over.  The farther and faster they rode, the more energy she felt.  Then, an image flashed in her mind.  A dark figure, sitting on an iron throne with an iron crown and two brilliant jewels mounted on it.  A grin was on his face beneath blazing red eyes.  What was this?  Her next shot went wide.

“It’s not like you to miss,” quipped Notaldo.  “Hurry, we need to keep up with Tintallo and the others!”

The battle turned into a pursuit, which turned into a rout.  Orcs were fleeing everywhere and Turgon’s army was now fully engaged.  It was now impossible to see Maedhros’ army through the dust and haze beneath a sky, overcast with volcanic smoke. Morelen shook her head to refocus and tapped her heels into Lindarion’s flanks.  “Forward, Lindarion!  On to victory!”  The image was gone, but the dark feeling persisted.

Gwindor cut his way through the last of the horde and charged straight at the gates of Angband, heedless of his safety in his rage.  He appeared as a demon in his fury, face twisted and screaming.  His company slew the guards at the front and streamed into the very halls of Morgoth’s lair.  Morelen was hit with another vision: the figure on the iron throne recoiled in fear, hiding his face.  A personal guard of flaming demons surrounded him.  Why was he appearing in her visions?  Was this Morgoth?  A massive balrog, bigger than the others, pointed a flaming sword to the gates of Angband. Bull horns came out of the sides of his head and his teeth were sharklike as flame and shadow shrouded his form.  “Lungorthing, protect the master.  Launch the counterattack!”  Another balrog, slightly smaller, white and covered in some kind of caustic, toxic slime, bowed and led the others forward.  The vision faded and only a chill in her gut remained.

In another moment, doors opened along the walls of Angband, and thousands of orcs poured out. Morelen’s breath froze in her chest. “Oh no,” she whispered, her eyes wide and her face twisting in horror.  The white balrog came forth from the gate and crushed an elf beneath his cloven hoof.  It then sliced another elf from head to groin with a stroke of his sword that glowed with a blue flame.  Gwindor stabbed it in the leg, but then dropped his sword and grabbed his arm that was smoldering and covered in slime.  The balrog threw him down and orcs dragged him into Angband.  Her blood ran cold as hordes of orcs, trolls, wolves and balrogs surged from Morgoth’s gates.  The orcs in the field who were fleeing now turned and attacked…and Fingon and his guard would be cut off.

Notaldo raised his bow and pointed to where Fingon was being surrounded.  Every rider in the company put heel to horse and charged ahead. Turgon’s army lowered spears and surged into the flank of the enemy army.  The forces of Gondolin fought with a methodical precision; thrusting spears, killing, stepping over bodies and thrusting again.  The rhythm of their grunting war cries echoed out over the plains. The attack into the flank folded the enemy back onto themselves and trolls crashed into each other in panic, crushing hapless orcs underneath.  Gwindor was gone, but he could be avenged.

Fingon’s force was fighting its way back south, a slow, deliberate retreat in the face of overwhelming power.  A trail of dead trolls and wolves lay in the wake of their passing, surrounded by slain orcs like ants.  Turgon’s army could not be withstood, and they opened a passage to Fingon.  The two brothers embraced on the battlefield and then turned back to the enemy.  Horns sounded from the Eastern Army.  Their attack had finally commenced.  This was turning around.  The day would be won.

Tintallo led the riders in another dash, slicing through any who stood in their way.  Seeing the two brothers in their silver helms, directing the battle, brought pride to the riders.  This was a moment that they would never forget.  Tintallo dismounted and knelt before the High King, followed by the other officers.  Morelen noticed the black blood that pooled on the scorched ground of the Anfauglith. She reveled in it as she planted her armored knee into the bloody pools.  “My King!” Tintallo said, “what are your orders?”

Fingon raised his visor and smiled.  Though his armor was covered in gore, he was barely breathing hard.  “Excellent timing, my friends.  You must meet my brother, Turgon, King of Gondolin,” he said with pride, gesturing to his brother.  Turgon was tall, taller than his brother and had a solemn expression that spoke of wisdom.  Fingon touched each of the riders on the shoulder.  “I knew that my elite riders would come through.  I am indebted to you all.  Please rise.”  When he touched Morelen, her breath caught.  Something roiled in her gut, and she couldn’t place it.  She wanted to say something, but the moment passed.

Turgon shook each hand. “Well met, riders.  I know that you have protected my brother for many years. I am also indebted to you.  Please meet my noblest warriors, Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower.  Ecthelion of the Fountain.  Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch.”  All stood proud and deadly, clad in armor of silver or gold, that appeared to be made of leaves, flowers or water.  The craftsmanship was magnificent.  Turgon drew his sword, Ondomacil, its blade of pale blue laen.  He held it above his head.  “For our father, Nolofinwë,” he said using the Quenya name for Fingolfin. The two brothers embraced once more and Turgon returned to his standard.

A broad smile was upon Fingon’s lips.  “It has been too long,” he said and then became serious again, his eyes bright and focused.  “I am sorry for Gwindor.  He will be avenged, I assure you.  Now, my friends, I need you to ride to Maedhros.  Clear the way for his troops so that we may join together and drive to Angband.  The plan changed, but we will adapt.  Bring Maedhros and his brothers with all haste.”

“It shall be done, my king,” Tintallo said, his hand over his breast.

Fingon nodded.  “I have no doubt.  Tintallo, Notaldo, Lutano, Líreno, Morelen…You and the riders have been my rock.  This company, that I formed centuries ago, has been my pride.  You are the finest of my troops.  I know…I have promised you all a game of Coron Mittarion for some years now. Best you all prepare to scrub the kitchens as I play for keeps,” he said with a wink.  He grasped Morelen behind the neck and shook her gently.  “I have seen you grow from a doubtful girl to become one of my finest riders.  It has been my honor to see that.  Please keep them safe.”

She felt as if her heart would burst from her chest.  Tears rolled down her cheeks and she was speechless, merely nodding and smiling through a sniffle.  She would lay down her life in a heartbeat for her king.

Fingon wiped his nose and then chuckled.  “Now go with haste.  Clear the way and bring Maedhros to us.  We must unite quickly.”

Tintallo waved his hand over his head.  “Riders, in the saddle!  We go east!” Fingon’s standard was raised and the thunder of hooves sounded again as Morelen looked back to see Fingon riding ahead of his bodyguard.  The company sliced through the orcs before them, tearing up the dried lava on the ground as their horses charged.  Grass was beginning to poke up through the blackened ground, maybe as a sign of hope. Orc and troll bodies littered the ground behind them, but there was no end to their numbers.  Soon, the banners of the House of Fëanor were seen, a red circle that surrounded a silver star, flanked by three great jewels.  Morelen saw Maedhros, slashing about with his left hand, standing tall above the other elves.  His sword, Silmarûth, the Fury of the Silmarils, was covered in black blood, hiding its red laen edges and his red armor, Heruannon, seemed to glow as a beacon for the Western Army.  His brother, Maglor, stood beside him, wielding Silmanaini, the Lament of the Silmarils, the twin of Maedhros’ weapon, but for the blue laen edges.  If the two armies could link up, none could withstand them.

“I can see the Sons of Fëanor fighting their way to us!” she called to the company, who could only just make out the banners.  She could see the seven as if they were a stone’s throw away.

Notaldo glanced at her, about to say something, but he came to accept her incredible vision.  He merely smiled and continued on.  On his signal, a cloud of arrows flew into the rear of the enemy that were pressing on Maedhros.  Orcs and trolls fell and then turned in fear and panic.  Tintallo signaled the attack, and the lancers lowered spears as elven horns sounded, blaring out the enemy’s doom.  The impact of the cavalry charge scattered their forces, and bodies flew in all directions, crushed and trampled by horses.  Maedhros smiled and raised his right arm, now with a white laen prosthetic hand over the stump of his wrist.

Then, an explosion roared from Thangorodrim.  Orange magma flowed from the peaks as smoke billowed skyward like the hand of Morgoth. Great gates opened along the walls of Angband, some belching flame from their doors and the riders stopped in horror. Clouds of bats burst forth while balrogs took flight.  Werewolves tore over the Anfauglith, snarling and clawing the air.  And then, one of the gates smashed down, crumbling before the size and weight of Glaurung.  The dragon burst forth, monstrous in size, bloated with the flesh of captives and any who displeased Morgoth.  Morelen’s blood froze.  The sight of the dragon sent a shiver down her spine, and she dropped an arrow, her mouth open in terror.

Cries rose up from the Western Army as the din of battle rose.  “Treachery! Treachery!”  The riders turned to see the Easterlings under Ulfang assailing the Western Army from the rear.  Chaos erupted as Maedhros turned to face the traitors, his face twisted in horror as his red hair blew in the howling wind.

“Dammit!” Líreno shouted. “I just had a bad feeling about them!” He snarled and shook his head.  “I hate it when I’m right.”

Within minutes, the Western Army dissolved.

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Chapter End Notes

I'm trying to stay true to the canon of the battle with Gwindor charging into the enemy to avenge his brother.  And we see the treachery of Ulfang the Easterling.