Eorl the Young. by hennethgalad

Chapter 1

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   Cirion could not recall a time when it had not been the war room. The long table was covered in maps and piles of paper, the chairs scraping on the tiles as captains rushed off to their posts and their places were taken by those with tidings, invariably bad.

  Messages had been sent asking, pleading and begging for help from anyone not actively hostile (as far as was known) but apart from a few reckless individuals, no help had come. Gondor was alone. The empty throne was as forgotten as the statues round the walls; the dead might be watching, but they offered neither sword nor counsel as the enemy's forces closed in.
   There was a rare moment of silence and the sound of scraping quills, busy with the endless administration of the dwindling realm, was suddenly loud in his ears. Cirion clenched his fists, wondering how it had come to this; so much had been achieved by their glorious ancestors, and here they were, driven even from their own capital, and Osgiliath, the city of stars, was now a rat-haunted ruin.
   A great clamour arose outside; Cirion took a deep breath as every head turned to the door and the herald burst in "My lord! The Balchoth have boats, many boats, they are crossing Anduin!"

   It was the worst day of his life. His army was destroyed, cut off from Gondor and forced to retreat across the Limlight in disarray. The enemy were everywhere, with braying horns and hammering drums that rattled in his armour, and his bones. He was sick with horror; the Balchoth mutilated those they had slain, defacing the dead, and the living. The finest troops of the city of Isildur, Isildur who had fought with Sauron himself, now lay broken on the bloody field, soldiers he had trained with, sung with, drunk with, soldiers he had called friends...
   But there was no time to pause in reverence for the dead, the remains of the army must be saved, and rested, and reassembled, and a way must be found to get them south, back to the city, or Minas Tirith itself would be lost, and without the city, there would be no more Gondor.

   The Balchoth were crossing the Limlight, Cirion tried to run a hand through his hair in his anguish, but found his gauntlet clang on the side of the helm that had saved his life twice that day. He was still dazed from the axe, but fortunate that it had been a glancing blow, unlike that which had split the herald's head apart and covered him with blood.    Cirion wanted to scream, with rage, with hate and with fear. But he found a fallen log and hauled himself up onto it and shouted his troops, what was left of them, into formation, and jumped down again to take his place at the front.
   The men needed no speeches of encouragement, they could see their plight, they knew that if they were destroyed the city would fall, and all those they loved would face the mercy of the Balchoth. The troops breathing was loud around him, even amid the howling of the enemy, his own breath hoarse in his parched throat. He could not believe they were to be destroyed, not after everything that had happened, unless the Curse that had destroyed the elves was still working its way through the descendants of those who had fought with the elves and been ensnared in their Doom. Surely Númenor had been enough? The words of the Curse that he had learned in school echoed in his mind, and tears came to his staring eyes. The boy within him railed at him in fury, tears were for children, and the women left alone; he must be a soldier, whether he will it or no, he must fight, and win, or Gondor would be lost, forever, lost and forgotten.

   Despairing, he held his sword aloft and screamed his wrath, and the exhausted troops for once caught his mood, and as he ran forwards he heard his wordless cry echo resounding across the line of the soldiers of Gondor, and they fell on the Balchoth as they struggled ashore and fury drove them on.
   But the Balchoth were a multitude, and for every barbarian they cut down, ten more were wading towards them, spreading out on either side, flanking them, readying themselves to surround the last of the army of Gondor, ready with their hellish din and their hellish cries, ready with their hellish axes raised to cut down the last of the Dúnedain, and put an end to them.
   "Watch your flank! Circle! Circle!" he cried, and with weary steps the line reformed, and Cirion gazed up, for a last look at the sky, and the White Moutains of home, before the final battle. The Balchoth were as bloody and weary as his own men, and their fury increased their savagery, the man beside him fell, an axe split him open, down across his chest, Cirion came close to death himself as the bile rose within him, but something had drawn the eye of the Balchoth who would have slain him, and at that moment, clear above the din, the sound of horns came rolling across the field. The Balchoth screamed and began to run, ignoring the army, running around them to face the challenge, as the men of Gondor turned to see.

   Horses, many horses, with armed riders, galloping across Celebrant, and at their head, proud and fair, came Eorl the Young, lord of the Rohirrim, holding aloft a mighty spear and crying aloud in his strange northern tongue.
   Cirion wept, but did not forget himself "Cut them off! Hold them here! Stand! Stand my friends! Hope is reborn! Gondor! Gondor!"