Meet the Common Foe

The armies of Sauron stretched o’er the plains before the allied Free Peoples - Trolls and Giants cast long shadows over the ranks of the enemy: Evil Dwarves and Men , goblins astride Wargs, and Balrogs with flaming whips, and beasts that Barangolf had no name for. And behind them all loomed a vast gate of blackest iron, stretched from hill to hill in menacing strength.

Barangolf and Nengeldor exchanged jittery smiles. As reserve infantry, they were spectators for this initial meeting of armies, but now that they had their first look at the enemy’s forces, the enormity of what they faced dawned on them.

Barangolf reached up to touch his flower crown. “For luck,” he whispered.

Nengeldor mimicked his friend’s gesture. “We’ll need it,” he muttered, his blue eyes fixed on the monstrous army awaiting them. Nimdog stood at Nengeldor’s heel, salivating expectantly, as if this were nothing more than the gathering of a hunting party back home.

Here and there could be seen the other recipients of Mithuial’s blessings - Anwiel, staring straight ahead, fingered the flower crown her daughter had given her. Torvrethil held a bow as tall as he was. Even Laerorn’s leather helmet was encircled with the flower crown she had accepted.

Oropher sprang forward with a shout. The first row of Wood-Elves and hounds thundered after with an answering cry that echoed across the plains.

Arows arced across the sky to meet the Wood-Elves, shrieking with eerie voices, as if they were living creatures. Some among the advancing Elves faltered. Others fell as the arrows found their mark.

Nimdog and the other hounds broke out in fearful whines and agitated howls while their masters tried unsuccessfully to calm them.

Barangolf’s fist tightened around his club. He understood how the hounds felt; those arrows made him want to whine in terror, too. Now he understood why Torvrethil had wanted him to remain behind.

His heart constricted as what remained of the first row of Elves clashed with the front lines of the enemy. Hounds launched at Wargs in a snarl of fur and teeth. Clubs broke upon enemy shields. Oropher’s pale hair streamed out from behind his helm as he smote down enemy after enemy with ferocity, but so few other Elves still stood.

Their king fought alone.

And then Laerorn signaled that their company should advance. Nengeldor caught his eye and winked. Barangolf’s heart hammered as they marched out into the open. Another volley of the deadly, screaming arrows showered down. Elves toppled sideways to lay still; Those who had not been cut down continued their relentless march forward.

“My liege!” Laerorn swept her club beneath the feet of Orcs and bashed in Warg skulls until she was at the Woodland King’s side. Her regiment struggled after. Nimdog snarled at Nengeldor’s side. A Man raised his sword to stab the Elf, but Nimdog’s jaws clamped around his ankles. Nengeldor’s club met the Man’s sword. The steel bit into the wood, and the blade was wrenched from his hands.

Oropher’s pennant wavered up ahead. Hope flared in Barangolf’s heart at the sight. But then the pennant was dragged out of sight beneath a writhing mass of enemy soldiers, and Barangolf’s hope sank with it. But there was no time for despair. A sword rushed toward his face, and it was all he could do to bring his club up in time to parry. He was forced relentlessly backward, trying to avoid being skewered. All around him were other clashes between Elves and the enemy, but whether those clashes were with his own company or with companies that had joined the fray after, he couldn’t tell.

A horn blew, and Torvrethil cried, “Retreat!”

The order was difficult to hear over the noise of battle, but as the words were relayed up and down the battlefield, the surviving Wood-Elves staggered after. But there was no retreat; cats as tall as trees with enormous tusks like boars flanked by Balrogs and swarms of Orcs stood between the Wood-Elves and their camp.

They fell back, pushed into the valley between the Emyn Muil and the jagged teeth of the Ephel Duath. The ground became soft and spongy. Unwary feet sank and were held fast, making easier targets. Tiny white blossoms peeked defiant heads above the blood-soaked marsh. Ragged petals fallen from Barangolf’s flower crown lay scattered near their hale brethren.

Swarms of midges obscured the combatants’ vision, and the sulfurous smell of the marshes mixed sickeningly with the odor of sweat and recent death.

With each step Barangolf took, frigid water seeped into his boots. Blood trickled down his forehead where a craban’s sharp beak had pecked at the exposed skin. The flower crown no longer adorned his leather helmet; the petals were scattered across the battlefield, trampled beyond recognition.

Nengeldor fought beside him, thwacking with relentless desperation at the enemies surrounding them. The far side of the marsh remained impossibly far away.

Barangolf parried, turning his opponent’s sword only just in time. His arms were leaden, and he wondered how much longer this would last. How much longer it could last.

“Ha!” Nengeldor lunged forward, his club connecting with his opponent’s skull. The Orc crumpled to the ground, senseless. Flecks of blood splattered along the white blossoms that dotted the marsh as Nimdog leapt forward, snarling, to rip out the unfortunate Orc’s throat.

His friend’s success rekindled the fire of hope in Barangolf’s heart. He fought with renewed vigor, slashing at his opponent with the sharp end of his wooden club until he cut through his opponent’s defenses, slapping the sword from its hand. The blade sank into the bog.

The Orc bared its fangs at the two Elves, but before it could reach for the knife at its hip it was dragged, shrieking, beneath the ground after its sword.

Barangolf stared in shock at the now smooth ground where the Orc had just been standing. “What–” he began.

Nengeldor nudged him. “Let’s keep moving.”

Barangolf nodded, his expression uncertain as he backed away from the treacherous marsh.

They stumbled away, undisturbed by foes more dangerous than midges. Barangolf was too grateful for the reprieve to question their luck until he saw the creature lumbering through the marsh weeds. It looked like some small, wingless dragon–a long, reptilian body with leathery skin that blended in with the swamp.

It may have been small compared to a dragon, but it was large enough. From snout to tail it was at least as long as Barangolf was tall, and its yellow eyes glinted with malice. Its maw opened, revealing wickedly sharp teeth meant for tearing meat and crunching bones.

Barangolf shouted in terror. His wooden club felt suddenly useless, a child’s toy rather than a valiant weapon.

Wind whistled past his ear and an arrow sprouted from the monster’s eye. It thrashed wildly, churning up blood and flowers in its death throes.

Before Barangolf could look for their savior something reverberated through the swamp, causing him to stumble. Through the veil of midges something huge came crashing down right in front of his face, and Nengeldor was swept aside in a splatter of blood and gore.

He staggered to remain upright, dazed and breathless. His head tilted back, taking in the troll towering over him. It roared in triumph, lifting its club again.

More arrows soared through the air. The troll swatted them aside.

Without thinking, Barangolf reached for Nengeldor’s hand. His fingers closed around air at the same time the club dropped. He scrambled out of the way with barely enough time to avoid being flattened, the force of the club slamming into the ground sending him sprawling.

The effort of pushing himself upright sank his feet deep into the mire. He desperately struggled to haul himself free before he was swatted like a fly, but his boots were stuck fast. He cast a desperate glance toward the troll, which was lazily lifting its club for the third time, grinning at the trapped Elf. He grabbed his boot with both hands, pulling with all his might.

It was no use.

He closed his eyes, bracing for impact.

There was a resounding thud. The whole marsh shook, rattling Barangolf’s teeth. He cracked open an eye. The troll lay dead, a sword jutting through its middle. The swordswoman placed one foot on the troll and yanked her sword free.

“Don’t make me regret this, Wood-Elf,” the woman warned, turning to Barangolf. She grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him out of the muck.

“You…!” he gasped, staring into the face of the High Elf woman from the campfire. He was too numb to feel guilty over the accusations he’d slung at her last night. He was too numb to even feel grateful for her assistance.

“Come on,” she said, pulling the stunned Wood-Elf away from the sight of Nengeldo’rs death.

After a moment, he regained enough sense to run without being dragged. He lashed out blindly with his club, occasionally feeling the jolt up his arm as it connected with something solid.

If it hadn’t been for the High Elf, he would have died there in the marshes. She cleaved through foes with admirable tenacity and lightning quick reflexes, heading with grim determination toward safety.

As they ran, Barangolf’s foot snagged against something solid and he stumbled. As he righted himself, he realized he’d tripped over a hand. Its fingers were outstretched, reaching silently in one last, unanswered plea.

His eyes traveled from the hand all the way to the unseeing face. His heart sank as he recognized the fallen soldier. “Anwiel,” he whispered.

“Keep moving! We’ll come back for the dead tonight!” the High Elf said.

Barangolf knelt beside his sister-in-law, picking up the few remaining petals from her flower crown. He closed his fist around them and hurried after the High Elf.

He didn’t look back.