The journey was arduous, but after several days the Company arrived at Esgaroth. Gentle hills obscured the city from view, but already they could see a thick pillar of smoke rising from its general direction. Gerithor began to run, urging the party to hurry as he began to climb. They soon crested the tallest of the hills, and the entire group began to murmur with fear and despair when their eyes landed upon the city. Smoke billowed high into the crisp morning air, and Gerithor's heart constricted when he saw that the entire city was ablaze with bright orange fire. It appeared as if the lake itself was on fire, and thousands of dark shapes could be seen swarming across makeshift bridges into the destroyed city.
"We are too late..." He whispered, falling to his knees as he was overcome with emotion. He had failed. They all had. After all they had been though... It had all been for naught.
The dwarves wailed aloud and several cast themselves face first upon the ground, in agony as they watched the city of their allies burn. The rangers joined their commander in sadness, falling to their knees at his side. Not even the elves were unmoved, and many of them put a hand to their hearts in silent mourning.
Glorfindel, however, had not given up hope. He leapt upon a rock, his bright eyes gazing downward into the valley. He intently peered at the city for a moment and suddenly pointed. "Look! Survivors! They still fight in the town square!"
Gerithor's head slowly rose and he looked closer, and to his surprise there were indeed a small number of fighters gathered together in the center of town, little more than specks from where he stood. Enemies surrounded them, their number beyond count. Gerithor's spirits rose, and he stood to his feet.
"Quickly, there's no time to spare! We must aid them!" Without waiting for the others he sprang down the hillside, his long legs carrying him swiftly toward the city. Glorfindel nimbly ran after him, and soon after the rest of the Company followed. The hillside was covered with brittle grass and strewn with rocks, but they made it down without incident. Gerithor could see a dark writing mass on the far shore, and he surmised that it was the rest of the enemy army.
"There are only orcs," Glorfindel said, relief clear in his voice. "Perhaps the Easterlings turned back."
"We can only hope," Gerithor replied. He drew his longsword and hurried ahead, his feet crunching on the stony shore of the lake. A small contingent of orcs that had just begun to cross one of the bridges spotted the company, and with a cry the orc leader rushed toward them.
"Charge!" Gerithor shouted as he rose his sword high. His blade shone in the distant fire that engulfed the city, and his eyes burned with immovable determination.
He quickly swung downward as the first orc neared him, cutting the creature in half down to the lower rib cage. He freed his sword from the body and swiftly decapitated another orc, before executing a quick roll and cutting the legs out from under a third one. He could feel more energy coursing through him, and he used it to his advantage to rally his men.
"Defend the North! Defend the North!" He cried, continuing to cut a bloody swathe through the enemy forces. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Glorfindel advancing beside him, his cruel elvish blade causing the orcs to cower in fear.
"Drive them back! Drive them into the lake!" Glorfindel exclaimed. At his powerful voice the remaining orcs turned and fled, but the Company would give them no respite. Gerithor drew his bow and rapidly fit an arrow to the string, firing at one of the fleeing orcs and felling him immediately.
Suddenly a volley of arrows rushed by him, and the remaining orcs all fell to the ground. White feathered arrows peppered the ground where the orcs had stood moments before, and not a single one survived.
Gerithor turned to see the Lorien elves standing in ordered ranks, bows in hand. Haldir, their captain, bowed slightly and smiled.
"The path is clear now, it would seem," he said wryly, casting a watchful eye toward the city. "We can only hope that the yrch filth built sturdy enough bridges to suffer our passage."
====================================
Inside Esgaroth
Astrid hurried to tend to the wounded, their cries drowning out the battle that was raging just outside. The remaining soldiers that were still fit enough to fight were surrounding the hospital tents, defending them to the last man. Astrid knew that the chances of them surviving were slim, and the chances of evacuating the wounded were even slimmer. But still she went about her task, determined to at least make the last few moments of these soldiers lives more bearable.
As she approached one soldier, his hand lifted toward her from the cot. His face was almost completely covered with bloody bandages, but one pale blue eye peered out through them.
"You're the one... The angel," he said hoarsely, his voice muffled by the bandages. "The men speak highly of you."
"Rest," she said, taking his hand and setting it back down at his side. "I'm no angel, but I will do what I can to help you."
"Bless you, m'lady," the soldier replied weakly. "You're the commander's daughter, are you not?"
Astrid nodded. "I am."
"You're setting an example here, m'lady. The men adore you."
Astrid smiled faintly and set to replacing the blood-soaked bandages on his face. When she removed them she saw that his entire face had been burnt terribly, and a large sword wound had completely split apart his left eye socket. She had seen wounds like this before... The man would not make it through the night. Still, she maintained her smile so that the man would not worry.
"Do you need anything?" She asked as she began to place new wrappings over the wound.
"Water..." the soldier said. His voice was growing weaker as their conversation took place, and she knew that he would not last much longer. She hurried to a nearby water barrel and filled a ladle with the cool liquid.
When she returned to the man, she sat on his bedside and let him slowly drink from the ladle. He attempted a smile, but his wounds were so grievous that he simply nodded instead.
"Thank... You..." He said. He lifted a hand weakly towards her, and his remaining eye began to well up with tears.
"I never... Got to tell my wife and son goodbye. It all happened... So fast. Can you tell them for me? Tell them... That I love them." He let out a rattling cough, and Astrid gripped his hand firmly.
"What are their names?" She asked.
"Gerda and Brennis," he whispered. "I pray that... They still live." He coughed again, and this time blood began to seep from his mouth. Astrid wiped it away and got up to retrieve more dressings for his wound, but he man gripped her hand tighter.
"Don't leave, please," he said. "The end is near... I don't want to face it alone."
Astrid stayed with the man, holding his hand until finally his grip weakened and his eye glassed over. His coughing ceased, and his hand fell limply to his side as his last breath left him.
Astrid cried softly, silently mourning the loss of another innocent life. After a moment, however, she was back on her feet again and tending to the other wounded soldiers. She had seen countless men die before her eyes. This one was no different, nor was it any easier to accept. But she would have to move past it if she were to save the lives of others like him.
Suddenly a horn sounded from outside. It did not sound familiar, nor did it even sound like an orcish horn. It sounded loud and clear, like a cascading river amid a thick green forest. It sounded three times, then thrice more. The soldiers outside began to cheer, and Astrid quickly ran outside to see what the commotion was about.
What greeted her eyes caused her to gasp with surprise and joy. Around thirty elves, clad in strange armor and carrying massive warbows, followed a force of dwarves as they crashed upon the enemy like a great wave. Several strangely clad men were among the dwarves, and they led the charge. The orcs soon turned tail and fled, and the defenders of Esgaroth let out a loud cheer as they greeted the newcomers.
Astrid craned her neck to get a better view of the warriors who had just arrived. At their head was a man, taller than any of the Dalemen and cloaked in grey. His auburn hair hung loosely down to his shoulders, and he held a large, elegant sword in his right hand. His piercing grey eyes surveyed the battlefield, and something about him seemed strangely familiar to Astrid.
He spoke briefly with the commander of the forces of Esgaroth before turning to talk with a woman who was dressed similarly to him. As he spoke, he set the end of his sword in the rubble and leaned upon the hilt with his gloved hands. Suddenly, Astrid remembered why he seemed familiar to her. Many years ago, she and her father had journeyed down the Anduin with a group of merchants who were peddling their goods to Gondor. At a massive waterfall there stood two statues that towered over the surrounding lands. They wore crowns upon their brows, and each one held a sword in in one hand and the other was outstretched in front of them. Her father had told her that the statues represented two great kings of men, kings who had come from the line of Numenor. The man standing before her now bore a striking resemblance to both men, particularly the one her father had called Anarion, and she marveled at him as she questioned his origins in her mind.
Seeming to suddenly notice her, the man approached and gave a gallant bow. "M'lady," He said as he stood back to his full height. "I take it that you are in charge of the infirmary. My men are well trained in healing and would be most willing to help in whatever way they can." The man's voice carried with it a slight accent, but it was subtle and carried the wisdom of nobility with it.
Astrid shook her head slightly. "I am not the headmaster, but I have no doubt that he would appreciate the aid of your people."
The man turned and signaled for three similarly dressed men as himself, and they hurried into the tent. "I am Gerithor," the man said. "I come from lands far to the west, over the Misty Mountains. We were told of your people's plight and hastened here as soon as we could."
"I am Astrid, daughter of Commander Kell of Dale," she said with a curtsey. "My father will wish to speak with you."
Gerithor nodded and looked around. "Where can I find him?"
Astrid pointed toward Dale. "He is not here. The attack was swift, and by the time we knew of it the road between Dale and Esgaroth was cut off. We do not know if they are coming at all."
Gerithor's eyes narrowed and he waved the woman he had been speaking to over. "Gilian. Take ten men with you and survey the north road. Report back with enemy troop numbers and defenses. We need to know if we can break through so we can get the wounded to safety. This city won't hold much longer."
As if on cue another horn sounded. This one was deep and primal, and echoed through the hills to create a menacing rumble. Gerithor and Astrid quickly looked in the direction it came from, and Gerithor's mouth dropped open in shock when his eyes landed upon a nearby hill to the east.
Scarlet banners stretched as far as they eye could see, and massive beasts of war lumbered ahead of the endless ranks of soldiers that stood motionless there. The setting sun glinted on their bronze armor and lines of horsemen held their long lances high in the air, making the force look even bigger than it was. Fell flying creatures flew above the army, their wings batlike and evil in appearance.
But perhaps most intimidating of all, at their head was another horseman. Even from a distance, however, it was clear that he towered over the others. His steed was coal black, and tattered scarlet cloth rippled in the wind under its iron armor. The rider himself wore thick plate armor, and his helmet was horned like the head of a demon. He raised a massive sword aloft, and the entire army began to chant and beat their weapons upon the ground. The sound of it was like a great storm rolling over the plains.
"Eru save us," Gerithor whispered, his breath completely taken away. The Easterlings had arrived.