Not Quite a Maia

Not Quite A Maia

Chapter 20

Third Age: 2nd-3rd March 3019

Several miles south of the Wizard's Vale

At around mid-afternoon the day after they arrived in the Wizard's Vale, Augusta and Glorfindel halted their mounts by a little bridge that spanned the River Isen only a mile away from the hulking Tower of Orthanc.

Hmm. What to do now?

The sensible thing, of course, would be to cross it and be on their merry way towards Gondor as fast as humanly possible. Particularly as they had already spotted a vast army of smelly orcs pouring from Isengard towards the Gap of Rohan. After all, why should she intervene in a war that wasn't her own? What did she really owe the Rohirrim - a people whom she had never met? Nudging her pretty little horse across the narrow stone bridge would be the most expedient way to reach Minas Tirith as soon as she could, whilst avoiding what was sure to be a messy and highly unpleasant confrontation with Grodek's (no doubt equally disgusting) friends. It was, without question, the easiest way out.

But Augusta Longbottom was not the sort of person who was wont to take the easiest way out.

"It's certainly inviting, isn't it?" she remarked, shifting her gaze between the bridge and the receding ranks of Saruman's troops.

"Most certainly," replied her companion in a neutral voice.

His response was enough to bring a slight curve to her lip.

"And no one would blame us for just hopping across it and riding onwards until we reached our destination, would they?"

"Nay, they would not. Our intent is to reach Minas Tirith at all possible speed."

"Exactly! We haven't the time to dilly-dally about the riverside when my boy's neck-deep in Merlin knows what sort of bother."

There was a pause while she tapped her chin thoughtfully, before resuming: "Still, I do seem to remember agreeing not to look for him while he's still on his way to Mount Gloom - and heaven knows how long that could take him."

"It may take weeks," confirmed Glorfindel, just as thoughtfully.

He really was a thoroughly agreeable fellow, in her opinion!

"Yes. Weeks," she echoed, watching the last of the army fade into the distance. "Plenty of time for that nefarious idiot behind us to do as much damage as he wants. We don't know the exact size of his army, after all. Why, he could have thousands - tens of thousands - of the smelly blighters, just waiting for the chance to conquer Rohan, then sweep down the Westemmet to take a swipe at Gondor, too!"

"Westemnet, my Lady."

Augusta rolled her eyes. Emmet, Emnet: what was the difference?

"My point," she said in slight exasperation, "is, that though we may reap the short-term benefits of taking ourselves off to Minas Tirith via that little bridge, the long-term ramifications would vastly outweigh them. Don't you agree?"

"Indeed, my Lady."

"Oh, I do wish you would refer to me as Aunt Augusta. You'll have to get used to it if we're to convince the people of Gondor of our respectability, you know."

The tinkling of musical laughter filled the air for several seconds before the elf calmed himself enough to answer. It never failed to amuse him that she was worried the Gondorians might mistake them for anything more than good friends.

"Forgive me, Aunt," he said (still chuckling). "I shall use no other form of address from this moment onwards."

"Splendid. Welcome to the family. Now, as I was saying: it would be a dreadful pity to allow that ghastly green scoundrel to have his wicked way with the Rohirrim, then the Gondorish ..."

"Gondorians."

She followed the sound of his voice to glare in his general direction.

"...Gondorians, when there was something that we could do to help. I do, after all, also recall mentioning something about assisting the Rohirrim, if the worst came to the worst."

"I believe you mentioned 'causing tension' amidst the ranks of the Enemy, my La ... er, Aunt Augusta."

"Quite! So, in reality, the expedient thing to do would be to ..."

"... to shadow the Enemy and attack from behind?"

"My thoughts exactly!" declared the elderly witch, idly wondering if her dashing companion wasn't perhaps the world's first Muggle Legilimens.

Glorfindel beamed (invisibly).

With her mind made up (and her mental shields intact - just in case), Augusta tapped her chin in deliberation. "Now, what we need is a plan: how can just two of us make a large enough dent in the ranks of several thousand smelly orcs for it to be of benefit the Rohirrim?"

Hmm ... A dent ...

Suddenly, the Green Witch smiled.

"Of course! That's it! We need to make a dent!"

"A dent?" queried the elf softly. "I know not how that will prove effective, but, having seen them with my own eyes, I have the greatest of faith in your abilities."

What a tip-top fellow! Hadn't his parents raised him well? Augusta made a mental note to find out a little more about them during their journey to Gondor.

But for the present, there was a fight to pick.

"Thank you, Archibald. What a thoroughly pleasant chap you are! Now, I do believe we are in need of some weapons ..."

"Glorfindel! We are not in Gondor yet, Aunt," muttered the unhappy elf. "And alas, but we brought none with us save my sword and your staff."

"Poppycock," she declared (ignoring his lament about his splendid new name). "There are weapons everywhere. We only have to look down to find them."

Augusta drew her wand and dismounted Celebrithil. She cast a Lumos and trained it over the dirt path that led from the road to the bridge, bending down frequently to collect stones of varying size. A quick tap rendered her pockets bottomless and weightless as she dropped the stones inside them. Glorfindel waited patiently as she worked.

"Unless you are in possession of a Hobbit catapult, I do not believe those little rocks will inflict much damage on our numerous opponents," he commented dryly.

Fortunately for the stately elf, Augusta was much too pleased with the contents of her bulging pockets to reprimand (or jinx) him for his remark.

"Not yet, perhaps. But they very soon will be."

"I am intrigued as to their purpose. What would you have us do with them?"

He did not expect the answer she gave.

"First of all, I intend to give the orcs a sporting chance."

Certain he had misheard her (despite his superior elven hearing), Glorfindel laughed.

"You never fail to amuse me, Aunt! For a moment, I thought you intended to offer the filth of Isengard the opportunity to parlay."

He heard her mount Celebrithil once more, heard the now-familiar huff of frustration she made when having to repeat herself, and realised he had not misunderstood her after all.

"'Parlay' might not be quite the right word, young fellow. But I simply can't just ride up behind them and start blasting them to smithereens without giving them the chance to deserve it first. It simply isn't cricket, you know!"

Glorfindel rolled his eyes. It seemed to him like a pointless exercise - they were only orcs, after all - but he knew she had her values and would not be swayed from them, and they both knew that Saruman's unnatural minions would not be gracious enough to accept her terms, anyway.

As a matter of fact, the entire exercise should prove to be very diverting!

"And after they have thrown their one and only chance back in my face, I intend to use my little friends here to make that dent I was talking about. As for you, well I think you'll like this part ..."

And he laughed in delight as she informed him of the rest of her 'plan'.

*~*~*~*

It was dark by the time Augusta and Glorfindel caught up to the (stinking) ranks of Saruman's army.

But it was not the darkness that bothered the elderly witch - it was the smell. To her great annoyance, the wind was blowing the odour of an entire unwashed battalion of orcs straight up her patrician nose.

What foul, disgusting creatures they were! How very unpleasant to have their stinking bodies in such close proximity to her own pleasantly fragrant one. They were quite ruining the effect of the prettily scented lavender oil that Elrond had been decent enough to leave in her quarters (a full bottle - which she had pocketed before she left Imladris. He wouldn't mind; hoteliers were used to guests helping themselves to the toiletries. What a pity he hadn't left a bathrobe and slippers, too). What had been the point of daubing it generously on her throat before leaving (but not too generously; wouldn't want Floor-kindle getting the wrong idea and making a lunge for her when she was battling the hordes of Isengard), if the effect was to be ruined by a bunch of inconsiderate, malodorous miscreants?

"I ought to blast the whole lot of them to pieces simply for smelling so bad!" she muttered.

Glorfindel chuckled softly. "Nay, not all of them," he protested gallantly. "Or would you deny your nephew the opportunity of unleashing his sword to avenge the offence they have given you?"

"What a jolly nice thing to say. You know, you'll make some nice young woman a very fine husband one day, I should think. In fact, we may have to beat them off you with a stick when we get to Gondor. Don't worry though: as your aunt, I will make it my highest priority to screen any potential brides for you. Can't abide the thought of any relation of mine being lumbered with some idiot of a girl who spends all day swooning at the mere sight of him, and can't hold a conversation about anything other than the latest fashions. All this nonsense about who's wearing what and to where! As far as I'm concerned, one winter coat is enough for any respectable person!"

And she would know. She'd had the same one for the past fifty years.

Her invisible 'nephew' was trying desperately to stifle his amusement at the thought of his future bride being vetted by the Green Witch.

"Now, then: let's see what we can do about those orcs."

They urged the horses on a little further until they were a mere hundred yards behind the army of orcs which stomped, roared and barrelled its way towards the riverbank.

"You are certain you still wish to give these creatures a 'sporting chance'?" queried Glorfindel, wrinkling his nose as the stink of their enemies grew more intense the nearer they drew.

"Certainly. It wouldn't be fair to attack them from behind without warning or provocation. I know, I know - sometimes the English sense of fair play is a dashed nuisance - but I would never be able to face myself if I pushed it to the side just for the sake of convenience."

He sighed, drawing his sword and resigning himself to the fact that he would have to watch her tempt fate.

"As you wish. I will remain close by."

Augusta didn't see his nod of agreement, but she heard the movement of Asfaloth as the horse moved away and knew that her companion was now in position a few feet behind her.

Which meant it was time to give the orcs that sporting chance she had been banging on about two hours ago ...

Reining Celebrithil to a halt, Augusta daintily lifted her wand and lifted the Disillusionment charm which concealed her presence (but left Celebrithil's intact), then touched it to her throat to perform the same spell that had seen her in such good stead back at Orthanc.

"Sonorus."

There! All set! Only one thing left to do ...

"GOOD EVENING, CHAPS. MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE?"

Her voice, crisp and confident, boomed over the growls and yells of the hordes in front of her, and she watched in satisfaction as the entire last two rows of orcs jumped in fright. Shocked, the latter half of the company aborted their swift pace forward and whirled around in surprise, ready to slay the sneaking warrior who had dared to approach them from behind ...

... only to spot a little old woman with a really ugly hat floating in mid-air?

It was enough to startle them for several seconds.

Which gave Augusta enough time for a chat ...

"I AM AUGUSTA LONGBOTTOM, THE GREEN WITCH, AND I DEMAND THAT EVERY LAST SMELLY ONE OF YOU STOP IN YOUR TRACKS THIS VERY INSTANT. IF YOU DO, I SHALL BE WILLING TO ACCEPT YOUR UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER. IF NOT, THEN MERLIN HELP YOU!"

Not in the least intimidated by her astonishing appearance (and even more astonishing ultimatum), a few huge orcs broke formation and started running towards her, waving wicked blades and axes, and grinning in anticipation of the easy kill. One pulled a bow from his shoulder, nocked an arrow, and fired.

"PROTEGO!"

A shimmering shield burst into being before Augusta and Celebrithil, easily deflecting the arrow.

Right, then. Sporting chance given and promptly wasted.

So she needn't feel the slightest bit guilty about what she was going to do next.

She pointed her deadly wand at the ground her attackers were just about to cross ...

"DEFODIO!"

Huge chunks of the paved road were carved out of the ground as the spell struck. Slabs of rock went flying through the air, instantly killing two of the orcs, before she rendered the heavy objects motionless with a flick of her wand. The remaining group of (now very intimidated) orcs couldn't halt their forward momentum quick enough to stop themselves falling into the deep void in the once-smooth road.

"TUT, TUT," she boomed at the stunned onlookers. "LOOK AT THAT DEUCED GREAT HOLE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD! DON'T YOU HAVE PEOPLE TO TAKE CARE OF THINGS LIKE THAT? NO? WELL, THEN: ALLOW ME!"

She aimed at the gaping hole and - just as two of the huge creatures peeped dazedly over the edge of the crater ...

"REPARO!"

The floating rocks hurtled towards the ground. One of the orcs possessed the misfortune of looking up to see his doom crashing towards him and tried to make a mad scramble out of the crater, but he wasn't fast enough. With a final cry of horror, he flung his arms over his head and the last sound he made was a sickening squelch as the highway reformed into its former, smooth state.

There. That was much better. Now nobody else had to worry about spraining their ankle in a pot-hole.

Her enraged enemies were not as thrilled with her road maintenance skills as she was, though. Several massive uruk-hai came barrelling towards the old woman, intent on ending her life just as quickly as she had ended those of their comrades. One broke free from his friends, snarling and spitting in anger as he brandished his crude blade at her.

"I'm gonna kill yer an' eat yer shrivelled ol' liver for dinner!" he yelled in a mad fury.

She rolled her eyes in disgust and allowed him to get as close as ten feet away, then watched him raise his arm to strike her down. Just as she raised her wand to Transfigure him into a goat (because if his friends were as hungry as he appeared to be, they might appreciate a decent meal), there was a loud, musical cry of ...

"Elbereth Gilthoniel!"

... and then her dashing companion hacked the idiot's arm off.

The sight of their comrade losing his arm for no apparent reason (and his agonised screams as he fell to the ground clutching the bleeding stump) was enough to discourage those that followed. They stumbled to a halt in confusion, giving Augusta enough time to perform a Quietus, then Disillusion herself once more. She heard the soft sound of Asfaloth's careful step as the horse drew next to her.

"Come, Aunt. The captains at the head of the company will soon despatch soldiers to investigate why the rear guard has stalled. We must move away from the road before they rally and have their archers take aim in this direction," warned Glorfindel, as one of the orcs who had witnessed the disturbance shrugged the horn he carried from his shoulder and blew heavily into it. The deep, bellowing sound started a chain reaction. Further up the ranks, another horn blared, then another.

Thinking it a good idea to follow her companion's advice, she followed him off the road. They moved away from the rear guard just as arrows began to whiz up the highway, and rode several metres parallel to the now slow-moving company for over almost a minute. until they reached the more densely populated centre. Saruman's soldiers had paused in their frantic pace to turn and see what the commotion was that had disturbed their travels.

Having no idea that the commotion was closer than they thought ...

"Are you ready, young man?" Augusta asked crisply of her companion.

There was the sound of a sword being unsheathed from its scabbard (again).

"I have never been more so, Aunt Augusta," replied Glorfindel with relish.

She smiled (not that he could see it). "Well, then. Time to get started, eh?"

Augusta dipped her hand in her pocket and pulled out one of the many dozen stones she had gathered from the roadside, Levitating it to float roughly ten feet to the left of Celebrithil's flank.

"Olferveo unda!"

A jet of boiling oil shot from her wand tip and covered the tiny object.

Satisfied, she waved her wand to Enlarge it.

Although expecting the action, Glorfindel still watched with wide eyes as the stone swelled to the size of a large boulder, then promptly burst into flames after another incantation from his honorary aunt.

"I think that should be enough to catch their attention, don't you?" the elderly witch asked briskly, before flicking her wand and sending the burning boulder soaring high into the night sky. Their eyes tracked it as it arced higher and higher through the air, before gravity took hold and sent it plummeting down, down, down ...

... smack into the ranks of the unsuspecting orcs.

A huge roar of surprise rose a mere second after the rock fell, and the once-neat formation of smelly soldiers scattered in fear from the point of impact, yelling and screaming in anger as they fled.

"I think that went down rather well," Augusta remarked casually. "Don't you?"

The invisible elf nodded, forgetting for a moment that she couldn't see him. "Indeed, Aunt. Most impressive."

"Do you think we'd have as much success with another one?"

"I would say that, given the large number of Enemy forces, we could not fail to be successful, Aunt."

"That's what I thought. Well, then: here goes!"

Within seconds, another burning boulder was sailing its way through the sky towards the nearest battalion. The centre of the company had thinned noticeably after the first strike as dozens of orcs fled the surprise attack, but Augusta had accounted for this when casting her Banishing charm and put more force into the second one. It flew farther to the right and crashed a quarter of a mile up in the ranks, eliciting another roar of anger from their foes. Fire now burned in two separate spots and more dark shapes could easily be seen fleeing from both directions of the once-neat formation.

Which would make them easier to pick off ...

"I think it's your turn now, my good chap. Off you go. And don't forget: don't get too close to the main body of the army - I don't want to risk hitting you with one of these fiery balls."

"Have no fear," Glorfindel stated happily. "I shall content myself with spreading fear amongst those who flee, whilst you continue spreading your own brand of fear among those foolish enough to remain! Until later, Aunt Augusta!"

With that, the golden-haired elf went galloping off into the distance to make his presence felt (if not seen).

Leaving her to wreak havoc among the remaining troops ...

*~*~*~*

The battle was not going well, Elfhelm knew this. For many hours, the companies of Edoras had battled to keep the enemy on the western bank of the Isen, firing arrows and throwing long spears into the orcish ranks each time a wave of dark figures dared the crossing. Saruman's troops seemed to multiply every time he looked over the water: the sheer number of orcs and uruk-hai was overwhelming and the Rohirrim were beginning to tire from the effort of maintaining their defences.

But they had not given up yet. They were Rohirrim. Descendants of warriors the likes of Eorl the Young and Helm Hammerhand! Sooner would Elfhelm swallow his own sword, than admit defeat to the evil of Isengard!

Now, two hours before midnight, there was a lull in the Enemy's attack and an uneasy calm had fallen east of the Isen. No one knew for certain if the orcs had retreated in defeat, or yet lurked, waiting to lull them into a false sense of security before striking anew. Elfhelm used the momentary ceasefire to order Halfreth and a dozen of his other captains have soldiers clear the fallen and take the wounded to the wagons which would carry them safely to Helm's Deep.

Helm's Deep.

He sighed and patted his chestnut steed wearily. That was where he had wished to take his companies initially, for he knew that the enemy would, eventually, find their way across the river. His troops numbered only one thousand: theirs were significantly greater. So great, in fact, that it was surely only by the grace of the Valar that his men had managed to stay them this long.

But it could not last forever.

"The muster regroups, lord," said a voice to his right. He looked over his shoulder to see Halfreth approaching him on his grey mare.

"Good. How many casualties have we sustained?"

"Over one hundred. Chiefly those archers nearest the banks."

Over one hundred? Helm's hammer! That was a tenth of his troops. Refusing to betray his dismay, the Marshal set his jaw firmly. "And how many have fallen?"

Halfreth sighed. "Seventy-four Men, five horses. Again, those nearest the river's edge."

Elfhelm could not help it: he closed his eyes and swallowed. The figures were not bad, but they were not good. Altogether, his army had been reduced by almost a fifth of its original numbers. He mourned the loss of the steeds almost as much as that of the fallen men.

All seventy-four of them.

Seventy-four

dead Rohirrim. Seventy-four men with wives and children. Almost eighty widows new this night. Over one hundred and forty parents who would never see their sons again. Dozens of children to tell that their fathers would never return to them, never hold them, or teach them how to ride. How was it to be borne? How could he impart so much sorrow to so many people?

For, if he lived through this night, it would be he that told them. It was his duty to those who had served him so faithfully, who had sacrificed their own lives to fight for a lasting peace which seemed always just out of reach.

"Thank you, Halfreth," he answered, opening his eyes to stare directly at the captain. His tone was neutral, but he knew that the other man sensed his pain, for Halfreth clasped his arm in silent support.

"We will not fail this night, Elfhelm. Not all who are wounded are so badly injured that they cannot fight. Over a dozen suffer mere flesh wounds which have already been treated, and they are ready to raise bows and swords once more - they insist upon it! And the others that remain are baying for the blood of those who slew our brethren. Such is the spirit of Rohan!"

"Then let us hope they can put that spirit to useful purpose when the next strike comes. For come, it shall. We will be in need of their righteous ire then," the Marshall stated firmly, heartened by the courage of his men. "And let us take comfort in this: we have sustained remarkably fewer casualties than I would have thought, given the size of Saruman's forces."

"Indeed," agreed the burly captain. "I, also, would have expected more. It is a blessing that we have so many Men left to fight after such a sustained assault. Grimfreth and the other captains rally them with vows of vengeance ..."

Halfreth paused and peered into the distance, causing Elfhelm to tear his gaze from the captain and focus it across the river.

"What is it? Is it the Orcs? What do you see, Halfreth?"

"'Tis not what I see, but what I hear: listen!"

Frowning, the Marshal did as he was bid. At first, he could hear nothing from the opposite bank, which set his nerves on edge. Where were the foul creatures? Were they watching his men?

"I hear nothing," he murmured, grateful, at least, that he had the sense to ban the use of campfires during the break in hostilities. Orcs may have superior vision, but it would still be foolish to make it too easy for them.

"Shh! Listen!"

Sometimes, Elfhelm wondered if there was perhaps a touch of elvish blood in his captain. Not that the hulking man had inherited any of their fairness of face (although he would never say that to said face - Halfreth was also renowned for the force of his left fist), but his hearing was uncannily sharp. It was a talent that had earned him notoriety among his own soldiers (they were less wont to gossip about the fierce red-head than any other captain, for fear of his overhearing), it was a highly useful skill at times such as these.

Trusting in the impressive range of his captain's excellent ears, he cocked his head in the direction of the river.

Which was when he heard it.

"Sweet Horn of the Mark! Was that what I thought it to be?"

But Halfreth didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed his commander's shoulder and pointed at the sky over the western bank.

"Look!" he cried.

Elfhelm tipped his head back as his gaze followed the man's finger - and then his jaw dropped. A mere half-mile away on the opposite side of the Isen, soaring through the blackness of the night, was an enormous ball of fire.

But it was not soaring in the Rohirrim's direction.

The two men didn't hear the crash as it fell, but it did have the effect of producing a sound which froze their blood.

The screeches of wolves.

Wargs! So, the enemy had not retreated - they were merely biding their time until reinforcements arrived!

The beasts could be heard screeching and yowling from half a mile away and all eyes on the eastern bank now swivelled to watch distant forms, ablaze with flame, making a desperate dash to the river.

"Captains, muster the troops! Make ready the archers! Get the wounded out of here now!" barked Elfhelm, knowing that the smell of their blood would attract the ferocious wolves that accompanied Saruman's orcs. "I know not what goes forth here, but I will not take chances if there is a new enemy to deal with."

There was a flurry of activity as several riders left to see to his orders and the remaining ones closed ranks beside their captain. The low murmurs of the Rohirrim were silenced as the sound which originally caught Halfreth's attention called out in the night once more.

It was closing in on them.

"Steady," warned Elfhelm, raising his hand in warning for the archers not to fire. "We know not our Enemy's position."

"... smelly ... disgraceful state to leave the house ... pitiful excuse for a horse ... show you!"

"Was that a woman?" gasped a rider to Elfhelm's left, stunned into lowering his bow.

There was no chance to answer as, once again, a huge ball of fire came crashing down on the western bank.

Then another.

And another.

Guttural screams split the air as scores of figures attempted to flee from the path of the burning projectiles. Not all were successful. Many lit up the night with flame as they barrelled towards the ice-cold Isen. Plumes of thick smoke rose in the air and the wind carried the smell of burning flesh farther down the Gap, causing chaos amidst enemy forces that had been hidden from sight not two minutes before.

The woman's voice rang out through the night once more and the volume of it stunned the brave soldiers of Rohan.

"... OUGHT TO BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES! THIS CLOSE TO THE WATER - AND NOT ONE OF YOU THOUGHT TO BRING A BAR OF SOAP?"

What?

The Marshal of Edoras swapped a look of intense confusion with his equally shocked captain.

Which was when they heard the other (equally loud) voice.

"ELBERETH GILTHONIEL! GURTH AN CHYTH VIN! DEATH TO THE ENEMIES OF THE WEST!"

"That was an Elvish voice!" declared Halfreth in excitement. "'Tis not another foe! It is Elvish magic that comes to our aid!"

"Maintain silence and hold all weapons ready! There could still be more Orcs directly ahead of us - we do not wish to resume hostilities until we have no other choice," warned Elfhelm.

But Halfreth's words had already carried to his nearest neighbours. Hope surged through the ranks of the Rohirrim even as shouts of anger and rage from the opposite bank reached their ears. Soldiers weary from hours of battle straightened their shoulders and drew swords as chaos erupted on the other side of the river.

More flaming orbs flew through the air, this time crashing up the western bank only a short distance away, which gave them all their best view yet of the carnage unfolding. The shockwave of the object's impact sent bodies flying through the air (that were not crushed underneath it). Orcs, uruk-hai and - much to Elfhelm's disgust - hillmen of Dunland fled in all directions as flames reached out to lick at their clothing.

"THAT'S RIGHT! FLEE FOR YOUR MISERABLE LIVES, YOU DISGRACEFUL MUTANTS! RUN BACK TO THAT SORRY EXCUSE OF A WIZARD AND BEG HIM FOR A HOT BATH - AND A DECENT BOTTLE OF SHAMPOO! AND WHILE YOU'RE AT IT, YOU CAN ASK HIM WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE TROUNCED BY A MERE WOMAN!"

The voice was so much closer now that most of the men winced at the volume.

And then another voice cried out - an orcish one.

Directly across from them.

The Isen was not as wide so far down the Gap as it was in the Wizard's Vale, where it boasted a breadth of a mile or more. This was why the Rohirrim guarded it so valiantly against Saruman's army. To hear the voice of the enemy so near their current position now, when they had thought them to have retreated, sent a current of alarm up the blond Marshal. Concerned at their proximity, and unsure of their numbers, Elfhelm gave a wordless signal to ready the arrows, lest the creatures resumed their charge across the Isen.

However, much to everyone's surprise, the orcish cry was not an order to initiate a new wave of attack. It was a guttural cry of anger mixed with ... fear?

"It's 'er! It's 'er! Ol' Grodek was righ' - it's the Witch! The Wicked Witch o' the West! Get 'er, afore she kills us all!"

An enormous roar of anger rose from the west bank. Such was its volume, that it almost rivalled the woman's booming tones. There was a rush of stampeding boots and scores - nay hundreds - of dark shadows barrelled back up the Gap of Rohan to smite their new enemy.

Elfhelm stuck a finger in each ear to clear them. Had he heard correctly. Did the enemy just say 'witch'?

"Surely there is no such thing as a Witch?" whispered Halfreth, echoing his own thoughts.

"Great are the arts of the Firstborn, yet I have never heard of an Elf with the power to shoot fire through the very skies," replied the astonished Marshal. "Have you?"

Halfreth shook his head. "Nay. Then it must be as our Enemy claims! She is a Witch! Helm's hammer, I never thought to see such a day! And they fear her - which means she is their enemy. And if that is so ..."

"... then their enemy is our friend!"

They beamed at each other in delight, then beamed even more as the witch's crisp, no-nonsense voice boomed out words foreign to their ears.

"CONFRINGO MAXIMA!"

The paved road - which several hundred orcs were currently racing their way up - exploded, sending rock, earth and screaming enemies flying up, up, up into the air, before they all came crashing down, down, down back onto their very unhappy comrades.

From across the river, another voice - deep and snarling with outrage - gave a call to arms.

"Master's givin' a rich reward ta the first one tha' bring's 'er 'ead back ter 'im! Find 'er! Kill 'er! Tha's an order!"

It was enough to send the remaining orcs and men charging up the road in a mad frenzy.

And as quickly as that, their mysterious benefactress had removed the threat of imminent attack.

A cheer rose up from the ranks of the Rohirrim - drowned out by the horrible screams from the other side of the river. Feminine and (wildly gleeful) elvish voices boomed over the land, drawing ever closer. Jets of coloured light flashed again and again into the darkness. More burning orbs crushed Saruman's unlucky troops, brightening the night enough for them to witness enemies crashing into each other in their panic to flee as far from the Isen as possible. One enormous uruk was spinning in circles, slashing his crude blade through the air as ear-splitting elvish laughter tinkled around him - and Elfhelm's eyes boggled as the creature's head rolled off its neck for no apparent reason.

"ENEMIES OF ROHAN! SEEK THE BLADE OF GLORFINDEL AND HE WILL DELIVER YOU A MORE MERCIFUL DEATH THAN YOU DESERVE!"

But the few orcs unlucky enough to witness their fallen comrade's mysterious demise were too busy fleeing away from the river (and the general direction of the Wicked Witch of the West) to take the elf up on his offer.

Not that that stopped the elf from following them anyway ...

Another roar of approval rose from the horse-lords (and this time, even Elfhelm joined in).

Could it be that they were saved after all? Had the Valar themselves sent them an Istar - a witch, no less - to aid them in their struggles?

A short while later, the merriment on the eastern bank was dampened when Halfreth grabbed Elfhelm's arm and drew his gaze across the river. For there, soaring towards them, was a dazzling white light. The majority of the company turned on their steeds to make a dash back across the eastern plains, alarmed at the thought their mysterious saviour had turned on them so quickly and sought to crush them all beneath her flaming orbs in kind. Only when their Marshal called out for them to maintain formation did they (reluctantly) rein in their horses and fall back into position (to await their probable doom).

"It is not an orb," called Elfhelm firmly as he watched the light bounding towards them. "Look! It is a giant ... fish ... of sorts - yet it floats above the water!"

Indeed it did. The long, glowing, elegant fish seemed to skim across the Isen without any desire to submerge itself. The Rohirrim emitted gasps and rumbles of awe as it sprang into the air upon reaching the east bank and flew gracefully, almost mischievously, above their heads for several seconds. Many was the man whose heart was lifted by its presence. Finally, it stopped cavorting in the air above them and returned to hover near the front line of their ranks. It floated gently towards the ground and seemed to balance perfectly on its tail. Large, bright eyes watched them curiously.

Elfhelm kept his own eyes on the wondrous creature as he slowly dismounted and cautiously approached it. It was not until he was a few feet from it that he realised it was not solid. Curious, he drew closer. The glowing fish seemed to consist of tightly packed mist, yet it seemed alive nonetheless. He reached out a hand to gently touch it, then jumped back in fright when it began to speak.

In two different voices.

"Good evening, my good fellows! I am the Green Witch. Well, the dolphin's not the Green Witch - he's just my Patronus ..."

"Aunt, they will not know what a ... Patronus ... is. Indeed, I do not know what one is."

"Ah, yes. Of course. Well, let's try that again. This dolphin is just a ... happy spirit ... of sorts, that I can use to send messages or fight Dementors. There is no cause for alarm when you see it - unless you actually ARE a Dementor, in which case; I hope you burn in hell ..."

"What, pray tell, is a Dementor?"

"Gracious, young man! I don't have all day to answer questions when there's a horde of screaming orcs just up the road. I'll answer them later!"

"Forgive me, Aunt."

"That's quite alright. It's only natural for you to be curious. Now, my Rohirric friends - I do hope you will not think me presumptuous for calling you 'friends' when we've not even met - I'll have to keep this short before those smelly fellows realise I'm no longer up there and start dashing back down here again. My nephew, Archibald, and I ..."

"They are not Gondorians! Cannot you introduce me as Glorfindel?"

"What the deuce is wrong with 'Archibald'? You'll have to get used to it, you know. Oh, alright. Just this once! Anyway, my nephew, Floor-kindle, and I ..."

"Floor-WHAT?"

"... are travelling to the Fords of Isen and intend to cross through your land on our way to Gondor - I hope you don't mind if we trespass - and we spotted that disgraceful excuse for an army marching ahead of us to murder you all in your beds. Naturally, we couldn't allow the ghastly misfits to get away with it, and have been attacking the smaller companies on our way south. But, you should know: there is a rather enormous battalion of the smelly blighters about two miles further up the road. Ghastly creatures seemed to come out of nowhere. We only spotted them twenty minutes ago - that is, Archibald spotted them. My eyesight isn't what it used to be, I'm afraid. Regardless: at the pace they're running, they'll be here in roughly half an hour. I'm afraid we can't stop to wait for them because our help will no doubt be needed at the Fords themselves. However, if it's any consolation, we have set a few booby traps along the ..."

"What manner of traps?"

"Will you stop interrupting me, young man? This Patronus won't last forever, you know, and I don't want to waste it. Now, where was I? Oh yes: the road. We've set a few boo ... er, traps for them - twenty-four hour quicksand, boiling tar pits, that sort of thing - along several stretches of the road, but I'm afraid it won't take care of all of them. There are simply too many. So you'll have to prepare yourselves for another confrontation with the enemy. Still, I have it from an excellent source that you Rohirrim are a strapping bunch of fellows and are well up for the challenge of a few thousand orcs. I wish you all the best and hope that Archibald and I ..."

"GLORFINDEL!!"

"... Men! Always so dashed sensitive about things. As I was saying, I hope that Floor-kindle and I have been able to lighten the load for you a little. Keep your chins up, chaps. You are a credit to your parents and your country. Cheerio!"

And with that, the graceful fish-creature evaporated.

The Rohirrim were silent for over a minute, too stunned to speak. Slowly, a murmur began in the forward line of troops as the Green Witch's words were passed backwards into the crowd of soldiers lined along the length of the eastern bank. Elfhelm was still standing, staring at the spot where the spirit-fish had delivered its message before vanishing, contemplating all that he had heard. His mind was racing and he began to pace slowly back and forth, absorbing what he had learned.

It appeared that the Men of the West had an ally unlooked for.

And a most unusual one at that.

A witch!

And not a wicked witch at all, as their foes claimed. A good witch. A green witch, with a white spirit-fish.

Green and white. The colours of Rohan.

He turned to face his company, holding up a hand to silence their increasingly loud murmurs.

"Riders of the Mark, warriors of Rohan, friends and soldiers all ..."

The murmuring slowly died as all strained to hear their Marshal.

"... we have borne much of late. The threat of Isengard looms on our western border. A fallen Istar plots our ruin and sends unnatural foes to smite us down, while his agent - one that once knew the favour of our King - now kneels at Théoden's feet to offer false counsel in service of his new master. Our Prince lies dead by the treachery of Saruman but a few leagues hence, buried on an island that our landsmen now seek to defend from further assault. Already we have fought long and hard this day to prevent an army of overwhelming force crossing the Isen, intent on bringing death to our women and children. Many have fallen, Man and Horse alike, but we have prevailed in our attempts to stem the foul tide that bleeds from the direction of Orthanc, and would sully our fair lands with its poison.

"And now, we learn that our endeavours are not yet at an end. For Saruman is not yet spent in his efforts to destroy us! Nay! He sends forth more Orcs and Uruk-hai from the bowels of his home to contend with us - to defeat us! He sends an army of innumerable size that would crush us underfoot, before sweeping the Mark to slay our families! Dark would seem this night! Blacker than is normal for the mere sinking of the sun. Wickedness is our very neighbour; treachery our trusted counsel!"

Everywhere he looked, Elfhelm saw grim faces and clenched jaws: they reflected the fury of a people betrayed.

They reflected his own face.

"But we are a hardy people! Our own ancestors survived plagues, wars and slavery to rebuild our race when all hope seemed lost! They befriended the ancestors of the Númenoreans and offered them aid in their hour of need. Eorl the Young was granted the lands we now call home for their great service, and she has given us succour in times of war, and joy in times of peace. For countless generations we have spilled blood in her service, guarded her beauty valiantly against those who cast their covetous gaze upon her! And now, she calls us to service once more! Shall we answer that call?"

The challenge was answered unanimously.

"Aye!"

"Though many have fallen this night; though many more may know the intimacy of the halls of our fathers ere the next dawn blesses her with its kiss - shall we offer her our lives to protect our children's inheritance?"

"Aye!"

"Though the Enemy seeks to deliver our doom with a final, savage, blow? With an army greater in number than we could have imagined even in our darkest dreams?"

"AYE!"

The Marshal nodded in approval.

"True of heart are you, my brothers! There is no other who can match the honour of the Men of Rohan!" he declared firmly as his men thudded their spears repetitively on the ground in appreciation of his words.

He held his hand up again to still their gratitude, before continuing.

"Or is there? For the night which has witnessed our most desperate struggle has also delivered to us our greatest friends! Two strangers who came to our aid, though we did not seek it. Strangers who risked their own lives to spare ours, though they know us not! We are at least familiar with one of their kind: the Elf named ..."

Elfhelm paused. What in the name of Helm's mighty hammer had been the elf's actual name? His experience with the Firstborn was limited (in fact, it was non-existent) and they knew so little of the histories of those peoples. He had never been able to get his tongue around their flowery titles. Giving a mental shrug, he chose the one the witch had used most.

"... the Elf named Archibald. We may not know him in person, but mighty are the Firstborn in battle! Noble are they in deed and word! Always have they seemed to us as a race apart: favoured and blessed by the very Valar themselves. Immortal, wise and fair, yet little concerned with the matters of Men! Yet, this very night, we heard one of their own declare death to the enemies of Rohan on our behalf! His blade has shed the blood of Saruman's filth, that we may be spared the threat from theirs! His gift of sight gave us warning of the danger which approaches us with every passing second - and the chance to prepare for it! This night, we learned that the matters of Men - the matters of Rohan - are not of little import to these most blessed of beings. Praise the Valar for our noble Elven allies! Praise the Valar for Archibald the Elf!"

"Archibald! Archibald! Archibald!" chanted the mass of riders with passion.

Glorfindel would have been devastated.

"And with him," continued Elfhelm, "is a wonder that none of us could have imagined: a female Maia! An Istar in the guise of an old woman. One whom our Enemy calls the Wicked Witch of the West! But I tell you this: if she is wicked in their eyes, then she is good in ours! Green she names her colour. White was the beauteous spirit-fish she sent to warn us. Are these not the very colours of Rohan itself?"

"Aye!"

"And did we not hear her warn our foes to disband in order to ..."

Elfhelm couldn't stop the chuckle.

"... in order to return to Isengard and beg their master for a hot bath?"

A roar of laughter greeted his inquiry, and Elfhelm was glad to hear it. The memory of her words would hearten his men before what would, for some, be the final battle.

"We saw with our own eyes the flaming orbs she sent soaring through the sky to crash into his minions. We heard with our own ears the fear and rage she instils in Orc and Uruk alike. We may deduce from her own words that she somehow engaged and bested Saruman the traitor in battle. So great is the dark Wizard's fear of her now, that his soldiers would abandon their posts in an effort to bring him the comfort of her lifeless corpse!"

There was a cheer of approval from the camp.

"And now she rides to the aid of our brethren at the Fords of Isen, in the esteemed company of Archibald the Elf, to visit her wrath upon our enemies there. I know not what we could have done to garner favour from such a one, but I thank the Valar for sending her to us. Praise the Valar for the Green Witch of Rohan! The Shield-Witch of Rohan!"

"Shield-Witch! Shield-Witch! Shield-Witch!" shouted the riders, banging their spears in approval once more.

The sight and sound of hope rang through the Rohirric camp once more as Elfhelm approached his faithful steed and swiftly mounted the horse.

Whatever happened that night, however many lived or nay; he knew that with allies as formidable as the Green Witch and Archibald, Saruman's days were numbered.

*~*~*~*

Exactly one hour after despatching the dolphin Patronus, Augusta was still following the sound of her dashing companion's galloping horse across the flat, grassy plains as they raced towards the Fords of Isen.

What an adventurous day she was having! Who would have thought that blasting the mindless minions of Isengard into oblivion could be so ... invigorating? Despite the fact that it was well past her bedtime, she wasn't bothered in the slightest at having to forego the pleasure of her (not very effective) beauty sleep; not when she had the chance to scupper the tyrannical machinations of the silliest wizard she'd ever met. In fact, the thought of the look on Saruman's face if he found out that she and her adopted nephew had been causing havoc among his well-ordered (but disgracefully malodorous) troops for the past eight hours was enough to make her smile.

And who would have thought that her splendidly-mannered, genteel companion was such a dab hand with a sword? Why, he must have laid ruin to almost a hundred orcs already!

"You are terribly efficient with that blade of yours, young man," she commented as they raced through the starlit night towards their next destination. "I've never seen one person dispose of so many others without the aid of a wand, before ..."

Although, now that she thought about it, she hadn't actually seen him dispose of anyone either - he was still under the Disillusionment charm.

"... you must have relieved at least a hundred of the horrible creatures of their miserable existences!"

"One hundred and thirty eight, if I am not mistaken," stated Glorfindel with savage delight. The elf had not had so much fun in battle since ... well, ever, actually. There was a lot to be said for invisibility (he had briefly debating remaining in this state for the rest of his natural life - the possibilities for teasing the twin sons of Elrond and the rather staid Erestor were endless. But then he remembered that he was immortal, and thought the better of it). "And seven Wargs, also."

Ah, yes: Wargs. If they weren't the most ridiculous excuses for horses that she'd ever seen! All that wiry hair and rows of sharp yellow teeth - they rather reminded her of Goyle Sr, (but with four legs). And they were vicious enough to be related to the stupid man, too! Snapping, snarling and spitting as if they couldn't wait to sink their gnashers into a prime bit of Rohan beefsteak. Of course, quite a few of them would be deprived of that sadistic pleasure, now that she'd Transfigured them (and their ugly riders) into mountain goats - then delicately averted her gaze as the remaining wargs spotted them and promptly ripped them to pieces.

"Splendid work, young man! No doubt you will soon have the opportunity to add to that impressive figure once we reach the Fords," exclaimed the elderly witch (sounding rather like a battle-hardened general).

"We may not have to wait much longer, Aunt. Already I see the next battalion of Saruman's forces less than a half-mile away. The Fords are not much farther ahead of them ..."

His voice trailed off for a few seconds and she knew he was raising himself up in the stirrups to gaze as far into the night as he could. How very handy that she had a guide with such excellent eyesight! It really was proving to be quite the advantage, because he often spotted their next targets long before they were within firing range - which gave her plenty of time to prepare the burning boulders for launch.

"The battle at the Fords is begun! Ai, Elbereth! There are thousands of the Enemy scattered across the banks already! The cavalry before us must be the rear guard racing to join those already attacking the Rohirrim!"

Oh, dear. Several thousand? One witch and a bloodthirsty (but splendidly-mannered) nephew would not be enough to stop that lot!

Not that it would stop them trying ...

"Gracious! How are our horsey friends faring?"

"Not well. Their numbers are not nearly as great - they struggle to keep the Orcs back from the forts which guard the banks ... nay! They are now being engaged in battle! Saruman's servants are attacking the forts ... they have already crossed the water! The island is taken ... wait! The Rohirrim fight valiantly on the eastern bank, but they will be crushed ere long!"

Crushed? Not if Augusta Longbottom had anything to say about it (and she had plenty to say about it)! She had come to think of the Rohirrim as something akin to splendidly-dentured, brawny Australians (she couldn't wait to meet one) and, as such, it was her duty as a (magical) subject of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II to dash to the aid of her beleaguered Commonwealth brethren!

"Well, then. I think it's time you and I set about doing a little crushing of our own, don't you think?" she asked, patting her bottomless pockets.

Glorfindel heard the rattle of stones and grinned enthusiastically. "Indeed! Come, Aunt Augusta. Let us give the hordes of Isengard a night to remember once more!"

With that, they rode off towards the next battalion of unsuspecting brutes.

*~*~*~*

The first burning boulder crashed into Saruman's finest a mere ten minutes later.

And it wasn't only orcs and uruk-hai who went fleeing from the devastation they caused: screaming, swarthy, axe-wielding men in shabby dark tunics followed right behind their ugly brothers-in-arms as flames licked through the once tightly-packed ranks of the company.

She already knew from Floor-kindle that they were Dunlendings, or wildmen, from the lands west of Rohan; traditional enemies of the horse-lords. But it still filled her with disgust that any man - foe or not - could throw in their lot with beings as unnatural as orcs, uruk-hai and wargs.

Well. Men or not, the Dunlendings had made their bed, and now they were jolly well going to have to lie in it! And, although her innate sense of humanity dictated that she not aim for them with deliberate intent, if the stupid fellows happened to get in the way of one of her curses, then they only had themselves to blame for having such poor taste in bedfellows, didn't they?

With that in mind, she followed the trail of headless corpses and limbless wounded that Floor-kindle left in his wake (her nephew was having far too much fun for it to be healthy - perhaps she should have a little chat with him later, just to assure herself that she hadn't created a monster?), knowing that he was never far out of her reach. Celebrithil nimbly dodged the fleeing fiends that bled from the main cavalry as her rider's boulders crashed again and again into the heart of their ranks.

The curses and spells flew thick and fast (and ear-splittingly loud) from her lips as she neared the battlefield proper. Six goats with crude helmets strapped to their heads ran braying towards the distant mountains in an effort to flee the carnage. Well-aimed Reductos and Defodios carved deep gashes into the ground, sending orcs and men flying in every direction. A sudden flash of lightning struck multiple targets and fried them in their boots - the smell of roasting flesh attracted a pack of wargs and soon, flash-fried orc was the dish of the day at the Café de la Isen.

"TASTE THE MITHRIL OF AN ELVEN BLADE, ENEMIES OF ROHAN!" yelled her blissfully happy foster-nephew from somewhere in the distance. "FEEL THE WRATH OF GONDOLIN AND IMLADRIS FAIR AS IT CARVES THEIR ANGER ON YOUR BLACKENED HEARTS!"

Oh dear! She had created a monster. Elrond might be a tad upset with her when she returned a manic serial-killer in place of his sweet-tempered friend. Poor Floor-kindle would have to be carted off to that long-stay unit in Valinor for some intensive healing. He might even find himself sharing a room with Elrond's mother - or his wife (which might upset her former host even more)! The little chat with her travelling companion was beginning to look more necessary as the day wore on.

However, she wasn't able to have a word in his poor, deformed ear for quite some time. The elderly witch was far too busy trying to lighten the burden on her (probably dashing) Rohirric friends. She Blasted and Stunned for over two hours from the relative safety of one of the small hills at the edge of the battlefield, stopping occasionally to deflect waves of arrows aimed in her general direction. The enemy forces had been vainly attempting to fight back ever since she launched her one-woman assault (Floor-kindle having left for the battlefield proper a while ago to wreak his own brand of havoc directly in their midst - she could hear his gleeful yells from the hilltop). One small group of about twenty uruk-hai and Dunlendings had actually isolated her location and made a rather foolish dash towards the hill. For ten short minutes she was under attack from fire-tipped arrows as they attempted to scale the hill and slay their invisible enemy.

Unfortunately for them, her Shield charm protected her effectively. What's more, they only made it half way up the hill before she sent them all crashing back down with the aid of burning rocks (which were quickly becoming her weapon of choice. They were so versatile! One could throw them in the air, or roll them down an incline. How very handy).

But no matter how hard Augusta tried, for every foe she incapacitated, there were at least another dozen to take his place. The night wore on and she became more and more exhausted with her efforts. Her eyes stung, her throat was raw from yelling and cursing and she knew she must look a terrible fright (the only comfort was that none could witness her state of great unkemptness, Disillusioned as she was).

A loud wave of orcish roars bellowed off to her left and she stopped hurling boulders long enough to follow the sound with her eyes. To her dismay, it became clear that the island in the middle of the Isen was overrun. Saruman's unnatural army had swept onto the east bank and were attacking what appeared to be a ring of wooden shields.

The Rohirrim!

In a desperate attempt to stop any more orcs crossing the river, she abandoned the hill and raced across the battlefield itself on Celebrithil, hurling boulders as near to the banks of the Isen as she dared. Even Floor-kindle had been silent for a while, though she could still hear his occasional grunt of exertion when he felled another enemy.

But, inevitably, the edge of the battlefield began to shrink away from her as the overwhelming force of enemies finally succeeded in overthrowing the inferior numbers of Rohirrim, and Saruman's army surged its way passed the ever-nearing forts. She watched in dismay as they followed the first wave over the stepping stones in the Isen and across the island towards the Westemnet. Another roar of victory followed in their wake and the clanging of multiple swordfights rang through the night air when they encountered the last desperate defence of mounted riders.

The battle thereafter was short.

Within half an hour, the huge horde of chanting, baying orcs had completely crossed to the eastern bank and reformed into neat, orderly ranks as they charged out of sight.

For almost a minute, the silence that followed their departure seemed deafening to Augusta's ears. Eventually, they were filled with the rushing sound of the wind that blew over the plains. The wind carried the stench of fire and death with it, forcing her to cast a Bubble-Head charm in order to breath without retching. She cautiously navigated Celebrithil over the corpse-strewn plain, sidestepping craters (caused mainly by her boulders) and passing through clouds of thick smoke until they came to a halt by the ruins of one of the earthen forts. Bodies of orcs and men littered the ground beside it.

Dismounting, the elderly witch carefully picked her way over grass slick with blood. A few of Saruman's (now even smellier) servants were strewn lifelessly near the fort, but the main bulk of the dead were Rohirrim. Silver tunics were smeared red, ugly arrows protruded from chest wounds and not one of the poor chaps showed even the smallest bit of life. She spotted a hint of yellow-gold under the corpse of a hulking uruk sprawled by the base of the fort. Moving across to it, she Levitated the creature away and revealed the body of a glassy-eyed young man. In one hand, he still gripped the wooden green shield he had used to protect his body from enemy blows, and upon it was the running figure of a white horse. But it was not a blow to his chest that had killed him, in the end. It was the black-shafted arrow lodged deep in his neck.

Sighing, she placed her hand over his eyes and closed the lids with her fingers.

It was not how she had pictured meeting her first Rohirrim.

"AUNT AUGUSTA! MY LADY LONGBOTTOM - SHOW YOURSELF!"

Floor-kindle's cry of concern almost made her leap out of her sensibly-heeled shoes.

Dash it all! Did he have to shout?

Oh, yes: he did. The poor fellow was still under the effects of the Sonorus, after all.

Augusta gave the dead Rohirrim soldier a gentle pat on the cheek, then lifted herself up before moving back to Celebrithil. She briefly debated calling out with her enhanced voice, but her throat was too raw. Raising her wand to it, she whispered a Quietus, then lifted the Disillusionment charm from both herself and the pretty grey mare, before shooting red sparks into the air. It would not be long before Floor-kindle's excellent vision allowed him to locate her now.

"There now, my brave lady," she croaked as she stroked Celebrithil's flowing mane (after removing the Bubble-Head charm - the horse was trying to nibble it off with her teeth). "Haven't you been a good girl today, hmm? All that fighting and shouting and blasting going on all around you - and not a word of complaint!"

Celebrithil whickered softly, nudging the witch's neck with her velvety nose.

"Yes, I know. I was doing most of the blasting and shouting. But if it's any consolation, I think I may be losing my voice. So you may very well have some peace and quiet for the next few days. What do you say to that?"

The horse said nothing to that.

"Ah. Pretending you're shy, are you? Well, let's see if I can coax a word or two with the help of a carrot."

She stepped round to the saddlebags and fished inside one until her hand closed over a treat. She pulled out an apple, stepped back to the horse and offered it to her. Her mount whickered happily and was soon crunching on the juicy fruit.

"AUNT! YOU ARE SAFE!"

Although she was expecting the arrival of her dashing, serial-killer nephew, the volume still made her jump.

"Gracious, young man!" she rasped, "are you trying to give me heart failure? Where are you - no! Don't tell me! Give me your hand. Ah, there you are. One moment: Quietus."

It was a relief to hear his musical voice return to its proper volume.

"Are you well? Your voice is laboured - have you taken a hurt?"

"No, my good fellow. I am perfectly healthy. Simply exhausted. Now, let me lift that Disillusionment charm - no need for it now, after all."

She fumbled up the length of his arm until she identified his head, then rapped it smartly with her wand. Within a few seconds, her newest (and only) nephew stood before her. The elderly witch surveyed him critically: his shining blond hair was a little dishevelled and his white robes streaked with dirt, but there were no apparent injuries (much to her relief). His handsome face was smiling down at her without a care in the world.

"I am well, Aunt," he said warmly, lifting his arms to envelop her in a hug.

Completely taken by surprise, Augusta allowed him to embrace her for several seconds before he released her to offer his arm.

"Come, you are fatigued. You must rest."

Rest? Where the deuce were they supposed to rest on this pock-marked, smoke-filled, body-strewn plain?

She took a deep breath (to recover her equilibrium after her close encounter of the affectionate kind) before setting her features into their usual look of faint disapproval.

"Perhaps it would be a better idea if I buried some of these poor Rohirrim first," she said, letting her gaze wander over the lifeless forms strewn between the forts and the riverbank. "I simply can't bear to know they're lying forgotten out here, while I'm tucked up safely in my bedroll and having a quick forty winks."

To her surprise, Floor-kindle's voice was unusually firm.

"Nay. You will take my arm and allow me to lead you to the shelter beyond yonder hills."

He pointed towards the small hills she had used earlier as a vantage point, before continuing:

"There we may find some rest from our endeavours this day."

"Now, wait just a minute, young ma ..."

"I will brook no arguments, my Lady!" he chided, using his former mode of address to command her attention (and thoroughly annoying her into the bargain). "The Men of Rohan that lay on this plain are beyond our aid now. They would not begrudge you a night's sleep after your efforts on their behalf. The dawn will bring their brethren to tend to them; such is always the way."

"But there are far too many dead for them to bury alone!" she protested with a croak.

Glorfindel gazed at her in an unnervingly calm manner.

"If there are too many for them, then there are certainly too many for you."

"But I am a witch ..."

"One who is greatly fatigued."

"I could have them buried within an hour or two ..."

"You will be senseless within an hour or two."

"Are you calling me an idiot?"

"Nay - but no doubt I shall within an hour or two, if I have to carry your unconscious form half a mile across the plain because you did not heed my plea to rest."

Augusta huffed and took his arm.

"You may count yourself very lucky that I didn't bring my handbag with me, young man."

"And why is that, Aunt?" he asked (smirking - which annoyed her again).

"Because if I had, I would have clobbered you with it."

Now the elf chuckled softly.

"If you have such a strong desire to 'clobber' me, you need only magic another of the flaming orbs to strike me down."

"Don't be ridiculous. I couldn't do that ..."

"I am glad to hear it," interrupted the elf, leading her back across the plain to the hills.

"... because you're standing far too close to me! I might very well flatten myself into the bargain. Or burn the coat off my back!"

"Your concern for my well-being is touching."

"You are a fussy young scallywag."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

And with that, they walked the rest of the way across the pock-marked plain towards their resting place, where Asfaloth silently awaited them.

*~*~*~*

Shortly before dawn, Erkenbrand, Lord of the Deeping-coomb, held up a hand to halt the two hundred strong company of riders that had followed him back to the Fords of Isen. By rights, he should be racing across the Westfold to the various small towns and villages, rounding up more riders to send to the defence of Helm's Deep. It was the first place Saruman's foul minions would strike at if they succeeded in crushing the resistance at the Fords.

But that was before his vision-dream.

He had never considered himself far-sighted before. In fact, not once in all the years of his life had the robust Rohirrim experienced a dream more unsettling than that which had visited him during the brief nap he had stolen yester-noon (apart from the time when he dreamt he was wed to an orc in a bright yellow dress - the memory of it still made him nauseous). It was as if a gentle voice had called him to return to the place he had left in the hands of Grimbold the day before. Over and over the voice called to him, urging him to revisit the Fords before taking his men to Helm's Deep. So insistent had it been, that when he awoke, he did not question its authority. To the bemusement of the riders he had gathered thus far, he commanded them all to join him on his journey to the Fords and they had spent the hours since riding to Grimbold's defence.

But when they arrived, the Fords were deserted.

Not only that, but it was clear a great battle had taken place - and that the Rohirrim had not been victorious.

His mare, Windlyft (one of the few black horses they had managed to save from Sauron's raids), carried him across the fords in the river to the small island. A few orcish corpses were floating lifelessly in the Isen, but they were outnumbered two to one by the dead Rohirrim who had fallen in defence of the island itself. Green shields had been hacked by orcish axes, Rohirric blood shed by orcish blades and arrows - some of the men looked as if they had been savaged by beasts. Great claw marks raked the faces of at least two blond horsemen, their necks ripped apart by massive jaws.

It could only mean one thing: wargs!

The tall man sneered in disgust. Curse the filth of Saruman! When he found the unnatural wolves of Isengard, he would see to it that they were skewered upon the spears of Rohan and roasted on open spits!

He raised his eyes and gazed across the water to the Enedwaith. Thick plumes of smoke were rising from smouldering rocks all over the eastern plain. Small fires were burning in their wakes, as if the rocks had crashed and rolled after being hurled - through the air?

Nay, that could not be. Could it? Had Saruman despatched some new weapon to throw fire-rocks at them?

It was a worrying thought.

However, as his gaze skimmed the battlefield, he observed that not one of the giant boulders were anywhere near the Rohirric forts.

It was a puzzle. If the traitorous Istar had the weapons to wield such destruction, why had his forces not used them to crush the forts before taking the island?

His gaze slipped over the remains of the fallen and he frowned at the deep gouges in the earth, then scratched his head as his eyes spotted half a dozen goat corpses, before finally gasping in shock as - two hundred yards away - his gaze locked on several decapitated uruk-hai ...

... floating upside-down in mid-air.

Mearas' mane! What in the name of Helm Hammerhand had happened this night?

"Éobard! Guthwini!" he barked, and two of the riders who had joined him on the island rode across to meet him. "Take a dozen of the riders and gather our fallen. Do them the honour of burying them by the Prince's mound, if it has not been defiled by the enemy. Hafold, you and the others will fol ..."

"My lord Erkenbrand!" cried one of the other men. "Riders approach from the north!"

Spears were being grabbed and pointed before he even had the chance to turn around. Two hundred men formed a circle of shields to defend their leader from the new threat, but the precaution was unnecessary. The riders were of their own kind.

"Who goes there?" called Erkenbrand, shouldering his great red shield and pushing his way through the troops to watch the small group of riders stop and dismount.

"Is that Erkenbrand, Lord of the Westfold? I thought you to be half-way across the Westemnet, lord!" cried a familiar voice.

"It is I, Grimbold," Erkenbrand replied as the Marshal stepped down the east bank and waded through the water until he stood before him on the island. "I mean still to journey thus, but not yet. Why have you returned?"

"The Men of my company and I come to bury our fallen."

"This is all that is left of your companies?" he demanded in shock, surveying the fifty riders across the water.

"Nay. Forgive me. I meant to say that some have returned with me. I have ordered the rest - over six hundred strong - to remain by the eaves of Fangorn until I return."

A wave of relief swept through Erkenbrand. Windlyft pawed the earth as he studied the man before him. Grimbold was of middling years, a hardy warrior and a cunning leader. Together with Elfhelm, he had already successfully defended the Fords from an onslaught by Saruman's agents. This was the main reason Erkenbrand had left the two men in charge of the defences a second time - though this time, it would appear that they had not been as successful.

"You look greatly fatigued, Grimbold," said the taller man sympathetically.

"The battle was long and hard, lord. We were attacked at noon yesterday, but held out until sunset before we had to retreat to the eastern bank. But an hour after midnight, a battalion of Saruman's Orcs forced the crossing and surrounded us. It was another hour later before we were able to retreat. Alas, that we had to abandon the Fords! But we lost many Men - almost one-third the company."

One-third of the company? That was three hundred men! The news was enough to shake the brawny leader to his core.

"Though," continued Grimbold, "I believe that it would have been nearer half, were it not for the trials our cursed foes were experiencing on the western bank."

That caught Erkenbrand's attention.

"Would these 'trials' have aught to do with those?" he enquired, twisting in his seat and pointing a finger at the bizarrely suspended uruk-hai on the other side of the river.

"Helm's hammer! That I did not notice before! I tell you, Erkenbrand, had I not been engaged in battle, I would gladly have stood and watched the happenings yonder! But what I did see was enough to puzzle me greatly. Our enemies were under attack from behind by a ... nay, perhaps I was mistaken! Yet, it sounded as if ..."

Grimbold trailed off, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. A dozen of the men who had accompanied Erkenbrand across the river crowded around them, jostling the newcomer and waiting to hear what he had to say.

"Did I not give orders to bury the dead?" snapped their commander, causing a flurry of activity as they all departed to deal with their duties.

"Now, tell me: what is it you thought you heard?"

The older man looked up, almost apologetically, before saying:

"A woman. I thought I heard a woman's voice screaming at the Enemy. And not just a woman, but an Elf, also."

"A woman?" barked Erkenbrand in disbelief. It was loud enough for all activity within a ten metre radius to cease. He peered into Grimbold's eyes, expecting to see wide black pupils that would indicate the ageing man had taken a blow to the head, but Grimbold's eyes were as clear and grey as ever.

"You are certain, Grimbold? Perhaps it was no more than the screams of the dying? You and I both know how piercing they are. Perhaps it was some of your riders, flanking the Enemy in secret and attacking from behind? They may have been discovered, then slaughtered for their bravery?"

"Nay, Erkenbrand," insisted his subordinate. "I was not the only one who heard her. Every archer on the front line heard her, also. We heard her call them - you will laugh, I am certain - but she seemed rather distressed at their unkempt appearance. She yelled at them for being 'thoroughly disgraceful' and 'abominably malodorous'. She claimed she would 'sterilise the stink from their unwashed hides'. I had no idea what she meant by that, but it was not long after when the flaming orbs began to crash amidst their rear ranks. Coloured lights shot across the battlefield and ... I saw a Warg turn into a goat. And his rider with him! Two small goats - one in orcish garb - fleeing for their lives towards the White Mountains! I know not if they made it."

Erkenbrand did. He had spotted their corpses not five minutes before. But he was not wont to elaborate - and neither would he have had the chance. Grimbold was possessed with a manic need to relate every extraordinary thing he had seen or heard between his own clashes with the enemy forces.

"And did I tell you of the Elf? His voice was like a war song, calling out his wrath in Rohan's name! Many enemies came limbless across the Isen that did not engage our infantry. Dunlendings and Orcs, bleeding from stumps and begging their kindred's aid! I suspect many more lie dead on the Enedwaith by his blade alone!"

"Do you mean to say that the Enemy was under attack by a lone Elf and a woman?" asked the Lord of the Westfold incredulously.

Grimbold lifted his head, straightened his shoulders and looked his superior officer straight in the eye.

"I mean to say that I think they were under attack by a mighty Elven warrior and a ... a Sorceress."

The older man's speculation seemed so ludicrous that Erkenbrand threw back his head and laughed. It was several minutes before he could compose himself enough to respond to his (rather irate-looking) subordinate.

"Forgive me, old friend. I thought I heard you say 'Sorceress'!"

He chuckled again.

Grimbold was not amused.

"You heard correctly, lord. I did say 'Sorceress'. I have thought long and hard about what I saw and heard this night. I thought at first as you did: that perhaps some of our forces had crept up behind the Enemy. But all of my Riders were accounted for - even the dead. Then I speculated that perhaps Elfhelm had succeeded in overthrowing the Enemy forces farther north, then crossed to the west bank to flank the battalions which attacked us. I even sent one of my swiftest Riders north to check this, but he returned with an arrow in his shoulder and told me that Elfhelm's companies are under a siege of their own! And even had it been his or my forces on the Enedwaith - no Rohirrim can make rocks fly through the sky! No mere Man can cause a creature to change his shape! Not even the mightiest Elven Lord can make lightning flash again and again over Enemy heads - and only over Enemy heads! There is no other explanation for the power we witnessed. There was a Sorceress in yonder plain - and she may yet be there; for none of my Riders have seen her leave to follow the Orcs!"

So adamant was the greying man, so earnest his tone and so direct was his gaze, that Erkenbrand found his own eyes wandering west.

Could it be? Could there be a sorceress on the Enedwaith, watching them all this very minute? But the idea was so preposterous! Yet, what else could she be? Grimbold was right: no man or elven lord could cast burning rocks into the sky. Only an Istar had the power to achieve such a feat.

Or the sorceress from beyond Fangorn!

That was it! The solution to the puzzle - the elf witch from the Dwimordene had left her enchanted land to come to the aid of Rohan!

Hmm.

Even to him, that sounded ridiculous. Why would she leave her magic forest to help a people who were wary of her? All in Rohan knew of her existence, for her forest was just beyond the northern borders of the Wold, but none dared venture near it. It was said that those who entered the Golden Wood were never seen again. She would never leave the safety of her realm - accompanied by a single warrior - to come to the defence of a people who had always been suspicious of her.

Yet, what other explanation could there be? She was the only sorceress in Middle Earth.

Deciding that there had been enough speculation, the mighty Lord of the Westfold came to a decision: if the elven sorceress had decided (for reasons known only to herself and her companion) that she would like nothing better than to leave her haunted forest (merely to haunt the steps of his enemy) then the least he could do was find out why.

"I find that I am now in accordance with your thoughts, Grimbold," he said softly, tapping his chin with a long finger.

Grimbold sighed in relief.

"Furthermore, I want you to send one of your fastest Riders to Edoras with news of the day's happenings - including the intervention of the Sorceress and her mysterious companion."

"Aye, lord. It shall be done."

"As for me, I will be taking a short trip across the Isen."

"You intend to seek them out?" asked Grimbold cautiously.

"Indeed. I shall sound the horn of friendship and see if they reply; for if they fought on our behalf, we owe them our thanks. Or did you not say that you could have lost half your forces without their intervention?"

"That is so, lord."

"Then my mind is made up. Go, see to your Riders. They should follow after me in one half hour if they wish still to bury our dead. My own troops shall assist you when they have finished their grim task here. And whether or not I find this Sorceress, we shall rally all remaining forces together, seek out any other we may find, then ride to Helm's Deep this night. If Saruman's Orcs march down the Westemnet, then it shall be their first point of attack. We must aid those that guard it, lest they be overwhelmed and crushed!"

With that, he left the lesser Marshal to carry out his orders, spoke a few commands to his captain, Hafold, then navigated Windlyft across the fords towards the western bank.

Five minutes later, his trusty mare had him safely ensconced on the western plain and carried him past the earthen forts strewn with the bodies of his landsmen. As much as he wanted to stop and honour the fallen, he did not. They would already know honour in the halls of their fathers, and Hafold and his other men would be along soon enough to see to a proper burial for their ruined bodies.

By the time he was far enough into the battlefield for his own satisfaction, the sun had already started to rise in the east. Its rays soon flooded the plain with light, allowing him a clearer view of his surroundings. There were deep furrows in the earth where boulders had smashed into the grass then rolled several metres before stopping. The grass itself was burnt to a crisp.

As were hundreds of orcs and hillmen.

He passed the floating uruk-hai corpses, giving them a wide berth. By the Valar, but they reeked of foulness and death! 'Twas no wonder the elven sorceress had been so disgusted by them!

A few yards later, he reined Windlyft to a halt. Taking the horn from his shoulder, he took a deep breath and blew into it. A long, sweet, clear note boomed across the plain, inviting friendly ears to harken to its call and join him if they wished.

At least, he hoped they found it inviting - if they were yet present amidst this carnage of war.

He only had to wait five minutes to discover that Grimbold's speculation was correct. Two riders appeared from behind the small hills to his right and made good speed towards him. In less than two minutes they were close enough for him make out their features. The taller, stately figure was male. He was garbed in a silvery white tunic and a long white cloak, his golden hair spilled gracefully over his shoulders, and his face shone with the fairness akin to all Elvenkind. But as impressive as the regal elf was, it was the figure next to him that caused Erkenbrand's jaw to drop ...

Mearas' mane! Was that an old woman?

Unable to do anything but gape, he watched as the (decidedly un-elvish) female trotted contentedly next to her stately companion, looking for all the world as if she had every right to be there. She was clearly not as accomplished on horseback as her elven friend (her seat was a little too stiff), but her back was as straight and proud as his. Unlike him, her face was lined with the age of mortals, and her steel-grey hair was swept away from her face (apart from the strands sticking up wildly at the back - he wondered absently if she was aware of that).

They approached him on their (very impressive) elven steeds, drawing them to a halt a few feet away.

"Good morning to you, young man! Tell me: are you a Rohirrim?" came the polite enquiry from the old woman.

What an extraordinary first question! What else would he be? Middle Earth's best-looking orc?

"Yes, Aunt, he is. Do you not recall that I said it was a Rohirric horn that called us?"

"Oh, of course. You'll have to excuse me, my good fellow, but I'm never at my most alert first thing in the morning - at least, not for the first five seconds. After that, I'm as sharp as I always am!"

Erkenbrand was speechless. Had the elf just called her 'aunt'? How could that be? It was obvious to any fool that they were not of the same race! Unless the sorceress in the Golden Wood was so ancient, that even she could not defy the touch of time upon her face!

Remembering that he had called out to them, he shook his mind free of idle speculation and spoke.

"Greetings, my Lady, my Lord. I am Erkenbrand, Lord of the Westfold of Rohan," he said, offering a polite nod.

"Mae Govannen, Erkenbrand," said the elf, smiling in greeting. "I am called ..."

"Archibald," interrupted the woman.

"... Glorfindel of Imladris, which you may know better as Rivendell," finished the elf firmly (with a touch of colour to his cheeks). "And this is my ..."

He cocked an eyebrow at the woman, who cocked one right back at him, before continuing.

"... this is my Aunt Augusta, also known as the Green Witch."

His aunt! The elf had said it himself - the woman was his aunt. And a witch, no less!

But what a strange name she had! Was it elvish? She did not look like an elvish witch. Her ears were as rounded as any Child of Men's. And she was significantly smaller than her nephew - in fact, she was the smallest woman he had ever met! He would be surprised if she reached the height of his chest (he was almost seven feet tall).

Unable to pronounce her (in his opinion) very strange name (what was it again - Orc-hurter?), Erkenbrand stuck with what was polite.

"I am honoured to meet you, Green Witch, Lord Glorfindel," he said, nodding one more. "Though I would that it were in happier circumstance and in fairer place, given what has passed this night."

He indicated the grim plain with a wave of his hand, then addressed them once more.

"I am led to believe that you both were present for the battle which took place here not a few hours since?"

"That is correct, young man!" stated the old woman firmly. "You weren't here yourself?"

"Nay. I was abroad gathering more Riders to lead to the Deeping-coomb. But my Marshal, Grimbold, was here. He suspects that we owe a great debt of service to you both. Indeed, he claims that you saved the lives of many of our soldiers yester-eve. Is this true?"

"Well, we certainly did our best," replied the Green Witch primly. "Though I'm afraid we weren't able to save the poor chaps at the forts. Those ghastly orcs had already been at them by the time we arrived."

Erkenbrand's eyebrows shot up. "You have been to the forts?"

"Yes, my good man. Last night - well, very early this morning. After the battle was over. I had to free one of your men from underneath an enormous uruk who'd landed on top of him. Of course, the poor boy was already dead when he was flattened, but it didn't seem right to leave him underneath that smelly blighter."

His eyebrows shot up further. The little woman did not look capable of lifting her hand, never mind a fully grown uruk.

"That was most considerate of you, Lady. Please accept my gratitude for the service. I hope you did not injure yourself in the endeavour?"

At first, she looked a little confused by his question, but then he saw her face lighten in understanding.

"Gracious, no! I didn't lift the ghastly creature with my own two hands! I used my wand."

"Beg pardon: wand?"

She nodded, pulling a slim cylinder of wood from her pocket and waving it over his shoulder. He twisted his head and looked over his shoulder just in time to see the suspended uruk-hai drop to the ground.

"Yes. My wand. I use it to perform magic. I believe you chaps are more familiar with the word 'staff', but it's basically the same thing. I do apologise about leaving those grim fellows hanging like that, but I hadn't the time to drop them last night. Too much happening, you know. They were actually alive when I 'swept the rug out' from under them, but my nephew couldn't resist the easy targets and, well, they sort of lost their heads a few minutes later. Very Marie Antoinette. You have heard of Marie Antoinette, haven't you? Terribly fond of cake, she was. A pleasure which helped to kill her in the end, ironically."

Marie who?

The Rohirrim returned his wide-eyed gaze to the little old lady. "No apology is required of you for the service of slaying our Enemy, my Lady. But, might I enquire as to why you intervened in the battle on Rohan's behalf? Please do not misunderstand me: regardless of its unfortunate outcome, we are most grateful. I merely wondered what would bring you so near the Gap in these dark times and why you would stay to fight in a battle that was not of your making - one where you were so clearly outnumbered?"

To his surprise, the elf and the woman shared a smile.

"We have business in Gondor. Passing through the Gap was the swiftest way to reach Minas Tirith," replied the elf. "The battle was underway when we arrived at the Fords - a battle which was not of your making either, mellon nin. It was that of the traitor Wizard, Saruman. As he is as much our Enemy as yours, we could not pass by without intervening on your behalf."

He was astounded by their generosity. A high-born warrior-elf and a witch - a little old woman - coming to the aid of his land, merely because they shared a common foe?

"I admit to astonishment," he confessed. "And delight, also, for I see you have slain a goodly number of the faithless Wizard's ranks. Were it not for your joint effort, there would be many more of Saruman's unnatural spawn stealing across our lands to raze our villages to the ground!"

The witch cast her sharp blue eyes over the battlefield and huffed.

"Yes, well. I suspect the majority of the slaying was down to Archibald ..."

"Glorfindel! We are not in Gondor yet, Aunt!"

"Oh, do stop pouting! It really doesn't become you, you know. How many times have I told you that you'll have to get used to the name? Or do you want the good people of Gondor to think ill of us both? As I was saying; Archibald is rather a dab hand with a sword. Quite the master carver, actually. How many did you send to the afterlife this time, young man?"

Erkenbrand had a very strange urge to laugh as they bickered with each other. What a strange pair they were! The elf looked like he could easily snap his aunt in two, and the aunt looked as if she would rap his knuckles with her staff if he made the foolish attempt. Yet there was an undeniable (if very peculiar) bond between them. For all their sniping, the elf still hovered close to the witch protectively as she bullied him into accepting a truly hideous title (for some unknown reason). As for the woman, she reached over the small space which separated them to dust some dirt from his sleeve, before patting his arm in satisfaction.

The elf stopped glaring long enough to answer her question.

"I lost count after one hundred. But that does not include the wounded."

"Show off," replied the Green Witch with unmistakable fondness. It made the elf smile.

"Yet you slew more than I with your spells, Aunt. You easily equalled my count with the flame-rocks alone!"

"Well, those 'flame-rocks' needn't have slain any, if the stupid fellows had left when I warned them. But, idiots rarely take the advice of their elders - and Saruman's idiots are no different to any others I've met. Which has been quite a lot, actually. I seem to attract them. Present company excepted, of course."

"Of course," drawled her nephew dryly.

The extraordinary couple turned to face him once more and smiled in unison (the elf beamed, the witch grimaced).

How lightly they spoke of the service they had rendered his people! As if it had been naught more than what was expected of them!

Yet Rohan had not expected it - and neither had he. How could he repay an elven lord and a (possibly) half-elven witch (though, clearly, she had inherited the mannish half more than the elven) for the service they had rendered his land? If he had the time, he would see them escorted to the Golden Hall and honoured before Théoden King himself! He would have minstrels compose a rousing song of their great deeds to be sung by their descendants for generations to come, at they same time they composed the lays to honour the fallen!

But he did not have the time - and neither did Rohan. Already, Saruman's forces were well on their way to the last great defence of his people. Rohan's survival may depend upon his ability to round up as many warriors as could be found on the Westemnet before leading them to a final, decisive battle at Helm's Deep.

A sudden thought struck him.

Perhaps that was why the mysterious voice from his dream had urged him here? Perhaps he had found as many warriors as he would ever need in the guise of one elven lord and a little old woman?

Nay. Surely not? As much as he could see the male willingly risking immortal life and limb at Helm's Deep, the thought of asking the delicate female to once more intervene on Rohan's behalf did not sit right with him - witch or nay. If a full-elf could lose his life to an arrow, then a half-elf most certainly would. How could he bear to look upon the dead face of this genteel lady, knowing that his request had cost her life?

Then again, she had survived a night of horror no gentle woman should be witness to - indeed, she had caused most of it on this side of the Isen, if Grimbold spoke truly.

And he knew that his Marshall did speak truly. His own eyes had seen orcish (and goat) corpses lying in their droves all over the battlefield (some of which still stood; smoking in their boots like Middle Earth's ugliest statues - possibly the result of the lightning flashes Grimbold had been so impressed with).

Dare he ask them for their aid once more?

With a mental shake, he brought himself to his senses. What was he thinking? Here were two travellers on their way to Gondor - an aunt and her nephew visiting relatives (most likely her mannish ones). Already their long journey from the elven land of Rivendell had been interrupted to aid his people. They had not needed to do so, but such was their empathy and honour that they had. Now, however, the battle was over.

Their

battle was over.

He would not ask them to risk their lives yet again for a land that was not their own. It would be unfair and dishonourable.

"Lady Witch, my Lord, I have not the time I would wish to honour your efforts in Rohan's name this night, for the evil hand of Isengard stretches its foul fingers across the Westfold to pluck at the heart of our lands as we speak. Soon, my Men and I must depart to aid our brothers-in-arms at Helm's Deep. But know this: for the service you have shown us this night, ever shall we honour you. For the sons of Rohan whose lives you saved, ever shall we thank you. For all those who shall be spared the horrors that these dead enemies would surely have inflicted upon them, ever shall we praise you. This day, I name you friends of Rohan evermore. If - nay, when we slay the Enemy that seeks to steal us from our very homes and enslave us to the will of Saruman, know that we shall seek you out and see you rewarded for your deeds."

"This you have done already, Lord of the Westfold. There is no reward greater than friendship, and no friendship greater than that forged in battle against a common foe," declared the elf.

"Absolutely," agreed his (tiny) aunt. "We appreciate both your gratitude and your friendship - but especially your friendship. One can never have too many friends, you know. Especially ones that have such beautiful teeth."

Erkenbrand had been about to smile when she mentioned how pleased she was to have his friendship, but it froze on his face when she mentioned his beautiful teeth.

Helm's hammer, but she was the oddest little woman he had ever met!

"And, I must say, you really are a splendidly-mannered chap! So very eloquent. You are a credit to your parents."

She could not know it, but his parents had been dead many years since. Even so, the tall blond was strangely touched to hear her say that.

"You are the very epitome of graciousness, my Lady," he replied softly.

She flushed slightly at his gratitude, and he was amused to see her fidget with her oddly-shaped cloak before straightening herself and sniffing imperiously.

"Well, then. I see that you've brought some of your men to help with the retrieval of your dead. May we offer our assistance? It would be no trouble, you know."

"Again, my thanks. But we are almost three hundred strong and the deed shall soon be dealt with. We know best the manner in which they must be laid - it is a service we have performed oft of late."

Even as he said this, he heard the thunder of his riders' horses as they crossed the Isen and made for the earthen forts where the majority of dead Rohirrim lay. They would bury their own and burn the enemy corpses before the hour was gone.

"I see. No doubt that is why all you came here so soon after the battle?"

"It is more by chance that I came here. I should have been on the other side of the river gathering more Men to aid in the fight."

The regal elf watched him curiously. "Indeed? Then what brought you here before your task was complete, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

Feeling rather foolish, Erkenbrand explained the voice in his dream and his subsequent urge to travel to the Fords at the earliest opportunity. Thankfully, the elf did not laugh at his foolishness.

"I do not think that your dream was by chance, Erkenbrand. I think it a gift from a friend."

"A gift?" he asked, slightly puzzled. Was the elf in earnest?

But Glorfindel (or Archibald, if his aunt had her way) had lost the smile which had graced his fair face and regarded him with sombre grey eyes.

"Yes. A gift of warning sent to you from one who has aided your people before, though you knew it not. You have heard of the Lady Galadriel?"

The elf witch from the Dwimordene? Who amongst his people had not heard of her! Erkenbrand nodded, curious to hear what his new elven friend had to say.

"Many years ago, when your ancestors flew to the aid of Cirion, Steward of Gondor, they were spared from the shadow of Dol Guldur by a mist sent from her lands to drive it back and thus hide them from Sauron's forces."

Mearas' mane! He spoke of Eorl's journey to the Field of Celebrant - where the actions of his army turned the tide of battle in Gondor's favour. It was because of that aid that Eorl had been granted the lands that the Rohirrim had called home ever since! And the elf witch from the Dwimordene had aided them now, also?

Truly, Rohan had gained more friends this day than enemies!

"You believe that it was she who sent me this dream?" he asked in awe.

"I do. I named it the gift of warning because I believe she meant for you to encounter us ere we left - for leave we must. Our own errand is great enough that we cannot linger, otherwise we would have gladly joined you to still the flow of poison from Isengard that would taint your beauteous land. But now you have seen us, let us deliver the warning which may offer you some idea of the danger you are in:

"On our travels down the length of the Gap, we have encountered other foul forces of Saruman's. Already they have engaged your brethren farther north and - though the Rohirrim met with some success, both through their own skill and with our aid - more were marching down from Orthanc ere we left. Several battalions numbering over one thousand each. Given what we have seen there and witnessed here, I would guess there are almost nine and one-half thousand that you and your noble Men may have to contend with."

"I would guess that there are nearer nine thousand, myself," added the witch. "Or there will be by the time they discover the quicksand. And the tar pits. Not to mention the Enchanted Mist."

Erkenbrand was too busy reeling to hear what traps she had planted for the unsuspecting orcs. Nine thousand! In the name of Helm's mighty hammer! How was half such a number to be dealt with?

He squared his shoulders and lifted his head proudly.

They would be dealt with by the fury of Rohan!

Now that he had an idea of what lay before them, he would send his fastest riders to every town and village across the Westfold. He would gather every man capable of wielding so much as a bread knife, and every horse hardy enough to carry them, and smite at the enemy before this day was done! He would see that every widow in Rohan was avenged for the loss of her husband before the next dawn!

Isengard would know the wrath of the Rohirrim before sun next rose in the east!

Determination flooded him as he nodded his understanding of the elf's words.

"The gift of the Lady Galadriel is gratefully received, friend Glorfindel. It will strengthen our resolve to avenge our fallen and retake our lands, on that you may depend!"

The Green Witch offered a thin smile.

"You really are a very fine people. I am very sure that with a will as strong as yours, those ghastly blighters will be running for the hills before you so much as draw your swords. And may I offer you a tip? It has been my experience so far, that the smelly fellows have a deep aversion to a thoroughly decent wash. So, when you're rounding up all those nice young chaps to hack their heads off, you may want to consider raiding the local bathrooms for as much soap as you can find. The mere sight of it is enough to send them into a raving panic!"

"Erm, thank you, my Lady," stammered Erkenbrand, completely thrown by the unexpected nugget of wisdom. Fight orcs with soap? Was she completely serious?

Her bright blue eyes regarded him steadily enough to tell him that she was.

"Well, now," she said primly. "It's been very nice chatting with you, young man, but we really ought to be on our way. And so must you, if you plan to raise an army and ride to Helm's Shallow before the sun sets ..."

"Helm's Deep, Aunt," chuckled her nephew.

"Yes, yes. That's what I meant. Anyway, Archibald and I wish you all the best. If we see any of your own chaps as we ride, we'll let them know where to find you - and if we see any of Saruman's chaps, we'll give them something to think about. Before we hex them to pieces, of course. Or hack them to pieces, as the case may be," she finished, arching a thin brow at her grinning nephew.

Erkenbrand offered them a genuinely broad smile (to show off his 'beautiful' teeth).

"Then I bid you farewell, Green Witch. And you also, Lord Archibald," he added, knowing that the old woman would approve.

It earned him a beaming smile from her (and an ugly scowl from the elf).

Suppressing a chuckle, he bowed as much as he could while seated on Windlyft. "May the winds of favour carry you safely over the lands of my fathers, friends of Rohan. Know that you are always welcome to pass through them. Mayhap one day, you will pause in your passage, and rest your weary feet in the home of a friend. Edoras will ever be ready to bid you welcome!"

"And we shall ever be glad to hear it," replied Glorfindel (not sounding entirely truthful - most likely still smarting after the 'Lord Archibald' comment ). The elf gave a graceful nod and the pair urged their steeds into motion.

"Cheerio, young man! Keep your chin up. And don't forget about the soap!" cried the Green Witch as she followed her nephew carefully across the battlefield. Soon, they had navigated their way safely around corpses and craters and were thundering across the plain towards the Isen. In another few minutes, they had reached the island (the woman paused briefly to wave at the astonished riders scattered around it) and crossed to the east bank, and then they were gone too far for his eyes to track any longer.

With a sigh of wonder and a disbelieving shake of his head, he nudged his mare to join the others in their grim task of burying the dead.

And then, by Eorl, they would ride to the ruin of their enemies!

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