The Lord of the Rings: The Siege of Gondor (Part 12 and Last)

The Tale

‘Ever since the middle of the night the great assault had gone on. The drums roll.’ Company after company crowd the walls on all sides. Mumakil of the Hard pull assault towers and siege engines through the flames. The Witch King, their Captain, doesn’t care or direct what they do; their purpose is only to test the defenses and keep the defenders busy in many places. He is concentrating on the Gate. Strong as it is, made of steel and guarded with towers of stone, still it is the key, the weakest part in the walls of Gondor.

To that end they bring up Grond, a great battering ram a hundred feet in length, with a head forged in black steel in the shape of a voracious wolf, surrounded by great engines, swinging in chains, drawn by great beasts, with mountain trolls to wield it. It has been wound with ‘spells of ruin’. ‘Grond they named it, in memory of the Hammer of the Underworld of old.’

But at the Gate the resisitance is strong, strengthened with the knights of Dol Amroth and the best of the garrison, and the wreck and slaughter of the invading forces choke either side of the Gate. But driven by madness more and more come up. Grond crawls irresistibly forward, unfazed by fire or the ruin of the orc troops caused by its maddened beasts.

The Witch King finally comes riding over the hills of the slain, ‘a horseman, tall hooded, cloaked in black.’ He comes forward, ignoring every arrow or dart. He stops and lifts a long pale sword. A fearful silence falls on defenders and foes alike, and for a moment all is still.  Then Grond reaches the Gate in a sudden rush and is swung, hurled forward by huge hands. The stroke lands, rumbling like thunder through the City. But the Gate holds.

‘Then the Black Captain rose in his stirrups and cried aloud in a dreadful voice, speaking in some forgotten tongue words of power and terror to rend both heart and stone.’

Three times he cries, and three times Grond booms against the Gate. And on the third the Gate of Gondor bursts asunder in a flash of searing lightning and the doors lie in fragments on the ground. And the Lord of the Nazgul rides in through the archway that no enemy had ever passed.

All flee before him except one. There, silent and as immoveable as a statue, is Gandalf, upon Shadowfax, who ‘alone among the free horses of the earth endured the terror.’ The wizard alone denies him entrance, sternly bidding him back to the abyss prepared for him, to ‘fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master! Go!’

The Black Rider throws back his hood and reveals that he is wearing a kingly crown. But it is on no visible head; you can see the fires behind him, flickering between his crown and shoulders. From his invisible mouth comes deadly laughter.

‘Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!’ He raises his sword high and flames run down the blade. Gandalf does not flinch.

 ‘And in that very moment, away behind in some courtyard of the City, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, recking nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn.

‘And as if in answer there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In dark Mindolluin’s sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last.’

NOTES

Wow. Only two pages, but they are so packed. I think even my ‘summation’ might be longer than the original material, and of course nowhere as skillfully managed for dramatic effect. It is a moment that, even years later, could still set Tolkien’s spirit thrilling.  You can feel its power even in the animated Rankin/Bass 1980 The Return of the King, and faint vibes in the Peter Jackson botched version of the scene.

Grond, the Hammer of the Underworld, was later revealed in The Silmarillion to be the personal weapon of Morgoth, the original Dark Lord, with which he most famously fought and slew the Elf-lord Fingolfin.

The ‘spells of ruin’ and ‘forgotten words of power and terror’ add to the supernatural dread of the approach of Grond, whose assault is more than merely a great engine of destruction, forged of steel and swung by mountain trolls. It is there to ‘rend both heart and stone.’

Could Gandalf have defeated the Lord of the Nazgul at this moment? The Nazgul seems to think so. It was not, as it were, in Gandalf’s mission statement to oppose power with power, only to aid the peoples of Middle-earth when their own efforts were not sufficient. The Wraith Lord’s power was greatly enhanced by Sauron’s waxing power; he was no longer the creature that could be balked at Weathertop or the Ford of Bruinen. Gandalf had died fighting the Balrog; could he die again? As it is, he halts the Nazgul long enough for things to be taken care of by more human resources.

The cock crow has long been held to be of supernatural significance. It heralds the dawn, and at its sound all ghosts and the Undead must flee. The Witch-King flees, but it is more the coincidence (?) of the arrival of Rohan than any supernatural power inherent in the rooster. But the cock crow asserts the natural order of things in defiance of the terrors of the shadows.

There has long been a metaphysical argument that evil is nothing, a diminution of the good until it fades away into non-being. The Lord of the Nazgul’s ‘invisible sinews’ and unseen head argue, as C. S. Lewis puts it, that ‘Nothing is very strong: strong enough to steal away a man's best years not in sweet sins but in a dreary flickering of the mind over it knows not what and knows not why.’ It is the final abyss that awaits the end of evil, like a sucking black hole that, when entered fully into, cannot be escaped.

Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part 12)

In his camp, Nast was striding purposefully through the chaos as his troops were finding their places, getting dressed, prompting their fellows into action, and in general acting like a stirred-up anthill. Wherever Nast passed among them, however, there was a renewed air of enthusiasm and confidence, and many fell in behind his self-assured tread. He did not look behind him.

He reached the front line on the perimeter of the camp. This was made up of his core followers, the Wedge, a hundred or so fighters that he felt sure could win any engagement with Korm’s entire army. He drew up next to his lieutenants, Tchoz and Adrik, who stood conferring together and keeping an eye on the other camp.

“Well, how’s it going?” he said gruffly, smiling. The walk through his army had cheered him up and chased his night fears away.

“Just fine, your majesty,” said Tchoz in his lazy drawl. He talked as if his nose were stopped up, and his muzzle hung open, jaw slack. He sounded like he had a cold but was not ill; it was just the way he spoke. He pointed. “There’s the committee over there, watchin’.”

“Good, good. And what about King Gormless and his crew?”

“We sent a scout out a while back,” said Adrik. “He reported that they’ve got a team of about twenty around their flagpole, including that big lump Berb. He’s not hard to miss. The rest are forming a ring around the whole camp.”

“That won’t do ‘em any good,” Nast chortled. “Our flying wedge can break that line easy; it’s too thin.” He looked back behind at their own shadowy flagpole. “And when the sun comes over the hill the light will be in their eyes. That, my friends, is what I call good planning.” They laughed sycophantically at his words, but Nast suddenly grew serious. “Form up the company ready to charge,” he said severely. “Let’s get this thing over with!” He laughed. “Then we can go home to Morg City and get back to our party!”

His lieutenants saluted happily. “Yes, sir!” They moved off to either side and began yelling at the troops. “All right, boys, this is the final fight! EVERYBODY to the front! Time to whip those worthless weaklings one last time. Have no fear, or get no beer! Don’t hang back now! That’s the way home, over their backs. We’ll roll right through them! All for King Nast!”

There were barks and howls of excitement and the trampling of feet as the camp emptied, swelling the mob behind Nast. They were all around him, stamping with excitement, shaking their sticks in the air, yelling and growling enthusiastically. He let them go on for a moment, reveling in the feeling of power building up behind him. Then he raised his stick commandingly, and the crowd fell silent. He looked left and right and paused a moment, then suddenly brought the stick down like an axe.

“Up and at ‘em, lads!” he bawled, and charged forward. With a roar his troops leapt after him.

 

Back at the observation post the Royal Commission watched as the engagement began.

“There they go!” the Herald cried, fists clenched in barely suppressed enthusiasm.

“Ye-e-es.” Sekk leaned forward. The old Morg had gone into professional Witnessing mode, eyes screwed hard in concentration, hands folded with the thumbs and forefingers pressing against each other.

“That’s not a very disciplined line,” Thron observed critically. He looked grim. “But I don’t suppose that will make much of a difference to the outcome.”

“No, sir,” said Drim, eyes bright. Things were going exactly as planned. “It’s spirit that really wins a battle, and Nast has assured his people have that. I’m afraid Korm lost this fight before it even began. I did try to teach him …”

Thron glanced over to the camp on the left.

“What IS that boy up to over there?” he growled.

Most turned to look. Sekk only flicked his eyes in that direction while taking everything in.

Over at their camp, Korm and Prull were standing in the front line, facing the raging oncoming assault of Nast’s troops. Some space behind them, Berb could be seen towering out of the crowd, holding the flagpole high in his hands. Behind them everyone was still, calm, and emotionless, their sticks held at rest at their sides. Korm held his stick with both hands, stretched across his waist. They could see his throat working in a nervous swallow, beard rippling and bobbing with each movement.

“They should at least be bracing for the impact!” said Thron severely. “What exactly HAVE you taught them, Drim?”

“Korm should be giving them orders.” The Colonel shook his head. “But you just can’t polish a turd, sir.”

Nast came thundering in front of his troops, stick raised like an ax. He too was wondering in the back of his head why the enemy was doing nothing. But he totally expected them to panic and start to flee any minute. Their passivity enraged him.

“Get them!” Nast bellowed savagely, putting on a burst of speed. His troop roared and followed him with renewed ferocity.

They got nearly to the halfway point between camps, almost in front of the observers, close enough for Nast to see an odd little smile creep over Korm’s muzzle before he lifted his stick and ordered:

“Now!”

Berb yanked on a rope, and almost instantly another flag was raised under Korm’s brown-and-black. The black-and-brown banner of Nast now flew subordinately underneath Korm’s triumphant colors in the clear morning air. Korm’s army lifted its voice in a triumphantly mocking cheer.

The shock was so much that the front of the battle line stopped in their tracks. The army behind them, slow on the uptake, plowed into them, and most went sprawling into a howling, grunting pile. Nast heaved himself out and up from the wreck, yelling.

“No! What … how!?”

He turned back to his camp where the obscure shape on the flagpole still flew in the shadow of the Stone Tombs. Then suddenly the sun raised itself over the crest of the hill, and the darkness fled. Hanging there, lit by the clear dawn and taking one insolently lazy flap in the morning breeze, was an old, rusty green donkey blanket.

In his camp, Korm turned to Prull, a full grin on his muzzle.

“As my old Uncle Akko always says, all cats are gray in the twilight,” he said modestly.

Prull clapped him happily on the shoulder.

“Your old Uncle sounds like a profoundly wise Morg, my friend.”

Nast’s bewilderment turned to baffled anger, and he raised his stick, pointing it at the opposing Morgs.

“Get them! Get them! Get them! Get that flag back, damn it!” He plunged forward, and his troops, after a short, confused pause, roared again and instinctively stampeded after him.

They were almost on Korm’s forces – who were starting to look distinctively nervous – when the Herald suddenly rode up between the two groups and reigned in his horse, facing Nast’s army.

“Hold!” His voice was imperious. He raised his baton. “In the name of the King, hold!” Nast froze at the sign of the imperial ensigns and once more was nearly trampled by his troops as they came crashing to a halt behind him. “Your flag is TAKEN! By the Rules of the Games, this maneuver is OVER.”

“But … but … we haven’t even fought!” Nast protested wrathfully.

The Herald was stern.

“The rules are not who wins a battle, but who wins the objective.” He pointed back at the flagpole in the Brown-and-Blacks’ camp. “And there is the objective! Stand down, sir.”

 Behind the Herald, the army broke out into cheers and exultant laughter, rushing up to Korm and Prull and overwhelming them with congratulations. Berb advanced and joined them, the big Morg waving the flags high in jubilation.

“It’s not fair!” Nast raged. “There’s trickery here somehow! There’s no way …” Suddenly the rest of the observing party came riding up to join the Herald. Nast turned, appealing to them in an imperious tone. “I demand my flag be returned and we start again!”

Sekk drew himself up tall in his in his saddle his head thrown back, old eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.

“But it has been Witnessed! It is Seen!”

General Thron got off his horse, followed by Drim. “Sorry, son, but you heard him,” he said. “We all saw it.” There was grim satisfaction in his voice. “And a prettier piece of strategy I’ve never seen.” Drim winced to hear his own word parroted back to him. “Best just take it with grace, lad.”

“But Commandant -!” Nast turned, appealing to the gray Morg.

“You heard the General,” Drim commanded sternly, his disappointment obvious in every tone. “Go on! Get back to camp and pack up; we march back to the City within the hour.”

Nast writhed for a moment under their critical eyes, fists clenching, teeth grinding, unable to believe there wasn’t some way out of this ignominious defeat. Then he turned and stomped off, seething. Someone, somehow, would pay for this insult to the House of Keth. As he passed one of his fallen troops leaning on his stick, he angrily kicked the prop out and the Morg fell back down into the dirt that the charge had churned up.

Notes

Getting close to the end, now. Not a whole lot to say until the final wind-up. The old rusty green blanket is an actual relic in my keeping, a nearly 70-year-old blanket from my father's stint in Korea.