Himlad, FA 455
The winter's day had begun like any other - with the familiar routine of training exercises, then a patrol of the borders north of the Pass of Aglon. But as Makanárë and her comrades marched northwards, murmurs of uneasiness began to ripple through the ranks. Was it merely a trick of the light, or were the foothills of Thangorodrim draped in smoke? And why was there a faint, lurid glow of red upon the northern horizon?
"What new devilry is this?" Rávindo, the captain, ordered his company to halt. Scowling, he glanced northward at the roiling clouds upon the horizon, and the iron peaks beyond them. As all the warriors turned keen eyes to the north, a blur of dust on the horizon began to increase in size until one soldier called out,
"Captain, riders approach! Two score, flying the banner of Himlad."
"It is the Lioness and her company. But what pursues them, that they fly south to meet us?" Rávindo turned sharply on his heel and gazed resolutely at his troops. "Form ranks, prepare for the worst. You, Lintawë, will bear a message back to the fortress if need arises."
"Ai! The plain is aflame!" The cry arose as a convulsive tremor shook the earth, and fires burst forth upon the peaks of Thangorodrim. Now Makanárë could see that the haze upon the horizon was not the winter mist that often draped the mountains in shadow, but great black clouds of billowing smoke, underneath which red fire glimmered. Even now the veil of smoke drew nearer, outlining the figures of the desperately retreating riders in flame and ash. The acrid scent of burning earth hit her full force as a wind from the north swept toward them.
The sound of a horn, blown in haste, reached the ears of the company. "Retreat, many foes," the pattern of notes signalled. Rávindo's eyes hardened. "We must cover their retreat. Into formation, warriors of Himlad! Fear no flame and waver not before the darkness! Onward Noldor!"
As one, the company began to march north, forming into two ranks to allow a space through which the riders would pass. Even now, the galloping of hooves drew nearer, and Makanárë could see her mother in the rearguard of the riders. A cloud of black shapes seemed to materialize through the smoke behind them, eerily lit by the rivers of flame that washed down from the mountains over the plain of Lothlann. She swallowed and drew her swords, steeling her resolve for the coming battle. The riders must be allowed to pass - and then reinforcements from the fortress would come. She could only hope they would come in time.
Rávindo took up his own great horn and winded it, giving the call for reinforcements from the fortress. There was a dreadful moment of silence, when Makanárë heard nothing but the erratic pulse of blood in her ears. Then, a faint answer came from the ramparts of the fortress. Again Rávindo sounded the same call upon his horn, but now the answering call was different.
"They cannot spare all the guard to the plain. We must retreat as soon as the riders approach." Another heaving tremor shook the ground, and the horses ahead faltered. Suddenly, a rivulet of flame snaked around towards them, cutting off the riders from the warriors of Rávindo's company. They were close enough that Makanárë could see the wild eyes of the horses as the fire licked around their hooves. Many of the riders had dismounted, or were thrown by their horses in the chaos. Kalormë, their commander, still sat astride her horse, banner fluttering desperately in the wind from the north. She rode among her troops, calling to them in a clear and commanding voice. "Arise! Forth and we make for the Pass of Aglon!"
"Close ranks! Foes approach from the north!" Rávindo bellowed, as the shapes in the approaching smoke resolved themselves into the twisted figures of orcs and goblins. As best they could, the soldiers formed a protective wall and wheeled north to face the approaching foes. In the last moments of chaos before the battle, Makanárë spared a glance at her mother, who had rallied her riders around her. Her helm glowed luridly in the light from the flames, and the roaring lion's maw wrought upon its crest dripped with blood. But there was no longer any time to think as the ranks of goblins closed in upon them, and the sound of steel against steel rang through the ranks. Rávindo stood at the fore, wielding a greatsword and shouting orders to his warriors.
"Advance! We must press through before the riders are surrounded!" Further to the north, the knot of riders fought desperately, hemmed in on all sides by the encroaching foes. Slowly the warriors pressed northwards, the steel of their blades glinting as they cut down the orcs that seemed to break upon their ranks like endless waves upon the shore. But would they reach the riders in time? Already most of the riders had been dismounted and had formed a ring around their commander, the banner of their regiment fluttering desperately in the centre. Makanárë bit her lip and willed herself to press forward with her comrades to where her mother's regiment were surrounded, steeling herself to the sounds of dying horses and charring flesh.
Smoke rolled in from the north as the grasslands of Lothlann began to catch fire, and she choked on the acrid stench of it. Soon, her vision began to blur as the smoke thickened, but they were so close ... Her twin blades danced in the scorching wind from the north, their steel edges dripping with black blood. One of her comrades fell to the ground with a groan, and she hardly had time to step over his body before more orcs assailed their formation. They gained ground slowly but steadily, and soon joined ranks with the surrounded riders. Yet there was no time for rejoicing - she cast a glance over the plain southwards. No reinforcements had come. They could not hope to hold the field - or even create enough of a delay for warriors from the south to arrive.
"Join ranks! Fall back! The plain is lost!" Rávindo stood in the rear of the retreat, guarding the flank of the riders and defending those who still were mounted. Kalormë wheeled her mount around, raised her battle-horn to the sky, and blew the signal to fall back. With what discipline remained, the riders formed a wedge and began to ride south, under the cover of Rávindo's warriors who formed a protective wall to the north of their retreat. Kalormë remained in the rear of the riders, barely a stone's throw north of Rávindo's warriors, spurring her mount through the close ranks of foes and hoping to clear a path for the retreat. Suddenly, a great roar echoed from the north, and a massive shadow emerged from the smoke. Her horse reared in terror and threw its rider to the ground with a sickening crunch.
The head of a vile fire-drake loomed through the haze, and though it was half a league away across the plain, the flames spreading around its massive body licked rapidly southwards. Makanárë leapt forwards, heedless of the foes between her and the fallen body of the cavalry commander, hewing a path through the mass of writhing bodies. Rávindo bellowed at her to join the retreat, but she had no ears for anything in that moment save her mother's gasping breaths, and the crackle of flames upon the plain. She coughed as smoke seeped into her lungs, and her vision grew dull. It seemed an eternity until the waves of foes parted and she knelt by her mother's side, panting with the exertion. She caught a glimpse of her mother's face, mired in ashes and sweat, chestnut curls matted with blood, grey eyes now dull and glazed - she had come too late. There was no time to mourn her passing, and no time either to retrieve the body. With defiance in her dimming eyes Makanáre bore up the fallen banner of her mother's regiment, and tenderly removed the lion-helm from her head. Her own helm had been lost in the fray, and so she placed the lion-helm upon her own matted hair, raised the banner above her head and turned southwards to join the retreat.
The smoke seemed all around her now, and her steps faltered as she struggled for breath. The helm upon her head seemed heavy, and the cheek-guards nearly burned with the heat. She staggered through the ranks of Noldor in the retreat, hardly stopping to register Rávindo's words of rebuke. The field was lost, the day was lost, and all of Ard-Galen to the north was devoured by flame, turned into nothing more than a gaping expanse of choking dust. Already the flames licked across the plain of Lothlann, and the Fire-Drake advanced from the north with the hordes of the Enemy.
Numbly Makanárë joined the retreat, hacking, slashing, and stabbing at the orcs who threatened to overwhelm them from the north. Many among their company had fallen, but still they held their ranks as best they could, retreating southwards toward the Pass of Aglon. In the haze of battle, Makanárë thought she heard a sound to the south - was it the cry of more foes, or the blare of trumpets that echoed over the plain?
A shout ran through the weary troops as they saw in the distance a line of riders and soldiers on foot advancing towards them from the Pass of Aglon. They had come too late to save all - and yet without their aid it would be difficult to win back to the fortress without heavier losses than they had already sustained. Whether it was mere moments, or a torturous eternity of moments until their forces met, Makanárë never knew. The helm rested heavy upon her brow, a mocking reminder of the one who once bore it. The bloodied and ripped standard still fluttered defiantly above her head - whatever she had lost today, she would hold to the fragments of what was left. The day was lost, and many fallen, including her own mother - and she still lived. Bitterly she turned south with the remnants of the company, knowing in the depth of her heart that the Siege of Angband was broken, and that worse was yet to come.
