He awoke early after a night of little sleep, and strange dreams. The memories of them were only vague in the pale morning light, becoming as intangible as the early morning mist as he tried to recall the details of them. His stomach turned as he sat up from the thin mattress of furs that had served as a bed. His muscles ached from the hard floor and he let out a low groan as he stretched. Dawn was upon them, giving him light enough to look around his surroundings and his companions. He rubbed his face, and stood, stretching again. His eyes quickly travelled around the inside of the large tent, the figures of many warriors crowded together, resting on furs, clothes, or the hard ground itself. He smiled slightly as he looked at them, the warriors of his household; stout in battle, fierce in friendship. He barely noticed the loud snores and the stink of sweat from them after so long on the road together. Shivering slightly in the chill morning air, he quickly began to dress himself. He pulled on a thick leather jacket over the stained shirt he wore, then a pair of black trousers and boots. Feeling somewhat warmer, he picked up the ice-cold dwarf-made mail shirt. He was always entranced by the exquisite craftsmanship of the item, far beyond anything his people were yet capable of. He stretched once more, scratched himself, then began rousing his men.
"Awaken, Sons of Bor. Awaken and give thanks that we are all here, on this day, the day of days." The men stirred, some groaning slightly as they felt the full effects of their drinking the night before. They turned their bleary eyes to watch their leader. "We know of the suffering that the Dark Lord has inflicted upon these lands and those that dwell here, both Men and Elves. We have seen with our own eyes the horrors that his orcs are capable of. Our own fathers have passed us tales of how they were forced to flee Westwards across the mountains into this Beleriand." Borlas paused and took a breath, seeing that his warriors were now fully awake.
"Today, we take vengeance. Today, we join with Maedhros and his brothers, and march side-by-side with the tall Noldor warriors to battle. Do they doubt our resolve, our strength in arms?" There was a low muttering as the men looked at each other, unsure of themselves. "Are you cowards?"
"No" came the response.
"Are you craven?"
"No" they called, louder this time.
"Will you leave them to fight this battle alone?"
"No" the men were standing at this point, shouting their denial to their Lord.
"No, we will not. We are the Sons of Bor, we have crossed the World End mountains and found a new land here. We have fought, we have bled. We will march to battle today, in this Union of Maedhros. We will beat the dark fortress into dust, and drag Morgoth out on his knees. Now, ready yourselves for battle, today we march. Eat heartily, for your next meal will not be until we have given Morgoth a taste of our steel. Bortheth?"
A man pulling on a jacket with iron studs stopped, and looked around. "Lord Borlas?"
"Make sure you wash first, we don't want the stench of those onions you ate last night to finish off Morgoth before we get a chance to run him through!"
The men laughed, a few slapping Bortheth on the back.
"Come, to war!"
***
Whatever had delayed Maedhros and his forces to march to battle, the order had finally come through. They had been standing anxiously, far to the rear and to the East, ready to reinforce their Noldor allies or the Sons of Ulfang who would guard the flank. They had talked and shared water with the tall Elves, finding them as always distant yet friendly enough in their way. Borlas had tried to speak a few words with the commander of the nearest part of Ulfang's force, but had found him cold and dismissive. Perhaps it was their way, he pondered to himself.
Whatever the delay, they were finally going towards the battle across the ashen ground. Some of the Noldor that marched with them had told Borlas that it had once, only a few years ago, been lush and verdant grasslands as far as the eye could see. Borlas could barely believe it, such was the devastation of the landscape.
The heavy boots of the Men and Elves raised choking dust as they passed. Borlas had heard rumour a great King of the Dwarves marched with them also, but he has yet to catch sight of them. Tales of stout axes and great beards had come to them over the mountains, but to see some of the reclusive warriors and craftsmen would be a sight indeed.
Borlas looked around him. The men of his company marched alongside him, some talking and laughing amongst themselves, trying to put aside the fear that always arose before battle. He let them be, there was no need for them to march in silence now. They were strong and true warriors, he had no doubts of their valour. He wished for a moment that they could fight alongside his own Lord Bór, and his fierce sons and warriors. He put aside childish wishes quickly; they had been chosen as part of the rearguard, ready to defend the flanks and push through any gaps opened in their lines. Tall Elves clad in gleaming steel armour came with them, armed with long spears, swords, and tall shields. They spoke little as they marched, but Borlas watched them, seeing similar expressions on their faces as his own men. They were anxious, they were eager. Perhaps they were not so different.
Borlas steeled himself and shouted a few words of encouragement to the men around him; the sound of battle had begun ahead of them.
***
Borlas kicked the dead orc off of his serrated sword, taking a moment to try and catch his breath. He looked around quickly, but there were no orcs near to him that were not already dead, or being swiftly despatched by the Men and Elves around him. Suddenly, he looked up as he heard the ringing of trumpets; Maedhros must be giving the signal to the Western army. The Noldor King commanded that side, but Borlas could not remember his name at that moment.
”Men of Bór, take heart! We have slain the rearguard of the enemy, now, hear the trumpets of Maedhros! We must be about to join with the Noldor King, and crush these foul orcs between our two great armies. Drink any water you have with you, and share what you have left with your neighbour, be he Man or Elf. There will be killing aplenty soon, so prepare yourselves!” With that, Borlas unstoppered his own flask of water and took a deep drink, quenching his parched throat. The fighting and the dust had almost robbed him of the ability to speak, so dry was his mouth. He swallowed, then held the flask out to a tall Noldor warrior who stood next to him, leaning on his shield. The warrior looked momentarily surprised, then took it with a nod of thanks. He drank, passed it back, and smiled. “Mae g'ovannen. You and your men have fought well, keep it up, and we shall win this day.” He then raised his own clear voice “Utúlie’n aurë! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatári, utúlie’n aurë!”
Borlas did not understand the strange speech, but the Noldor seemed to take heart at the cry.
***
All was madness. Borlas had just cut down another huge wolf, although Bortheth had fallen to its slavering jaws. The dead lay heavy underfoot, and he struggled to keep his balance. Men, Elves, orcs and wolves lay mingled together, covering the dusty plains and turning the ash into slick mud with their blood. He had seen nightmares through gaps in the battle, enormous shapes of fire and smoke that emanated fear, even from a distance.
Suddenly, a gigantic scaled beast pushed through the warriors ahead of him, and let out a roaring blast of flame that decimated twenty warriors at once. He saw Men and Elves fall back from the beast in a panic, and took a step back himself. Then he stopped. They must hold the flank, or the battle would be lost. All this death for nothing. He took a breath, then shouted to his men. "Are you cowards? Are you craven? Will you leave me to fight this monster alone?" Everyone around him stopped, then took a step forward. “Follow me, slay the beast!”
Borlas charged towards the side of the dragon, holding his sword aloft in his aching arm, his shield long-gone. The men of his household tried to keep pace with him, but he moved swiftly in his fury. He was aware suddenly of the Noldor warriors at his side, their glittering weapons drawn. Then, they were at the flank of the dragon. Swords shattered on the iron-hard scales of the beast, and bodies were trampled under the wickedly-clawed feet. Borlas was almost disembowelled by a swipe from the rear foot of the dragon, but the mail shirt robbed the blow of any killing power, although it was ripped from him and destroyed by the strike. Gasping, Borlas took a step back. Realising that he yet lived, he readied himself again to battle the monster.
"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" Strange, hard shouts came loudly from behind the dragon, and it suddenly let out a roar of rage and pain and spun around to face the new threat.
"Into it! Under it's belly, into the pits of it’s limbs. Bring the beast down!" Borlas took a breath, then charged back into the dreadful foe. His sword has survived the initial attack, and he held it before him, braced with both hands, one grasping the blade for more strength behind the piercing strike. He aimed the tip of the blade at the softer skin where a rear leg joined the scaled body and rammed it home. The blade found a gap in the scales and sank into the flesh until it reached the length of Borlas's forearm. The leg shook violently then buckled, his sword ripped from his hand by the weight of the dragon. His companions swarmed around him, hacking and stabbing with sword, spear, dagger and hammer. Some found similar weakspots and the dragon howled in pain.
Borlas stepped back, searching around him for another weapon. He saw a spear embedded into the body of an orc and wrenched it free. But by then, it was done. The dragon attempted to drag itself away, but the mysterious warriors had come into view and surrounded it. Borlas froze, watching the legends of his people come to life. The Dwarven warriors were stout, wearing heavy armour and fierce masks, armed with cruel axes. They were relentless in their slaughter of the beast, raining axe blows into it until it moved no more. Without speaking a word, they turned back and marched Westwards, back into the thick of the battle.
***
"Die, traitorous scum!" Borlas spat in the face of the warrior of Ulfang before pulling the spear from his belly. He had never known fury like this. The orcs of Morgoth were evil without remorse. But these Men? They could have almost been his kinsmen. Yet they proclaimed their loyalty to Morgoth and had cut a deep wound into the forces of Maedhros. Borlas, his Men and the Noldor who stood with him had managed to withstand the surprise attack of the sons of Ulfang, but had been powerless to watch them drive into the rear of the Men and Elves in the thick of battle. They seemed to number without end, and Borlas was sure he had heard the trumpet call for the Union to retreat. Yet Borlas knew his orders, as did those who stood with him. They must hold fast, they must provide a point of strength to prevent any retreat from becoming a rout. That would be a sentence of death he knew, but honour and duty demanded he stand. He would not let the base treachery of the wicked sons of Ulfanng tarnish the alliance between Men and Elves. He would prove true, no matter the cost.
"Lord, they are coming. I see banners, there above the dust." He couldn't recognise the speaker, so covered in blood and dust was he. Borlas raised his own voice.
"Here we stand! Let them through. Then prepare to face whatever follows them. Sell your lives dearly, cut a wound so deep in their forces they will remember the Sons of Bór! The Noldor of Maedhros! Utully air, ai eldalar atan! Utul air!" Borlas looked to the Noldor as he spoke the last, hoping that they would understand. He saw their captain smile slightly, then nod.
Borlas took the last sip of his water, and closed his eyes. He thought of his son and wife, and hoped they would survive the coming days. Suddenly he opened his eyes, confused. A new sound of battle was near, coming from the direction of the banners. The Men before him shouted something, holding their weapons up in a symbol of peace. They were cut down without mercy. Then Borlas saw them. A small group of tall Noldor warriors, armoured head to toe in black and crimson. They were terrible, covered in blood and moving with alarming speed. The nearest of them carried a long, wickedly sharp spear and a large shield. He raised the spear and cut down the Man who had told Borlas of the banners moving towards them. The silent warriors were killing all in their path.
"Peace sons of Caranthir, these Men fought with us. They are not traitors!" The Noldor captain shouted at the killers, but his words had no impact. Borlas had to step back as the spear of the nearest swung towards him.
Borlas was tired from battle, but still had strength enough. He was in the flower of his youth, and his arm was mighty. His Men looked to him that day, and he had led them through every horror that they had faced. He blocked the next strike from the spear, his arm jarring terribly as he did so. Then the warrior before him span slightly, quicker than Borlas thought possible, then pain hit him in the chest as the spear pierced his heart.
Estarfin twisted the spear savagely, watching with satisfaction the pain and surprise on the face of the filthy traitor. How dare they. How dare they betray Caranthir. He pulled the spear free, not caring to see the Man die and moved on, cutting a path to the edge of the battlefield.
As all went dark, Borlas thought once more of his family. Then there was nothing
