Narn e-Dant Gondolin
by Elvellon Ringsbane
Chapter
IV: The Battle at the North Gate
All was fire and smoke and confusion. His own mind too was consumed
with fire, the fire of rage. Dimly Magor was aware of green mantles
through the swirling mist, where the House of the Tree laid low the
ranks of the enemy with their iron-studded clubs. Smashing his shield
into the face of an orc, Magor swung his mace, crushing the skull of
another. Amid the lurid glow that bathed all about him, the spears and
scimitars of Morgoth’s foul warriors flashed and gleamed – and fell,
fell before the wrath of the Eldar. Yet still they came on, three for
every one that died. Like a black tide driven upon the shore by winds
of flame, they came on. And slowly, inch by inch, the defenders were
borne backwards. Magor could see the gapping mouth of the shattered
gates before him. He longed to drive through the hosts of Morgoth even
to the plain beyond, drive them from the gates, from Gondolin. But
stronger still was his sense of duty, and his loyalty to Rog. He could
not abandon his brothers; he could not die yet.
An orc faced him, snarling in rage. Magor whipped his mace round, but
even as he did so, the creature thrust at him with its broad-bladed
spear. The weapon slid beneath his guard and struck him in the left
side nigh the waist, where the overlapping leaves of his breastplate
ended. The spearhead drove the rings of his hauberk through the leather
tunic beneath and into his side, but it could not pierce that iron
mail, Elven forged. With a roar, Magor brought down his mace upon the
shaft, splintering the wood, and in that same downward stroke clove the
head of his assailant.
A sudden breath of foul air shredded the mist about him, and in that
moment, Magor saw that he fought but a few feet from Rog. That other,
seeing him also, cried aloud for them to stand together. Magor crossed
the space between them in one leap, hewing down an orc even as it
lifted its sword to strike the Lord of the Hammer of Wrath. Setting his
back to his captain’s, Magor placed his shield so that it covered both
his own left side and Rog’s right, and raising his mace, turned his
blazing eyes on the orcs that now streamed toward them…
Blood sprayed his face as he brought his mace down on yet another
orc skull, splitting it to the teeth. He could sense the movements of
Rog behind him as the Elf tore into his enemies – enemies that kept
reappearing. Magor smote the head off an orc; its body crashed at his
feet; he took a step back to avoid it, even as more of the cursed
creatures swarmed over the fallen. So it went, step by step, as the
Elves were driven slowly, inexorably backward away from the breach,
further into the city. Magor clenched his teeth. No! Morgoth must never
take Gondolin. “By the Valar, I shall die before I see it,” he vowed
silently.
Swept away from Rog by a sudden surge of the enemy, Magor found
himself surrounded by a black sea of orcs. There was no need to keep
his face to the foe – everywhere he turned there was an orc leering at
him, though most only got one look at his blazing eyes before their
black souls were dismissed to Mandos. Magor swung his shield, felling
an orc with the sheer force of the blow. Another crumpled beneath the
weight of his mace. Suddenly he staggered as a white-feathered arrow
struck him in the right shoulder and sprang back. For a moment he
swayed off balance, helpless to block or deliver a blow. With a cackle
of glee, a goblin leaped toward him – and shrieked as a mace descended
on its helm with a sickening thud. Hastily regaining his balance, Magor
turned to see one of his house fighting at his elbow. Baravagor they
called him, and well merited. “Enjoying yourself, Magor?” The smith
grinned as he sent an orc flying.
“You seem to be feasting,” Magor replied with an answering grin as he
caught a spear on his great shield and brought his mace down with a
crunch on the owner. “It’s not bad out here with a fellow at your back.
My thanks.” He spoke lightly, but Baravagor could see the deep
gratitude in his eyes. The other nodded grimly as he swept another orc
out of the way. “Berenothor is dead. Fell defending Rog.” Magor hacked
the arm off a goblin and smashed his mace into its chest. Often had he
worked side by side with that mighty smith, whose maces could not be
equaled, and his grief was great, but he only nodded. Now was not the
time to weep.
Swiftly Aearlinn made her way through the streets of Gondolin, and ever
the clamor of battle grew behind her. Her heart wept at the sound, for
it seemed to her that Magor would surely fall, knowing as she did his
eagerness in war, and how he was like to be among the foremost
fighters. Yet no tears fell from her sea-green eyes, and her white
hands clenched the edges of her mantle as she forced herself to heed
what lay ahead rather than what lay behind.
All the white towers of Gondolin were bathed in a lurid crimson glow,
and that light grew greater rather than less, but most terrible was it
to the North. There was chaos in the streets, and women wept in doubt
and dread, clutching at their children. Aearlinn pitied her kin, glad
that she had no son or daughter to worry over, or to share in the
bitter memories of this night. For the memory of the Eldar is deep and
spans many ages, and who could forget the siege of Gondolin?
Passing on through the darkness and confusion, Aearlinn felt
suddenly alone. All about her figures moved, shadows hurrying to war or
seeking refuge from the terror at their gates. But none could escape
the terror in their hearts. They swept by like a mist driven by
relentless winds, or dark waves that rose, then fell, dissolving into
oblivion.
Coming out suddenly into a small garden in the centre of which played a
fountain, Aearlinn stayed her steps and approached the fount. She laid
her hands upon the cool marble of the basin and stared into the depths
of the water. Her reflection gazed back at her, a pale face and lovely,
framed with dark hair, shimmering and changing as the water was broken
by the droplets from the fountain. Only her eyes seemed not to change,
for they blended seamlessly with the deep water. Dipping her hands into
the water, Aearlinn found that the fountain was no longer cool, but
warm. Nevertheless she laved her hands in it and washed her face, and
she felt refreshed despite the growing heat, and the music of falling
water lessened her loneliness. Then she drank a little, and sitting
upon the wide stone rim of the basin, looked about her.
Here the harsh crimson glow of Morgoth was less, for a tower stood
nigh, blocking the light. The trees in the small square were still hung
with lamps like winking stars, and garlands of white flowers lay strewn
upon the flagstones. It seemed to Aearlinn that she sat in a memory,
for an instant shut off from the terrors that lay without, and she
wondered at how swiftly this night of joy had changed to grief. It was
only hours ago that the Gondolindrim had gathered in eagerness for the
festival, yet it seemed an age and more since she had stood with Magor
upon the Eastern Wall, watching for the dawn. What now would Anor rise
to shed its light upon?
A sudden hail of arrows from the archers on the battlements left a
great swath of dead enemies at his feet, and gave Magor a space for
breath. Lifting his helm to wipe away the blood, sweat and dust, he saw
that all the ground from where he stood even unto the North Gate was
strewn with the bodies of the dead. Orcs innumerable lay there, piled
in heaps wherever the defenders had held fast the longest, and Elves,
their bodies twisted and trampled, their cloaks of blue, green, purple
and scarlet rent and fouled. Magor’s own hands were scraped and
bloodied, the overlapping leaves of his breastplate scored with lines
and stained with the black blood of orcs. But beneath the filth the
red-gold runes that adorned his armour gleamed through like living
flame. Beside him, Magor heard the warning voice of Baravagor, “Tangado
haid! (Hold your positions!)” Replacing his helm, Magor gripped his
mace and raised his massive shield, bracing for the onslaught of the
oncoming tide.
With a crash the orcs drove against the ranks of the Hammer of Wrath
like a great dark wave upon a cliff of stone. Magor drew back his
shield arm slightly, giving beneath the blow to reduce the shock to his
arm, at the same time bringing his mace down like a howling storm upon
the heads of his enemies. Blood sprayed into the air, and the crunch of
bones was audible even amid the clash of weapons and the fierce cries
of battle. “Giro nu Rûth vín! (Tremble beneath our
wrath!)”
Taking a step backward, Magor felt the yielding body of the dead
beneath his feet. He struggled to find a foothold on the bloodied
stones, stumbling as his foot caught upon the fallen. The orcs surged
toward him, only to be swept aside by the powerful blows of Baravagor.
“Spawn of Morgoth!” he roared. “Go back to your holes!” But suddenly
his blows faltered, and Magor saw the head of a spear immerge through
his right shoulder. With a cry he leapt to his feet, his mace whistling
as it sent two of the nearest orcs flying. The others shrieked and gave
way, and the Elf turned hastily to Baravagor. The smith had plucked out
the spear and tried to stay the flow of blood, but his arm hung useless
at his side.
“Go!” Shouted Magor, smashing a goblin aside with a single blow. “Seek
a healer!”
“Nay!” Baravagor flung away his shield and gripped his mace with
his left hand. “I will not seek succor for a scratch when my brethren
are dying and my city is in peril.” Then raising his voice he shouted,
“Rog! Rog the Mighty! Tellin in Dring Belegol! (The Hammers of
Aulë
have come!)” and leapt at the foe. Seven orcs fell to the sweep of his
hammer, but one casting from afar let fly a spear at him as he fought,
piercing his throat, and he fell. Magor in his rage snatched the spear
even from the body of his companion and putting all his strength fueled
by hate into the cast, sent it whistling through the bitter air. So
great was the force of its flight that the spear, smiting the orc that
had struck down Baravagor, passed clean through its chest and pierced
the goblin that stood behind, and both crashed together in ruin.
In his grief a blind rage came over Magor and he fought as if
possessed. Dimly he was aware of Rog’s voice shouting above the din of
battle: “Rally to me!” Carving
his way through the ranks of the enemy toward the sound, he came to the
place where Rog fought side by side with Dollam. Bracing against the
oncoming foe, Magor locked his shield with theirs, adding it to the
wall of red-gold and iron that struggled to stem the tide of orcs. But
the folk of the Hammer of Wrath, and those of the Tree were pressed
ever back from the gates, and without* the walls the enemy spread his
forces, encircling Gondolin east and west…
* that is, “outside”
