Land of the King, Chapter 68: Before the Walls of Morlond

The old king could barely move now. Decrepit, senile, weak. Yet in his old age, lucidity enough he still retained to know what was happening. His kingdom, his beloved Arnor was fighting a war for its own survival.

Arahad leaned on his cane as he stalked to the window on shaky legs. Fifteen years ago he had looked and felt like he was in the prime of his life, no older than a man of forty to lesser men. Yet when the time came for the Dúnedain to grow old, they did so exceedingly fast, like all the years were coming to them at once. Wrinkled and weak, he struggled to reach the balcony of his quarters and leaned against the railing. It was a dark and cloudy moonless night with barely any stars in view.

You were right Father, you were right.

He hated to admit, but pride mattered little and less to a man who was soon to die. His father had been right to not seek war with Valyria. Arahad had been too reckless and proud to see the wisdom in not seeking out unnecessary wars.

And now my children and their children will pay the price.

Ciryaher was dead, his wife and children slaughtered when Pentos fell. Túrin and Jaenara were in constant danger in Andalos leading their resistance. Aragost mustered his armies in Arcalen preparing for battle whilst Aravorn marched east from Osgiliath to face the Valyrians. And by Eru’s grace the rest of them were relatively safe in Annúminas… but for how long? All of them were dead or endangered, forced to fight a war that was not theirs.

Was this his punishment? To have no peace as he died knowing that the blood of millions of his people, of his sons and grandchildren were all on his hands? To comfort himself from that thought, Arahad took solace in his memories, his parents, siblings, and grandparents, …his wife Iriel. It had been so many years since he had seen them all.

‘If only you could have seen them Iriel,’ Arahad thought, thinking of the last time all his descendants had been gathered together. Aravorn and Nimloth had come down from Osgiliath with their children; Arahad’s namesake and little Ancalimë had been a joy to see. Ciryaher and all his family had come from Pentos, Túrin and Jaenara had reappeared from their latest adventure, and of course Aragost and the rest of his children had already been in Morlond.

It had been a truly blessed time. Arahad had felt such joy being surrounded by all his kin and that joy and the happiness of his family should always have been more important to him then avenging ancient grudges and taking unneeded lands. That it hadn’t been, that he had started this conflict and condemned all his children and grandchildren to fight in his war, was his greatest shame. He had clung to life for so long, becoming so old and decrepit simply because he had refused to let go and leave them to fight this war alone.

Yet perhaps that decision would soon be made for him. In the sky above, the few stars were blotted out suddenly by dark shapes he recognized too well. The horns sounded and the bells tolled. Water spouts were raised in a panic and the men and giants readied their anti-dragon weapons. But Arahad had sensed their coming before they arrived, perhaps his old age had given him wisdom at last.

Iriel, I will see you again soon.

The flames bathed the old king for an instant before naught but ash was left of him.

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“My Lord Steward! The Royal Palace was destroyed! the King is dead!” the soldier reported.

“That is ill news to hear indeed!” Boromir shouted back with no small amount of grief.

He had served as the Steward of King Arahad for many decades now, just as his father had served him, and as his grandfather had served the previous king, Araglas. Now Boromir would gladly serve his liege’s son, but first he had to make sure the new king still had a capital city to rule from.

“I need some water mages over here! These buildings are on fire!” Boromir ordered as he and his men tried desperately to keep the fire from spreading, trawling buckets of water from the fountain before all their gathered water as well as the water left in the fountain was pulled up into a spout that jetted at the building and extinguished the fire.

He turned to see a young water witch and nodded his thanks to her before he moved on to the next task; securing the city. With the fires being extinguished all over the city with water from the fountains and the Morduin, his primary task now was to ensure the dragons didn’t return to start more.

With the death of the old King and his successor gathering reinforcements in Arcalen, all turned to Boromir, the Lord Steward, for leadership and he rose to the responsibility, barking orders at his soldiers.

“I want eyes in the sky! Nothing gets within twenty miles of Morlond without us knowing. Captain Reynard, see to your skinchangers. I want our archers peeled for dragons, their bows ready at all times, giants and men alike. I want artillery mounted on every tower, every wall, every building of this city. If the Valyrians want to attack us again, they’ll bleed even more for it.”

“But my lord what of the rubble?” one of his officers asked.

“You’ll be in charge of it. Coordinate every man with no task and clear out the rubble as much as possible. And you,” he said, turning to another officer, “I want communications reestablished with the rest of Morfalas, I want to know how the dragons snuck up on the capital city of Arnor, and get me a glass candle, I need to report to King Aragost.”

It was strange and grievous that he now needed to put the title of King before the name of the former Crown Prince. Duty and all manner of etiquette demanded it, but Boromir had long served one king, even if his successor was worthy, it would take much time indeed before he became accustomed to answering to Aragost and not his father.

As his officers dispersed after their dismissal to see to their tasks, Boromir requisitioned a room for himself in one of the barracks, glass candle in hand. Once the usual disorientation had passed, and his will successfully exerted upon the glass candle, he moved his mind southwards to Arcalen where the then Crown Prince Aragost had taken the Master-stone during the evacuation of Morlond.

Speaking to the guard who watched the palantir, Boromir conveyed his wish to speak to the King, the soldier aggrieved by the title he used before leaving to call him. A short while later Boromir felt his mind touched by another and he mentally bowed before his liege.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted dutifully.

Even without their mental connection, Boromir knew the King had flinched at his address, for only the King and his consort was addressed as ‘Majesty’, and for that styling to be used to address the King’s Heir could only mean one thing.

“How… how did he die?” his king asked. His voice was full of grief and sorrow.

“Twas a sneak attack by the Valyrians, Sire. Their dragons came in the night and we had little warning. An attack was not expected so soon since neither their fleet nor armies have arrived yet.”

“You did not expect… you were in command. You assumed, and because of your foolish assumptions Lord Boromir, my father is dead,” the King said, cold and hard.

It was at that moment that Boromir was reminded of the meaning of the King’s name. Truly a King whose wrath was to be dreaded. He could feel his King’s fury and did not resist when he pushed into his mind out of rage, his mental strength enhanced with the power of the Master-Stone, greatest of the Seven Palantiri. No doubt the King intended to punish him and Boromir, out of shame for his mistake, allowed his liege access to his mind in repentance, before the force vanished and the King’s anger dissipated entirely, replaced only by mourning and unadulterated grief.

“Hold the city until I have arrived to relieve you Boromir. If the Valyrians are truly moving against Morlond with all they have left in Westeros, a great force will be needed to dislodge them.”

“Understood Your Majesty, I’ll pull in as much reinforcements as I can from Morfalas and Raumdor.”

“You are dismissed.”

The glass candle’s flames snuffed out as the connection was cut off and Boromir was back in the room in Morlond. He ignored his exhaustion, both physical and mental and forced himself to stand. His king had given him a task and Boromir would see it done if it was the last thing he ever did.

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“LOOSE!” the captain ordered and the regiment of giant and human archers unleashed a volley at the attacking dragons.

The artillery swerved around to support their attack while a wall of water was pulled from the river by the water mages to shield all of them from the dragonfire.

In the streets, Arnorian and Valyrians engaged in close-quarters combat as the Valyrian Legions attempted to push toward the river.

Boromir blocked a spear thrust by a Valyrian legionnaire before snapping off the spearhead with a slice from his sword.

Not to be deterred however, the soldier drew back his now headless spear and began using it as a quarterstaff, skillfully keeping Boromir from getting close enough to land a finishing blow.

The difference in experience between them was phenomenal however and with a twirl of steel, Boromir had cut the Valyrian’s quarterstaff to pieces, disarmed him when he tried drawing his sword, and thrust his blade through his throat.

The average Arnorian soldier had decades if not centuries of training and experience and was significantly taller and stronger than the average Valyrian. In a one-on-one battle, the Arnorian was almost always going to win, the sheer gap in physical strength and experience simply could not be matched… alone that is.

Boromir stared at the approaching turtle formation with resignation and grim-faced determination. As an individual, a Valyrian soldier stood no chance but together? Even the greatest warrior might be brought down by numbers.

In the First War, the Valyrian war effort had been undermined by the factionalism and infighting of the Valyrian dragonlords. However, in the century and a half since then, under the aegis of the Tiger Party and the now near-dictatorial Triarchs Valyria had been truly united and it showed in the way its armies fought, how each component of its military worked together seamlessly to support each other. Even now the dragons in the sky were keeping their water mages from just using the river to wash away the Valyrian army.

“Boromir!”

He heard a shout from behind and dodged to the side as a volley of arrows loosed toward the Valyrians, the Arnorian archers expertly aiming at the gaps in the turtle formation before their own shieldwall advanced into the Valyrian host.

In the clouds above the Valyrian dragons swerved in and out around their anti-air defenses, blasting the stone ruins with dragonfire and melting them further.

Suddenly Boromir felt heat and he turned around to see the archers that had just saved him reduced to ashes as the water spout arrived too late to shield them.

“By Eru the dragon got through!” the water mage cursed.

The Arnorian anti-air doctrine was one focused on spotting, deterring, and slaying dragons with a complicated system of skinchanger scouts, archers, both Men and Giant, artillery, and water mages. It was a strategy that had allowed Arnor to win the First Dragon War, but it was not perfect. Nothing really could be in war.

When a dragon managed to get close enough, if a blast of dragonfire managed to slip past their water mages, tragedy ensued.

Boromir clenched his fists in anger. How many times in the past few months had this very scene played out before his eyes? How many more times would he have to see it in this war? How many more times could he luckily escape the dragon’s breath before he too died?

Yet what he was most afraid of was not his own death or that of his men, but that he was slowly becoming desensitized to it. The first time he had seen it happen, all those years ago in the First War, Boromir and the half of his convoy that had remained had emptied their lunches on the decks of the ships. The smell of ash, of charred bones and smoke had been horrifying enough, but the scent of roasted pork that emanated from the cooked flesh of those on the edges had been the worst. By the end of that war, Boromir had ceased retching, but the anger, the grief had never ceased.

In the past three months, he had seen more men reduced to ashes by dragonfire then he had in the entire two years of the First War. Each time he saw that horrifying scene, Boromir felt a little more of himself die inside. More and more, he slowly ceased to be so angered, so aggrieved by it, his heart simply couldn’t muster the emotion for it when it happened on almost a daily basis. What scared him the most was that he was becoming used to it. And he was afraid that to win this war, his King would have to embrace that cold-hearted ruthlessness, to see thousands of lives as just numbers on a page, free to be sacrificed and thrown away for the good of the Kingdom.

In front of Boromir, the shieldwall that had advanced earlier now found themselves cut off without archer support and were pushed back. All too soon, the tide of the battle had turned once more and the Arnorian defenders were being overrun, their backs pushed against the river, with nowhere to run.

All the bridges had been destroyed in the past three months. The Great Bridge of Morlond had been destroyed by the very first attack of the Valyrians months ago. The famed bridge where Arveleg the Great and Argeleb the Traitor had parlayed for the fate of Arnor in the Kin-Strife, the bridge where Purist and Loyalist blood had stained the stones red in the Battle of Morlond, was now a ruin of broken stones upon the river, blocking passage between the river and the bay.

It would take months to clean and rebuild the bridges under normal circumstances and while the Arnorian army fought for survival, it was impossible. Transport between the northern and southern halves of Morlond was possible now only with boats and with dragons in the skies at all times, a retreat, or rout more like, from the north was impossible. North Morlond would be their last stand.

As he resigned himself to the inevitability of their defeat and death, a raven flew right up to Boromir and perched on his shoulder. It was carrying a sealed scroll.

Breaking the seal, Boromir read the message and felt his dulled heart and emotions burst to life with relief and joy.

“Thank you,” he said, looking into the raven’s brown eyes. He was not only addressing the bird but its bonded master, the skinchanger which had guided it to him.

Boromir announced the good news to all his men and their morale surged and they fought with renewed vigor. On the river, black sails flew as the King returned to his capital at long last.