Chapter 25: The Battle of Amon Rhûd — Part 3
Ulfang's blood pooled across ancient stone.
I stood over his body, sword still in hand, watching the red spread in patterns that made no sense. My arms shook. My legs threatened to buckle. Every wound I'd taken during the fight announced itself simultaneously—thigh screaming, ribs on fire, arms slick with blood that was mostly mine.
I killed him.
The thought felt distant. Abstract. Like reading about someone else's victory in a book.
Around me, the great hall had fallen silent. Ulfang's elite guards—the dozen who'd held back my people during the duel—stared at their fallen master with expressions that ranged from shock to terror. Without their warlord, they were just men. Dangerous men, but directionless.
"Surrender." My voice came out rougher than I intended. "Your lord is dead. Your cause is finished. Drop your weapons or join him."
For a moment, no one moved.
Then one guard—older, grey-bearded, clearly a veteran of countless battles—let his sword clatter to the floor. The sound broke something in the others. Weapons fell in a cascade of steel and surrender.
"Bind them." Halbarad appeared at my side, bow still in hand. "Secure the hall. Check for hidden passages."
Coalition fighters moved to obey. The battle's chaos had transformed into organized efficiency—months of training paying off when it mattered most.
I should have helped direct them. Should have taken command, issued orders, done the things a lord does after victory.
Instead, I sat down.
Not deliberately. My legs simply stopped working, and the floor caught me before I could fall further. Stone cold against my back. Ceiling swimming overhead.
"Aldric?" Halbarad's face appeared in my vision, concern cutting through his battle-hardened expression. "Aldric, stay with me."
"I'm here." The words felt thick. "Just... need a moment."
Blood loss. Exhaustion. The price of fighting someone who should have killed me three times over.
Old before Arnor fell, Ulfang had said. I will be old when your bones are dust.
Not anymore.
[AMON RHÛD — GREAT HALL — LATER]
Thorwen arrived with the reserve column an hour after the fighting stopped.
She took one look at my wounds and turned the particular shade of pale that meant someone was about to receive a very thorough medical lecture.
"Sit down, you fool."
"I am sitting."
"Sit down properly." She pushed me flat against the wall, already reaching for her medical kit. "Thigh wound first. When did you get this?"
"Courtyard. Maybe the breach."
"You don't remember?"
"It's been a long morning."
Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, cutting away blood-soaked cloth, examining the gash that ran across my thigh. Not arterial—I'd known that much—but deep enough to leave a scar and cause significant blood loss.
"The ribs?"
"Ulfang. During the duel."
She probed the wound with fingers that didn't care about my pain thresholds. I bit down on a curse.
"You're lucky. Another inch deeper and you'd have punctured a lung." She began cleaning the wound, each touch sending fresh fire through my nervous system. "The arm wounds are superficial. You'll live."
"Your bedside manner is inspiring."
"My bedside manner is for patients who don't throw themselves at warlords in single combat." She tied off a bandage with more force than strictly necessary. "What were you thinking?"
"That someone had to kill him."
"Someone else could have—"
"No." I met her eyes. "He was mine. He threatened my people. He had to fall by my hand, or it wouldn't mean anything."
Thorwen stared at me for a long moment. Something shifted in her expression—understanding, maybe. Or just resignation to dealing with someone who'd never learn caution.
"Rest," she said finally. "Real rest, not pretending to rest while planning the next battle. Your body needs time to heal, or these wounds will kill you as surely as Ulfang would have."
"How long?"
"Weeks. At minimum." She packed her supplies. "And you're riding in a cart on the return journey. No arguments."
A cart. Like cargo. Like an invalid.
I wanted to argue. But my body made the counterargument for her—just trying to stand sent the world spinning.
"Fine. A cart."
[AMON RHÛD — COURTYARD — AFTERNOON]
The full cost became clear as the day wore on.
Fifteen dead. Fifteen names I would carry forever.
Halbarad read them to me as I sat against the courtyard wall, too weak to walk among the wounded myself. Each name hit like a blow.
Torval. The farmer from Archet who'd asked for extra drilling sessions. Dead in the breach.
Beorn. Seventeen years old, first battle. Dead in the courtyard.
Garrick. Father of three orphans. Dead defending the eastern flank.
Marven. The oldest fighter in the militia. Dead covering the retreat of the hostage escort.
The list went on. Fifteen souls who'd followed me into the Trollshaws and wouldn't be going home.
"Twenty-three wounded," Halbarad continued. "Three critical—Thorwen isn't sure they'll survive the night. Eight serious but stable. The rest are walking wounded."
"And our enemies?"
"Approximately eighty dead. Thirty-four prisoners—mostly Hill-men. The orcs fought to the death, as expected." His voice remained flat, professional. "We also recovered twelve hostages. Two children among them."
Twelve lives saved. Set against fifteen lost.
The mathematics of war never balanced cleanly.
"The hostages?"
"Being cared for. The children are... fragile. But they'll recover."
I thought of the girl who'd grabbed Maeglin's hand. Who'd made him promise to return. He'd kept that promise, at least.
"When can we move the wounded?"
"Tomorrow, if we're careful. The seriously injured need stable transport—carts, litters. It'll slow us down."
"Then we go slow." I leaned my head back against the stone. "No one gets left behind. Not even the dead."
Halbarad nodded and moved off to organize the return march.
I sat alone with the weight of fifteen names pressing down on my chest.
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