“My lord, the center is wavering!”
Theoden spurred his exhausted horse, driving the beast toward the fray once more. His arm felt as though it was made of lead, as he raised his sword to the heavens, shouting encouragement to his men. Encouragement which he did not feel.
The battle had raged for hours. The great army of Rohan had attacked at dawn, having crossed the northernmost ford over the Isen during the night and drawn up in line of battle on the western bank of the river, much to the surprise of the enemy army encamped a few miles to the northwest. But Saruman’s commander was both clever and competent; once he realized that his lack of attention had allowed the Rohirrim to cross the river unopposed, he mustered his forces and moved to correct his error in earnest. The two great armies met on a flat plain a short distance from the ford, a plain which would soon be soaked with blood and littered with the bodies of the fallen.
That had been hours ago. The sun was now setting in the west, shining in the eyes of the Rohirrim rather than their enemies as it had earlier in the day, adding to their misery. The axmen and cavalry on the flanks were holding their own, but the less experienced militia in the center was barely hanging on. The poor spearmen would have broken hours ago had Theoden not ordered the archers—out of ammunition by that point—into melee combat. Even with the extra manpower, the situation was dire. The bloodlust of the Uruk-hai was matched only by their brutality; they could often be seen pausing to feast on the flesh of fallen foes as the Rohirrim were slowly driven back. The Dunlandings were equally savage, their blind rage making up for their lack of discipline. Rohan had vanquished many more fighters than it had lost this day, but for every Uruk-hai or wild man who fell, two more seemed to spring forth to take his place.
Rohan’s battle line was stretched into a great crescent, the center driven back nearly to the ford. If the center broke, all would be lost. The forces holding the flanks would be trapped on the western side of the river, surrounded and butchered. Theoden longed to dismount his horse, to fight amongst his men. But he feared that if anyone saw his horse without a rider, they would assume the worst, and the news of his demise would spread like wildfire amongst the ranks. Rohan hung by a thread; the slightest blow to morale would cause the entire army to collapse. The fate of the army, of Rohan itself, hung in the balance. They needed a miracle. They needed their King.
Horns.
From the south, hundreds of them, melding into one glorious melody. It seemed to spring from the depths of the earth, driving away the heavy air and bringing new life to the forces of Good. For the first time since the dawn, Theoden allowed a grim smile to grace his lips. He knew what this meant. As did Rohan. Tired heads rose, eyes which had been downcast in despair now gazing toward the southern hills with renewed hope. Spears and shields which exhaustion had dragged low now rose to face the enemy. Soldiers on the verge of throwing down their weapons and fleeing for their lives returned to the ranks, their courage restored.
The horns blew again, from much closer this time. Uruk-hai and Dunlandings glanced around nervously in confusion. Further back, the enemy commander could be seen directing his meager reserves to the south. But it was too late. Over the hills rode a single man, his graying hair flowing in the breeze. Theoden could hear the triumphant cry, the familiar voice of his father, his king, even from where he stood. No, father, you are not too late. Just behind the King, a great wave of horsemen crested the hill and swept down upon the flank of the unprepared forces of Isengard. They drove a massive wedge into the enemy formation, trampling and hacking down all who opposed them. At the head of the formation rode Thengel, a beacon in the gloom, one of the most glorious sights in the long memory of Rohan.
But Thengel alone would not be enough to carry the day. Theoden rode though his line, heedless of the lingering enemies, most of whom had started to fall back in fear. Then he turned and charged across his army’s front, letting his voice carry to the ears of every soldier under his command.
“Men of Rohan! You have already given more than any could ask of you. But your King needs you! Once more, brave soldiers of Rohan! Once more! One more charge! Send these foul creatures back to the hell from whence they came! To Thengel! To the King!”
The voices of Rohan thundered as one, as cries of “To the King!” echoed across the ranks. Theoden breathed deeply, savoring the moment. He dismounted his horse and stood at the head of his men, his brave infantry. Rohan was a nation of cavalry, but today, the footmen had proven their worth. Looking to the heavens, Theoden drew vigor from deep within his being, and unleashed a true warrior spirit.
“FORTH EORLINGAS!!!”
The frightened Uruk-hai and Dunlandings held for a time, but they were trapped between a revitalized Rohirrim army in front, and a seemingly unstoppable force of cavalry at their rear. Soon enough they buckled, then shattered completely. The resulting slaughter was terrible, but every fleeing enemy cut down was one less desperate soldier the Rohirrim would have to face during the impending siege of Isengard itself, the final struggle to end this vicious war once and for all.