The fog beneath the trees was thicker than that which had brooded over the river. The branches of the towering ancient woods wove together high above, a net so dense that the sun could only spill through in broken shafts, scattering dappled lights across moss-covered earth.
The air was heavy with the smell of rotting leaves, and beneath it lay a faint, metallic tang of blood.
"Stay sharp," Corthalion murmured, voice low. The arrow on his silver bowstring had long since been drawn and held ready.
"They are watching us from the dark," Gandalf said. White light blossomed at the tip of his staff, pushing the mists back. His tone was grave. "The Nazgûl are near. These vapors swell fear in the heart. See that you are not ensnared by phantoms."
Even as he spoke, the fog ahead began to churn.
A tall black shape stepped from behind a tree.
It was wrapped in torn, ragged robes of night. Rusted steel flashed faintly in its hand, and within the shadow of its hood two red sparks flickered like evil fire.
"A Nazgûl," Denethor cried, steel rasping as he drew his sword. The point of his blade cut the mist. "And not just one."
From behind the surrounding trunks four more shapes emerged. Five Ringwraiths spread out in a fan, closing upon them. The flapping of their black cloaks was laced with the harsh snarls of orc-kind.
Red-eyed Orcs burst from the fog, green goo dripping from their fangs. Wherever it fell, the ground hissed and smoked, pitted with small, blackened holes.
"Guard the seed!" Aragorn's sword swept out in a bright arc of gold, hewing from its shoulders the head of the first Orc that reached him. Black blood splashed his mail, but the faint light that clung to it burned the filth away at once.
At Gandalf's staff-tip a fierce white blaze leapt up, like a small sun rising in the choking gloom. "In the name of Eru Ilúvatar, be driven back, darkness!"
Where the light strode, the fog shrank and melted as snow before spring. The Nazgûl shrieked in pain, their outlines wavering, half unmade by the radiance.
Yet swiftly they gathered themselves again. Five rusted blades swept together, and black swords ploughed the earth at their feet, carving five deep furrows. From the upturned soil pale bone-claws thrust forth in writhing masses.
"Necromancy," Corthalion shouted. His bow sang and silver arrows fell in a swift line. Each shaft that pierced a claw-bone burst into motes of light. "Do not let them seize you."
The twelve Elven heroes split into two ranks. One rained arrows into the press of Orcs, the other drew their curved blades and held the flanks.
Their movements were swift and sure, the bright sweep of their steel crossing with the dark spatter of Orc-blood, courage and shadow weaving into a grim tapestry upon the forest floor.
Gimli's axe was the fiercest thing upon the field.
The Dwarf spun like a hammering wheel, every stroke of his weapon tearing loose heads and limbs. The star-sapphires in the axe-blade flared, their cold light making the shadows of the Nazgûl shudder whenever they drew too near.
"Come on then," he roared. "You black cloaked phantoms, my axe is thirsty for your kind."
Denethor stood close beside Aragorn, guarding his flank. The swordcraft of Gondor's nobility had ever been famed, and after these hard days he was now a warrior worthy of that name.
His point struck always at the weakest joints, at throats and sinews. Wherever an Orc lunged toward Aragorn, Denethor's blade was already there, a quiet, relentless shield of steel.
Gandalf had engaged the leftmost Nazgûl. Staff and rusted sword met with crashes like thunder, each impact throwing off a burst of blinding light.
The wizard's beard streamed in the wind of the blows. Upon his finger the Ring of Fire gleamed red, and each time wood and steel crossed, golden flame sprang along the Ringwraith's cloak.
"Corthalion," Gandalf shouted suddenly, "use the Sindarin charms. Their forms are unstable."
In the heat of battle, Corthalion understood at once. Still fighting, he began to chant in a rolling, ancient tongue.
For a moment it seemed as though the entire forest awoke. There was a subtle stirring in the trunks and boughs all around them, a strange tremor in the soil.
It was a spell passed down among the Sindar since the days of Beleriand. Through it they could call upon the strength of the woods themselves.
As the words fell from his lips, a faint white glow wrapped around Corthalion. The movements of the five Nazgûl slowed. The shadows beneath their cloaks roiled and twisted, unable to hold their shape.
"Now," Gandalf cried.
Aragorn charged from the flank, sword raised high, casting aside all thought of his own safety.
Yet even as he sprang, a black arrow hissed from some hidden hollow in the woods, aimed straight at his breast.
At that last instant a figure flung itself between.
"Fingor!" Corthalion's shout tore from him.
The arrow struck the Sindarin hero full in the chest. The black head punched through his mail and burst apart, becoming a spreading cloud of shadow that devoured the wound.
Fingor did not cry out. With the last of his strength he hurled his curved blade at the nearest Nazgûl, then sagged and fell. The opening he bought was enough.
Aragorn rose in a long bound, both hands on the hilt, and brought his sword crashing down upon the Ringwraith.
All the anger and grief in him poured into that stroke, into the bright edge of the Númenórean steel.
The black cloak tore, the shadow beneath bursting out like a flood of ink, screaming in a shrill, piercing voice as it recoiled.
But more Orcs were already rushing from the fog, throwing themselves forward to fill the gap left by the retreating Nazgûl.
The battle bogged down, locked in blood and smoke.
Another Elven hero fell shielding Gimli. A poisoned arrow sank into his shoulder and the venom raced through him like fire. Before he collapsed he managed one last fierce blow, hacking away a writhing shadow-arm from a Ringwraith behind him.
"Fall back," Gandalf cried, driving his staff in a broad sweep that forced the Nazgûl to give ground. "Up the slope. The ground is open there and the dead cannot rise so easily."
Step by step they retreated, fighting all the way. Elves made a wall of their own bodies, and along that living rampart warriors fell, one after another.