Éomund, Elfwine's son, walked over the blood-soaked ground, fighting nausea as he checked the bodies that lay upon the battlefield. He had known it would be bad. He'd heard stories from his grandfather about the Pelennor Field. But a story wasn't the same as seeing it. In his twenty-five years, eight of those as a Rider, he had seen nothing like the carnage around him.
They'd delivered a blow to their enemy today, but he hoped the losses had been worth the gain. And now they were searching this field for survivors. But there were so few to be found.